Three
Jenny made her way down the hall, through the small reception area with the Oriental rug and the rack of brochures, and on through the doors Outlander had indicated earlier. That led to a large dining room. At the other end of the room, light spilled out of an open doorway, and she could hear the sound of a knife against a cutting board.
She moved across the room and peeked inside. It was a kitchen, and there was Outlander, still dressed in a kilt. He’d ditched the vest and had rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt. He’d donned an apron that said Good Eats Served Here and was busily slicing tomatoes on the kitchen island, where a variety of pots and pans hung over his head.
Jenny grabbed onto the doorframe and sort of swung into the room. “Hey,” she said, trying to sound breezy.
Outlander glanced up, his green-eyed gaze flicking over her. He pointed to a stool at the kitchen island.
She was going to take a wild guess that she was supposed to sit. She walked across the kitchen and slid on to her assigned stool and glanced around her—the kitchen was gleaming white, with black and white tile on the floor that matched the backsplash between the cabinets and kitchen counters. There was an industrial stove with more burners than Jenny could ever imagine uses for, and an enormous refrigerator with glass doors. “Nice kitchen,” she said.
He sliced into a block of cheese.
“You must like to cook.”
He looked at her strangely. “No’ really.”
But he was wearing an apron. People who possessed aprons generally liked to cook. She watched him get a loaf of bread from a bread drawer and lay it on a cutting board. The silence between them seemed to grow thicker.
“I really have to thank you again,” Jenny said, and absently twirled a thick strand of hair around her finger. “I know it’s a huge imposition, but you wouldn’t believe the day I’ve had.”
Outlander didn’t take the bait. He made a sound like a grunt and sawed into the bread.
“My name is Jenny, by the way,” she said.
“Aye, I checked you in.”
“Right,” she said, and giggled, not because it was funny, but because this couldn’t be more awkward. She did not do well with awkward. She had a tendency to take awkward situations and put them on blast with her words. “What’s your name? I mean, besides Mr. Mackenzie.”
He hesitated, as if debating whether he should tell her. “Edan,” he said quietly.
“That sounds totally Scottish. What do people call you? Ed?”
He paused, as if thinking about it. “I suppose most call me Mr. Mackenzie.” He resumed slicing the bread.
“They call me Mr. Tibbs,” Jenny responded in her best Sidney Portier voice.
Edan stopped sawing to look at her.
“It’s from a movie. An old movie. Too old, I guess.”
He glanced down.
Jenny flushed. So stuffy! “People call me Jenny. Except my friends. Guess what they call me?”
Edan Mackenzie did not stop slicing bread.
“They call me Turner Tots, or the Jennerator. They used to call me The Jenlanthropist, because I went through this period where I was giving away my worldly goods, which, I will confess, did not last long.” It had been one of those times she’d gotten a little frantic she was going to turn out to be a hoarder like her dad and started giving away everything in her cluttered apartment. Brooke had stopped her from giving away her laptop.
Edan Mackenzie gave her a look as if he couldn’t figure her out.
Jenny was generally pretty confident in her own skin, but there was something about his steady gaze that made her anxious. She twirled around on the stool to check out the awesome refrigerator. “How long have you worked for the Cassian Inn?” she asked, turning around again when she figured it was safe.
“I own it.”
“Own…the hotel?”
“Aye, the hotel. The grounds. The cottages.” He shrugged.
So “They-Call-Me-Mr. Mackenzie” owned this old mansion. Wouldn’t he make a great movie? Darkly brooding, handsome, and living in a mysterious mansion. A body in room 215...
He looked at her again, and Jenny got a squirmy, not-used-to-people vibe from him. Which was a little strange, because she’d guess that women would be lining up at his door.
Maybe the reason they weren’t was the lack of public transportation to his quaint establishment. It seemed a bit too far out of the way. But put this guy in Chicago or Santa Monica or New York, and sheesh, women would pitch their tents and camp out overnight, hold each others’ place in line so someone could dash off to Starbucks for a round of Frappuccinos—all to get a run at him.
