Page 19 of Scotlander

And he was even better than she’d imagined.

Big, open, kind face and features. An instinctive smile. Freckles. One, two, three on her perfect man tick-list.

A buzzing in her ears drowned everything out but him as the rest of her body went into overdrive. Sweaty palms. Quickened breath. Goosepimples. The full gamut of ohmygawd-he’s-so-hot-he’s-giving-me-palpitations movie responses.

She’d kept Catalogue Kilt Man’s picture on her bedside table for the last couple of nights to serve as a warm-up act while she got used to the idea of fantasising about Gabe. It had made sense on the premise that Catalogue Kilt Man did not actually exist.

Catalogue Kilt Man was tall and fit. Not so much tall and lean as broad and solid. Like a Nordic wood chopper. His expression was kind, if not slightly perplexed. He wasn’t strictly Marvel-hero handsome but could believably be cast as one of Thor’s cousins. Half-brother? He was hot. To her anyway. He was wearing worn blue cords and a greeny-brown sweater with a neckline that allowed for a peek at a checked shirt collar. His waxed jacket looked like it had been in a smackdown with a mountain goat. And somehow his flat cap made him look ravageable rather than a poser. His eyes, after a few blinks, were like a sunlit stormy ocean, which seemed strangely fitting because while he didn’t look entirely happy, he did look relieved, as if, just maybe, she was a rainbow appearing through a dark gathering of clouds.

The waves of his caramel-coloured hair were suddenly and unexpectedly backlit by rays of late afternoon sunshine pouring through the high windows of the arrivals hall. If a choir of heavenly angels began to sing the Hallelujah Chorus, she would not have been surprised.

And then he smiled.

Willa’s pounding heart skipped a beat. Sweet cheeses and a fruit platter. Catalogue Kilt Man had a gap between his front teeth. She didn’t know why, but that particular dental flaw was one of the sexiest things she’d ever seen. She stared, mesmerised as his upper teeth pressed down on his full, lower lip and scraped along the length of it as if he too was wondering what she’d taste like if he licked her. Not that she was into licking, but if someone turned the man into a lollipop, she’d want to buy them in bulk.

All of which was completely at odds with the fact that her best friend had sent her here to get it on with Gabe. Right?

Even so, she was gripped by a desperate, urgent need to learn everything about Catalogue Kilt Man.

She wasn’t the type of woman who dabbled in a pool of men, picking and choosing from them as if they were a bowl of Skittles. Her flirtation techniques were sketchy at best. And more to the point, men like these rarely chose women like her. This wasn’t a case of divide and conquer. This was a throw-your-ovaries-into-one-basket scenario and pray like hell you’d made the right decision.

What was she meant to do? Stay true to what she thought her best friend wanted or go with what her gut was telling her in the here and now?

She was only a few feet away.

It was hardly the time to put up a finger and ask everyone for a few moments while she pawed through her luggage, read the letter, absorbed its contents, redid her makeup (because she’d definitely cry, even if it turned out to be a shopping list), and then gifted a smile to her preferred suitor.

What little she knew about Gabe she really, really liked. And not just because he came in above-par packaging. Beneath the coolly gruff exterior, he was kind. He knew her world and didn’t judge her poorly for it. Most importantly, he was the only remaining link she had to Valentina.

On the flipside, Catalogue Kilt Man reminded her of home in a way that didn’t make her want to run for the hills. He exuded gentleness and strength. Good humour and grace. As if he’d laugh at dad jokes – like he’d make dad jokes – but know the difference between teasing and hurting, advice and unwelcome counsel.

Who knew that perfect could come in two entirely different sets of packaging?

Her bosom strained against her corset to the point she now understood exactly why women passed out in costume dramas. Their clothes were holding their emotions hostage. And she was feeling all of the Technicolour feels right now.

Absurd angst that Gabe hadn’t announced his intentions to fall deeply, irrevocably in love with her.

Extreme distress that Catalogue Kilt Man wasn’t striding towards her, dropping to one knee and declaring himself.

Utter bewilderment that hormones were overruling her usual pragmatic approach to life. She was a girl who loved charts and lists and order.

Was this what Valentina had wanted for her? Emotions running amok like unicorns in a pastel field of clover? She often encouraged Willa to loosen up, but . . . had she meant for her to completely overhaul her concept of emotional safety?

She was about to find out.

‘Hi,’ she said to Catalogue Kilt Man in a wispy voice she didn’t quite recognise. ‘I’m Willa.’

‘Finlay Jamieson,’ he said, eyes still very much glued to hers. ‘Umm . . . tiny bit awkward, but . . .’ His eyes dipped swiftly down then up again, as if trying to communicate something urgent to her.

‘Hmmm . . . ?’ she said dreamily.

Finlay’s stormy blue eyes bored into hers, pleading for her to understand something very, very important, and while there was definitely a part of her that wanted to believe he was trying to tell her that he had just fallen deeply and irrevocably in love with her . . . she had the very uncomfortable feeling it was something else altogether.

Which was precisely the moment she realised she was suffering from an epic costume failure.

Her boobs, much to her horror, had popped up and out of her bodice. Even more horrifying was the hot pink, erect state of her nipples. ‘Oh, fuck no!’ she screamed just as Finlay pressed a handkerchief to her boobs. She must’ve been twisting round and away from him at precisely the moment his hand made contact with her chest because now, to their mutual alarm, his hand was tangled in the front lacing of her bodice along with his handkerchief. Far too mortified to derive even a nanosecond’s perverse pleasure at the contact, she pulled back and stumbled violently into the luggage trolley, which knocked over Gabe – who, despite some rather impressive flailing, collided with a clutch of hipster Japanese women’s enormous wheelie bags before crashing to the ground with a sickening thunk.

Finlay was by Gabe’s side in an instant, laying him out flat. ‘The handkerchief.’ He made a give it to me gesture with his hand as the Japanese women pulled out their phones and began snapping pictures.