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Mia,
I’ve been thinking of you. Nothing too naughty, which I’m sure would disappoint your inner aloof goddess. I’ve been moored in Inverness in the middle of nowhere and there’s only my thoughts and thistle for company. I could practice the various ways one could hide among the natural elements surrounding the cottage. I could dissect how I truly feel about my parents living that senior-traveling life you described. Come to terms with it, cry into a pillow and get in touch with my inner child.
I haven’t hit that level of boredom yet.
I also have the Baird to distract me when I get twitchy. That man...I should have bashed my brother the moment he asked his favor. That’s by the by.
This morning I came outside, and this was my view.
I wondered what yours was.
Kincaid,
Okay. I have to ask. Did you hear any hounds howling on those moors, in that thick, dense fog? Jesus. That view is Gothic. And beautiful.
I thought you were in Glasgow? And if memory serves weren’t you only supposed to look after the Baird for a week?
Also, seriously, what is a 'The Baird?' I’m sure it’s a person, but all I can imagine is a gray-haired Mel Gibson, full on blue face and wearing a kilt.
My view isn’t as impressive. Yes, what you see there is a trailer. Next to it is a ramshackle shack. Folks in the South love their ramshackle shacks. It’s not a yard unless you have one and other junk from two decades ago.
I don’t hate it here to be honest. It's simply not as pretty as Tennessee or even the coast of Florida.
Speaking of family, mine drives me nuts. There is no coming to terms with it unless you count the nightly glass of wine I’ve had to deal with these people.
My aunts are on a mission to get me hitched. My mother wants me to go to church. Not just Sunday church, which I'm not entirely against. She wants me to visit the mothers of the church, attend Bible study, call the prayer line for myself and to pray for others. I’m an only child, so she has a limitless focus on moi. My dad disappears into the man cave my uncles have out back. There’s a pool, a pool table, beer, cigars and a huge TV. We may never see the menfolk ever again.
Lucky bastards.
All the while, Grams wants me to sneak her some moonshine, ignoring the warning labels on her blood pressure medicine saying alcohol is a no-no.
Anyway, if only you had waited to email me three days from now. I could have showed you startling blue water and sugar-grain like sand from the Caribbean.
Oh, well. :P
M,
I apologize in advance for this picture. I told the Baird I was taking it for you. He asked if you were a bonny lass, and I had to tell the truth. Looking at you makes men do daft things.
Back to the Baird. The local lore is that his smolder can impregnate a woman at fifty paces. I have no clue what it can do to you in picture form. That’s not to mention he’s a bit of a skirt chaser, though he’s not as virile as he used to be. His heart is the problem, from what I’ve been told. Doesn’t stop him from swilling a shot or two of his whisky. I’ve been tasked to search and find his cigars and throw them away.
He runs a pub called Baird's Drunken Barrel and lives in a loft above it. Now, he may look harmless, but the man has made me fix everything that isn’t nailed down and even some things that are. My next task is to sand all the tables and re-varnish them. I’ve been warned that his barmaids are off-limits. Heartbreak isn’t good for business, but it’s fair game for the patrons.
Despite that, I find myself not wanting to go just yet. London was more my brother’s speed. I guess I’m just a Highlander.
“He actually said that?” Tasha cackled, and the sound filled Mia's earbuds.
Mia buried her feet in the warm, wet sand. The view hadn’t stopped being amazing, nor had the weather, and she was glad to see the countryside bouncing back after the horrible storms. She could have coasted along the contentment, but every morning in St. Lucia, her first thought had been Kincaid.
A problem if there ever was one.
“The man called me a goddess. In a joking way, but I still give him high marks for remembering some bullshit I said a few weeks ago.”
“You sound smitten.”
She jolted from her relaxed pose in the beach chair, spilling the rest of her drink into the sand. Her world smelled of sun, coconuts, and now a slight tinge of rum. The word ‘smitten’ broke a cold sweat along her hairline. She squinted at the shoreline and hoped the hypnotic ebb and flow would soothe her. “More like intrigued. He didn’t give me any info to contact him, even after the invitation, and then he emails me out of the blue.”
