Page 20 of Bonetide

And that’s when I find myself pushing past all the ludicrous, creepy nonsense, and actually take in the man’s face for once.

As I said: incredibly, ridiculously handsome. So much so that had I known this was what he looked like from the start, maybe I would have actually answered the door. And yet, there is still part of me that knows the good-looking ones are often the most dangerous.

Don’t let him in, don’t let him in.

He’s tall, which I’d already guessed from across the bay, but I hadn’t quite reckoned with what tall looks like from three-feet away through a windowpane. He has to be six-two at least. His hair is black and damp, falling almost to his shoulders, pushed back from his face the way a man pushes hair back when he’s just come up from water. There’s a few days of stubble on his jaw, the kind that suggests he doesn’t bother either way. His features are too symmetrical for someone’s country neighbor, unless one lives near Milan or Manhattan, the cheekbones a little high, the mouth a little full, the bone structure of him so clean it has the quality of something carved from stone.

But it’s the eyes that get me. They’re a pale ice-blue and they have a directness that doesn’t quite match the rest of his polite restraint. They aren’t the eyes of a man in his late thirties or forties, though that’s the age I’d peg him at. I don’t know whose eyes they are, exactly. But they’re looking at me like they have been waiting a long time to do so.

I swallow hard and glance past him at the golden light lighting up the loch in glimmering patches.

“I realize we’ve never seen each other face-to-face,” he says smoothly. “So, I’d like to formally introduce myself now. I’m your neighbor, Alasdair, from across the way.”

And you’re also the most gorgeous man I have ever seen, and I want to climb you like a monkey at a jungle gym.

“Iris Galloway,” I announce, feeling my tongue-tied a little now. Normally I’d ramble on and say something awkward and stupid, but I feel I can’t even find the words in his presence, even with the window pane between us.

I know I’m nothing to sneeze at, as my mother used to say. When I was a child, she dragged me off to John Casablancas modeling school hoping I would make her proud, but when I turned into a teenager, her willowy French side subsided and my father’s stocky Scottish side started coming through. I no longer qualified as underfed; ergo I couldn’t model. But even though I’m not in great shape and parts of me have gone soft due to my lifestyle, I still have my height (5’9”), thick brown hair with natural reddish highlights, and a face people have described as being “doll-like,” which I think means I look innocent…until they realize my big brown eyes are usually staring daggers at you and my pouty lips are forever twisted into a sneer. If anyone were to ever invent a Resting Bitch Face doll, however, I think they could model her on me.

“I’m sorry again for just coming up like this and giving you a startle,” he goes on. “I assure you, I’m not naked.”

I move a little closer to him to get a better view, as if to see if he’s telling the truth or not. I can only see him from the chest up and he’s shirtless—his pecs and shoulders are as sculpted as his face, which tracks—but I don’t dare look further down.

“I’ll have to take your word on that.” Meaning, I’m not getting any closer. “So, what can I help you with?” At least I’m talking again.

He doesn’t answer right away. He just looks at me through the window with the same easy stillness he seems to carry with him. There’s something about it that bothers me, tickles a fearful place deep inside, and I don’t know why.

“I heard the police were here today,” he finally says.

I blink at him. “How would you⁠—”

“—Mhairi,” he interjects. “I stopped by the village.”

Is she the village switchboard or something in a great game of telephone? The cop tells Mhairi, Mhairi tells Alasdair, Alasdair tells me…

“And you came over to…”

“To say it wasn’t me. In the woods.”

“You came all the way over here to tell me that?”

“Aye. I’d rather you weren’t afraid of me,” he replies, but he doesn’t elaborate.

I’m not sure what to do with that, what to do with any of this conversation I’m having with this man through the window, but the words in my aunt’s letter keep haunting me.

“What if I am, though,” I say, my voice going quieter than I want it to. “Afraid of you.”

I don’t even know why I’ve said these fears out loud, that is something I would normally keep to myself. I don’t like the idea of anyone knowing I’m afraid of them, especially a stranger. It’s far too vulnerable for my liking.

“Then I’d mind,” he admits softly.

“That’s not a reason for me not to be afraid, though.”

Meaning, maybe throw me a few bones, tell me something that would make me think otherwise, you know, the way a normal person would? His demeanor is definitely not doing the “might be a serial killer” rumor any favors.

“No,” he eventually says. “But I’m patient.”

Apparently so. Also, another odd fucking thing to say.