The following day I was in my parents's living room curled up on the couch watching the third episode in a row of The Handmaid's Tale at ten in the morning. I didn't know why I was watching something so dark. I had woken up that morning fresh, with clarity. Listening to Magnus and Lady Mairead talk about murdering Braden had put everything in perspective.

He had deserved an epic beating. I had let him off easy, considering. Hell, I had showed restraint. Maybe most of the world didn't agree, but the two weirdly anachronistic Scots I found myself hanging out with thought my only failure had been in not being more dangerous.

I switched the show off and watched a New Girl instead. I had watched the episode before, but it made me laugh and laughter was a relief. I actually felt a little like I had gained some of my confidence.

I still had a little money in the bank.

I could go back to college if I wanted to, or get a job if I felt like it.

I was living rent free, free food, too.

I had my old friends gathered around me and had successfully friend-zoned James. He sent me a text late last night: Second thoughts? Wanna come over?

And I answered: Not on your life, enjoy your left hand.

And he texted me a smiley face and then: Sweet dreams.

I had Hayley. She wasn't always a perfect friend. But she had been constant.

And I had my new friendship with Magnus. He was interesting, a bit lost, but also so competent, strong and sure at the same time. I couldn't figure out how he seemed so powerful even though he didn't know how to drive. For one thing, though he was completely incompetent, he wasn't defensive about it. That was a relief. It was really sweet how he had asked to see my video because he wanted me to explain it.

I liked it when he said my—

“Mistress Kaitlyn!” My name was yelled outside. Also, there were hoof steps on the pavement.

I rushed to the front window. Magnus was on a horse riding up and down the road outside my parents's house. He called again, “Mistress Kaitlyn!”

I stepped out to the front stoop and called to him thirty feet down the street. “Magnus Campbell, what are you doing here?”

He turned his horse, breeze through his hair, muscles taut on his forearm, a beaming smile, and cantered to my front yard. And yes, this made me a little breathless. “I hae come tae ask ye tae shew me the fort. Chef Zach says tis verra historical.”

“Fort Clinch, by horse?”

“Aye, by horse. I canna park Sunny here.”

I patted the side of my hair. I had slept in a braid. Now fuzzy. My pajama pants were covered in little kittens chasing balls of yarn, which was ironic because I have never knitted nor enjoyed kittens much, having a pretty strong cat allergy. My tank top had a smear from a dollop of Nutella I dropped that morning while eating waffles for breakfast. I hadn't cared because television watching was the only thing on my agenda. And just a couple minutes ago I thought I had mojo.

“Okay, but I have to get ready.”

“I will wait for ye.”

I rushed into the house, threw clothes all over the floor trying to find the right pair of pants, then the perfect crop-top, and rushed to the bathroom. I sniffed my pits, rubbed a razor over them, splashed them with water, patted them dry, swiped on deodorant, untwisted my hair from the braids, and finger combed the curls with frizz-stop oil.

I peeked through the blind. Magnus was standing beside his horse, looking up and down the street. In a white linen shirt and a kilt that draped and hugged in all the right ways — I brushed my teeth, splashed water on my face, and arched my eyebrows and darkened my lashes for a 'natural look.' Finally, I got dressed.

Final check. I looked pretty gosh darn good considering twenty minutes before I was curled on the couch with no plans but tv.

I met Magnus outside.

Magnus easily pulled himself up and onto the horse and held down a hand for me. “Hae ye ever ridden?”

I shook my head. I was a little awestruck now that I was looking up at this great big horse. Magnus was up there, looking down. What was I supposed to do, somehow scale the side of this living beast? It was like climbing those rope ladders into treehouses while all your friends waited for you at the top, never as easy as you wanted it to be. I put my hand in his and he raised me enough to get a foothold. He directed my right leg across in front of him, firmly held my left thigh as I balanced, and once I landed, pulled my hips close.

He held the reins in front of me, his arms around, and the horse broke into a trot. My parents's house was only two blocks off the beach, so we quickly made it to the sand and turned north.

The temperature was uncomfortable, the hot sun beating down. Sweat pooled on my upper lip. The horse had a nice rock and roll between my legs, but the pitch and rhythm caused me to be hyperaware of Magnus's chest, almost, not quite, pressed to my back, his thighs pressed alongside my thighs, his hands just between my —

His breath was so close, and the horse's movement so hypnotizing, that I was lulled into fantasizing. I considered collapsing into a feigned faint so he could carry me off and do whatever, my excuse would be: horseback was pretty hot. Very hot.

It took about forty-five minutes to reach the beach access for Fort Clinch. We parked the horse along a railing in a shady spot in the campground, gave it water, and paid the ranger to keep an eye on it for us. Then Magnus opened a saddlebag, and pulled out a package of waxed paper wrapped around a hunk of aged cheddar and a loaf of bread. We made a few rudimentary, but delicious, sandwiches, and followed it with swigs from a glass bottle of water.

And then we walked up the path to the fort. When we pulled into view, Magnus stood still and looked down the outer walls, up at the cannons, and around the base. I waited until he was done inspecting. We reached the front gate and Magnus pressed a hand to the stone.

I said, “It was built around 1850. It's very, very old.”

He started, surprised. “Oh, and how many years…?”

“A hundred and seventy years, give or take.”

His brow furrowed as we walked through the tunnel to the interior of the fort. We explored the entire building, the hallways, turrets, and up on the cannonades. Magnus barely spoke. He ran his hand along the bricks and on the cannons. In the areas that were made to look like civil war bunk houses he stood for a very long time.

Whenever he was quiet staring, I found myself explaining. “This room looks like a bunkhouse from the Civil War,” and, “this is a pump for water, just like they used back then.”