“But you’re answering them when you are in literal paradise. I’m trying to see the appeal of emailing a stranger when you’re surrounded by them already.”
Tasha could size people up in a glance. She knew who would become the noisy, sloppy drunks, the criers, the ragers, the sleepers, and even the ones disgusted both with the liquor and themselves. But her friend couldn’t see past that. Mia could, because she had to. “Kincaid is interesting. Looking at him, one wouldn’t think he’d dressed up as Watson with such detail, much less go to a TV convention. On the outside he’s hard as a rock.”
“And on the inside?”
She remembered how he was with his brother. “Grumpy and kind of sweet.”
“And I’m back to you’re smitten.”
Mia raised her hand, waving to the waiter more than a hundred feet away at the open beach bar. As she’d been taught by her friend, she’d tipped the man who would serve her. “I don’t want to be.”
Tasha snorted. “You have to let the hurt go. Not every man is like Francis.”
“I should have known from his name he wasn’t trustworthy. Have you ever met a decent Francis? Frank, maybe. Francis…fuck a Francis.”
Tasha’s laughed filled her ears, and Mia smiled despite the bitter taste speaking Francis’s name left behind. “I just…I don’t know enough about Kincaid yet. Writing him seems fun.”
“Then keep doing it until it’s not.”
That sounded so easy. “Maybe.”
“You will. Also, send me this week’s episode so I can listen to it and make some promo graphics for it.”
“I still have to finish editing it first. The beach keeps distracting me.”
“No cabana boys?”
Mia scanned the beach. Plenty of couples laid out on towels or played some sand-friendly game. More than a handful of men roamed in packs with their friends. None caught her eye. “Nope. I’m enjoying my own company.”
“Oh, yeah. That totally explains why you called.”
“Shuddup, Tasha.”
Her friend snorted. “You have your phone so you can work and play at the same time. By the way, which episode are you sending me anyway?”
“The one from FanTV.”
“Oh.” Her friend said it again, with more emphasis. “Oh.”
The waiter blessedly brought her another cocktail, and she sucked down half before saying, “I didn’t interview him. I only took the one selfie and a short vid.”
“You better send me the video right this second or our friendship is on the rocks.”
“Fine, fine.” Mia ended her surrender on a laugh, already pulling up the video she’d saved.
Within seconds she could hear the audio on Tasha’s. The crowd was a quiet roar, but clearly she heard herself say, “Just one quote, in a posh accent. It doesn’t have to be long at all.”
“Let me think then, lass.”
She held in the sigh that wanted to come out at the sound of his voice, both rough and soothing. His r’s took a beating, his g’s dropped off, and he could read her a grocery list to get her off.
“Ready?” he had asked her.
“Let me get you into view. OK. Go.”
“To Sherlock Holmes, she is always the woman. I have seldom heard him mention her under any other name. In his eyes, she eclipses and predominates the whole of her sex’.” There was a pause, and Mia could remember the panty-melting smile he’d given her. “That good for you, lass?”
“So good.”
Tasha screamed, “How did you not fuck him right there on the chair?”
“Tasha.”
“If you don’t want him, let me at him.”
“Tasha.”
“Oh, my God. You better email this man once a day. Twice. At least send him a pic of your panties. Moist panties.”
“Never say that word again.”
Her friend laughed. “Moist! Moist! Panties.”
“Bye. I need to soak up some sun before nighttime falls. Heading to a couple of clubs tonight.”
“Email him. Love you. Bye.”
Mia sat there for half a second and then cued up the video again. She didn’t hold in the sigh. A former soldier, a quiet geek, a grump, and a man who wore his heart on his sleeve. It was romantic and stupid to let herself get swayed by his natural charm.
But it was fun.
What harm could it do to flirt with a mysterious Scot when they were on different continents?
She ignored the slow burn of fear and crafted a reply.
Scot Bae,
And there can only be one Highlander? (Sorry. Couldn’t help it. Fangirl here.)
