Page 8 of Scotlander

‘Concha is a nickname for it. It means seashell.’

Despite the weight of emotion in it, his voice was so soft her defensiveness dropped away.

Willa turned the unfamiliar name over in her mind a couple of times trying to marry it up with Valentina’s multiple other nicknames (guapita, mamiiiii, Val, Queen Vee, Tenacious V, Nurse Ratched). She smiled. ‘Suits her.’

After a couple more folds, Gabriel put the napkin, now transformed into an origami frog, on the table. ‘I’m sorry. I’m being a dick.’ He lifted his gaze to meet hers and offered her an apologetic smile that finally spoke to the warm, generous gene pool her bestie had come from. ‘Can we start over?’ He reached forward and used the pad of his index finger to make the frog jump.

She snorted and, ice sort of broken, reached out and shook his proffered hand.

‘Willa Jenkins.’

He arched an eyebrow. ‘I thought it was Willaf—’

She waved her hands, ‘No-no-no. I mean. Yes. It is. But no one gets to call me that except Valentina.’

They both went awkwardly blinky-eyed, visibly grateful to focus on Brandi who was now sliding double portions of everything in front of Willa and very pointedly sloshing a fresh glass of water, with no ice, in front of Gabriel. ‘Can I get you anything?’ she asked, grabbing his cup of ice and leaving before he could answer.

‘Want some?’ Willa offered when she’d left.

Gabriel eyed her impressive spread. ‘Thanks, but no.’ He tipped his head in the general direction of Lawful Falafels and said, ‘I’ve had my carbs today.’

Willa could’ve made a point of reminding him that the woman they were here to discuss had specifically asked for this very detailed Hooters’ menu extravaganza . . . as a dying wish . . . but resisted.

Instead she smiled and tucked a couple of napkins into her shirt collar and began to eat.

After two tacos, a few sinus-clearing bites of wings and an over-zesty ‘Bottoms up!’ with one of the shots, she tried to jumpstart the conversation again. ‘Sounds like being an Outlander fan runs in the family.’

He gave a vague nod. ‘I don’t really understand this, though. The trip. Was she a superfan or something?’

‘No. Well. Sort of?’ She’d loved the show. A lot. Went to conventions, had an autographed picture of the show’s star taped to her refrigerator who she regularly (teasingly) threatened to leave Diego for, but Willa was sure there was something more to loving the show beyond the eye candy and sexy accents. Whatever it was, she wanted Willa and Gabriel to experience it too.

‘But why the “immersive experience”? It seems excessive.’

‘Anyone who knew Val knew she always did things for a reason,’ Willa said, a bit too defensively judging by the micro-wince it elicited in Gabriel. ‘She said, didn’t she?’ Willa gently prompted, pulling her copy of the Wishes Letter and the accompanying brochure out of her bag and wiping away a tiny smear of fava bean mush.

She began to read, trying to convince herself as much as Gabriel that it made perfect sense. ‘“I want you two precious people to share something together. I am so excited to look down on the two of you (the Pearly Gates have got amazing views, homies!) while you enjoy something I loved so much. (Stop rolling your eyes, Gabriel!)”’

Willa looked across at him and, sure enough, he was mid-eyeroll. They both gave a nervous laugh and glanced up at the ceiling before Willa continued, ‘“You both work too much and aim so hard to please, it’s time you took some time for yourselves. When you’re done being cranky with me for throwing a grenade into your well-laid-out lives, remember . . . sometimes you need to step away from the person you think you are, to become the person you want to be.”’

She put the letter down and gave it a pat, as if that answered everything, knowing that all it did was elicit a deluge of questions.

‘And this guy is going to help you do that?’ Gabe stabbed his index finger at the kilted man on the side of the brochure Willa had not yet examined.

She flipped it over.

Oh, hel-lo.

Catalogue Kilt Man was most likely Photoshopped on to the outdoorsy background, but studio shoot or no, he was suhh-mokin’.

There was a crumbling stone something or other in the background, a carpet of purple plants – heather, maybe? – some rolling snow-capped hills off in the middle distance. But none of that was what captivated her. It was him. Catalogue Kilt Man. He was tall, like Gabe, but more solid versus the feline leanness of Gabe’s musculature. He was wearing a kilt (obvs) and knee-high socks and a little black jacket with shiny buttons, but his face! His face.

She was no dreamer. Quite the opposite. But looking into Catalogue Kilt Man’s blue-grey eyes elicited something so primal within her she wished with all of her heart she’d never seen this. Because catalogue men weren’t real. They were air-brushed stock photos of men who were monetarily remunerated for making everyone believe they too could have a catalogue man in their lives if only they bought the right clothes, perfume, watch, face cream or any of an endless array of goods that would, in the end, only turn out to be non-refundable when they failed to make your dreams come true.

And this most definitely applied to Immersive Outlander Experience Catalogue Kilt Men with faces that told a thousand stories, legs for days and big ol’ man hands that she could already imagine resting just so on her hips.

She’d learnt this lesson early on in her time in Hollywood. Not necessarily the hard way, because it wasn’t exactly a hardship to meet deeply attractive movie stars. But there was always something that detracted from the dream that they were absolutely perfect.

Namely: a deal-breaker flaw. Sometimes you had to look a bit harder than with others, but it was always there, just waiting to be found. Sometimes it was physical – their voice, their laugh, the way they ate with their mouth open. But mostly it was them. The real-life aura they exuded as opposed to the onscreen one. A lot of them weren’t very nice. Quite a few of them thought they were the shiznit. Some of them refused to wear deodorant and didn’t have anyone in their inner circle who would guide them away from this poor olfactory decision.