He listened, nodded, and then we walked to the next place. We did this for a long time, from tunnel and wall to the next tunnel and wall. “Sometimes there are reenactors here.”

He asked vaguely, “Reenactors?”

“They wear costumes and pretend to live during the Civil War.”

He said, “Och aye, because twas so long ago. I see...”

Finally, after seeing everything, we walked back to his horse, and led it out to the sand. The beach was wide here, the sand white and glistening in the sun, powdery, covered in shells.

“Have you ever seen anything as beautiful as this beach, Magnus?”

He looked at me sidelong. “Nae, I hae never seen such beauty.”

We took off our shoes and took a few steps. “I love the feel on my feet. It makes a noise when I step in it, like a faint vibration — a crunch in my head, not my ears. Do you hear that, listen, the sand?”

“Aye, tis verra loud.”

“That's right, I forgot how sensitive your ears are.” We stood for a moment, digging our toes in the sand, staring out at the water, Magnus's horse standing calmly beside him. I said, “Here's the last thing I'm going to show you today, unless I think of something else of course — when you come to the beach you have to dip your toes in the water. It's tradition.”

We walked to the edge of the ocean and squished our toes into the wet sand. The warm water lapped around our ankles. “If you walk on the beach you have to have sand from mid-calf-down; it's like a rule.” I splashed water and sand on my feet. “And now you have to look for seashells and shark teeth.”

“Shark teeth?”

“I'll show you.” I found an area of shells that looked promising. I crouched and sifted through the tiny shells and sand. “There!” I held up a small black triangle. “The tooth of a shark. They're everywhere on these beaches because we dredge out the channel and put the sand on the shoreline to keep the beach from shifting away.”

Magnus turned the shark tooth in his fingers. “Tis marvelous. I hae seen sharks afore, but nae their teeth.”

“When did you see a shark?”

“When I crossed tae France.”

“Wait — what? You've been to France? They're definitely part of the EU, and you've never seen a McDonalds?”

He grinned. “I consider m'self quite fortunate. If I had already seen a McDonalds, ye couldna introduce me tae it. From what I see ye are verra happy while providing instructions.” The edge of his lips turned up in a smile. “I am afraid ye would find me verra bland and ill-suited if I had seen much of this already.”

I giggled. “I do really really love to show things to people. I hope I'm not making you crazy.”

“Nae, tis as it should be, I know nocht about this place.”

I returned to crouching and sifting around in the shells for another tooth. My chin on my knee, thinking. After a few minutes I wondered aloud, “I mean, I thought the world was a lot of the same thing everywhere, that France would have junk food. I guess I should go travel, huh? Is Scotland beautiful?”

“Aye, tis a braw place.”

“Braw?”

“Tis grand, braw.”

I repeated, “Braw,” then dropped to sitting, splaying my legs out in front of me. I gave up on shark tooth hunting because the sun was heading down. The sunset cast shadows on the shells and dips and hills of the beach making it impossible to spot the tiny little triangles. Magnus crouched beside me, holding the reins, watching the waves.

I asked, “Do you miss Scotland? Will you go home soon?”

“Aye, I miss it verra much. This place tis fair full of bonnie maidens,” he cast a smile at me, “but tis verra foreign. I will be reliev'd when I return. Soon I think, much there needs be done.” He looked down at the shark tooth in his palm. “Might I keep this?”

I nodded, so he placed it in the bag he wore at his hip. He stood and offered a hand to help me up. “Tis growing dark, we should return. Will ye stay tae dinner?”

“I have plans tonight with Hayley, our weekly meet-up at a little restaurant off Center Street. Would you like to come?”

“Will ye drive the Mustang?”

I said, “Definitely. I'm really cool when I drive it, have you seen how cool I am?”

“Cool?”

I chuckled. “Like grand.”

“Och aye, ye are braw when ye drive my car.” He swung up onto the horse and held down his hand. It took me two tries. I was tired and missed when he pulled, falling back and off.

Magnus laughed. “You oughts tae go up, not down.”

“I know, but my legs are wiggly.” The next time I was able to swing up in front of him again. Something about the long day together, the close proximity, the long pauses — I began to suspect he was going to kiss me. Like really kiss me.

And that I really, really wanted him to.

The day was still warm, the ocean sparkling in the long afternoon sun. The tide was low. Shells crunched under the horse's hooves. Our bodies rocked together as we rode, again in silence, but a comfortable one. It was also uncomfortable, charged and expectant, those two things existed in the space. His forearms rested on my thighs, and I let myself relax a bit, leaning back, closing the space between us.

With his arms and shoulders curved around me, I could smell him — musk and spice and leather and wool. I closed my eyes, the movement rocking me, and wondered if I could be this silly. Was I falling for the rich Scotsman?

Hayley knew I was a sucker for a prince on a horse. But I lived in the real world, I never thought I would actually meet one. What did I know about this guy anyway?

He was running from something. Dangerous. He carried a sword. That was truly all I knew.

He shifted slightly, took the reins in one hand, and twisted to look behind us. I missed his arms around me. I had gone untethered.

Then he shifted again. His arms enclosed me, white linen sleeves brushing my bare arms, the reins went back into both his hands equally, and I could have sworn I felt him inhale deeply, just near the back of my head.

Quietly, in his rumbling baritone of a voice, he said, “Bidh thu a 'fàileadh mar ghaisgeach.”

“What does that mean?”

“You hae the scent of a breeze, or perhaps, osna, a sigh.”

My breath caught. “I do — I mean, that's a compliment?”

He said simply, “Aye.”

And I wondered if I really truly might swoon into his arms. Except I was already there, in his arms, collapsing would just be extra.