(Today’s view is from the Caribbean. Be so very damn jealous.)
OMG that’s the Baird? He’s a silver fox. Though I am disappointed he wasn’t in a kilt. Then again, that man in a kilt might have made my birth control rebel.
I don’t find it surprising he’s making you fix ALL THE THINGS. You’re big and strong, and I’d bet very good with your hands.
Does that make you a handyman, carpenter, or a pub owner by proxy? You should introduce yourself as that to any lady friends in the future. Kincaid Cameron, former military and current pub owner (by proxy). It’s a great ice breaker.
Speaking of the military, here’s your mission, if you choose to accept it. I’ve been doing research since you told me you were in Inverness and traveling to Glasgow. That led me down a Scotland rabbit hole. I’d love to do a small feature on Aldourie Castle Estate, but I need pictures that I can use. If that’s asking too much from a stranger, I understand.
M,
(Picture taken from the stoop of the Baird’s flat.)
We must first address the ‘bae’ situation. I know this word to mean something entirely different in Dutch, but I was reassured by a barmaid this is a term of endearment.
Do you think of me fondly?
But to address your Highlander joke: I’m the oldest of five. My parents couldn’t stop at just one. Believe me, my childhood would have been less chaotic had there only been me. Unfortunately, I like my siblings and can’t muster up any ill will toward them. Except for Grant. He’s a dobber. He told his friend that I could stay on for the next two months. Aye, I wanted to sprout some roots, but “babysitting” the Baird is a full-time job. The man needs to be shot with a tranq gun, not have a sitter. Next on his list of doing fucking everything is having me knock down walls since he needs a bigger storage room.
I’m whinging. Apologies.
I can check out the castle and any other tourist traps you want me to visit. When I’m not fixing up the pub, I’m spinning on my thumbs—aye, both of them—and it’s put me a bit on edge.
Two questions:
What kind of camera do I need to use?
Are you wearing a bikini?
Scot Bae,
(Me in a bikini with wicked cool shades and I’m-a-rich-aloof-heiress black hat.)
Bae is indeed an endearment with questionable origins. It’s dated at this point, since most slang is old within a month, but it fits for you. You came to the rescue for me and you’re cute.
But let’s talk about how you had me fooled for weeks since our chance meeting. I was sure you were not like ordinary men at all. Your borderline wicked behavior and flirting were all due to whisky. Better yet, as time passed I had become this sexless being you sometimes emailed. The only way to appease me now is to send me a selfie of your hand down your pants as you look at my bikini selfie. (I’m kidding.) (Sort of.)
You don’t need something like a Nikon to take pictures. Any halfway decent camera will do. Hell, even an iPhone. Just get the feel of the place, the atmosphere and the obvious tourist trap pictures. I really appreciate it. I’ll be soaking up the sun for another hour, and then I have to head home to take care of some things. Then it’s onward to Canada! They are the nicest neighbors.
M,
(Picture from atop the castle’s tower where at least two wives were sentenced to live out the rest of their lives after giving birth to daughters.)
We are agreed, then? You call me Scot Bae whenever the need arises to stroke my ego?
Anyway, did you get the rest of the pictures? I sent them through Google Drive. I took at least one hundred. Never say I don’t get the job done.
My dear lass, I am a man. Emphasis on heterosexual man. If I didn’t find you attractive, then I would know just how fucked I currently am. Thank you for the picture. My urge to lick you from head to toe reassured me the last few months as a civilian hasn’t deadened me.
Now explain this. How do you go from the Caribbean to Canada? Do they not still have snow this time of year?
Scot Bae,
No snow. It’s really pretty and cool, weather-wise. I’ve been before but only Toronto. I’m going to take one long drive up Canada then across.
Also, you’re a goof.
And you totally squandered the moment you had to really kiss me. Do you know who kisses a woman’s hand? Geriatric Casanovas. So maybe you and the Baird have something in common, and that’s why he drives you nuts.
After all I am an expert on opportune moments.
Geriatric Casanova?
CALL ME.