“Do you live here by yourself?” First objective: establish his single/not-single status.
“You’re verra curious,” he said.
It was called making conversation, but okay, he didn’t want to talk about it. “I like your kilt,” she said. “I wish American men would wear them. They look really good and they seem practical to me.”
He began putting the sandwich together.
“I knew a girl once who fell in love while she was on vacation in Scotland,” Jenny said. “He told her kilts are for weddings and funerals.”
Edan Mackenzie arranged leaves of lettuce on the bread. He admired his handiwork.
He was going to make her work for every word. “Sooo…?” she asked, gesturing to his kilt. “Which was it for you?”
“Wedding.”
“I love weddings!”
He slapped some ham on top the lettuce, and then a slice of tomato. “Never knew a lass who didna love them.”
“That’s a gross generalization, sir. I’ve been a bridesmaid a few times and trust me, I didn’t love that. I had to wear a hideously pink dress once. The bride said it was champagne, but that thing was so sickly pink the only thing missing was the diabetes warning label. But yeah, okay, I will concede that most of us love weddings. I wouldn’t say I’m such a fan of marriage, however.” No sooner were the words out of her mouth that she lifted her hand. “Wait. That didn’t come out right. I’m not against marriage. I just don’t think you have to have a piece of paper to be committed.” Jesus, more words were leaping off her tongue before Jenny’s central control system could put her mouth on lockdown.
Outlander opened a bag of chips and shook a few out onto a plate. He clearly was not going to discuss his views on marriage with a total stranger because his central control system was working just fine and had sent everyone home and closed up shop for the night.
Jenny felt a terrible and wholly unnecessary need to clarify. She often felt this need. “I am for marriage. I just don’t think everyone has to do it. But weddings! Weddings are the best. It’s the one time entire families can come together and get dressed up, and be happy and just dance. What’s not to love? The last wedding I went to was one of my best friend’s. Bethany and Matt.”
Outlander was slicing the sandwich in half.
“I was a bridesmaid. But that was a beautiful dress.” Bethany would kill her if she ever said anything less about that teal-blue halter dress. Jenny hadn’t loved it. She suddenly laughed, recalling how she and Vanessa and Brooke had all had too much to drink. They sat at a table envying how happy and beautiful Bethany had looked and complaining about their dresses. Somehow, they’d gotten on the topic of relationships. “At that wedding, my friends and I had this ridiculous conversation about marriage and relationships. We decided we needed to have a list of non-negotiables. Do guys do that?”
“I donna know what you mean,” Outlander said.
“You know, your list of must-haves in a partner.”
He shook his head.
“Like, you’re saying that the person you date has to meet your non-negotiable standards, so you’re not just dating someone for the sake of sex.”
Outlander looked terribly confused.
“Because presumably, you’re looking for something more meaningful than a hookup, right?”
He looked even more confused.
“Like Vanessa. Her non-negotiables are no cheating, and he has to spend quality time with her watching romantic comedies or something, and he has to love her unconditionally.”
Outlander frowned. “Could she no’ just get a dog, then?”
Jenny laughed.
“And you?” he asked as he slid the plate across the bar to her. “Do you really have such a list?”
“God, no,” she said with a snort. “That would eliminate a significant portion of my dating pool. Anyway, it’s easy for my friends to have those standards. Vanessa doesn’t even date because she’s so into her job. She’s a lawyer. And Brooke has been dating Grayson for years. He’s so besotted, he would clean her floor with a toothbrush. He wouldn’t judge her if she ate an entire pizza by herself, which of course, Brooke would never do. Two slices, tops, would be her big pizza binge. Thank you!” She picked up the sandwich. “I also love the dancing.”
“What?”
“At weddings. Love the dancing. I mean, how often do you get out and let it all hang out? Did you?”
He blinked.
“Did you dance?”
Outlander leaned back against the counter, his arms crossed over his chest. He looked as if she’d exhausted him. “A wee bit.”
If she’d been at a wedding tonight, she would have been on the dance floor, that was for sure. “Nothing more fun than dancing with a bit of an adult beverage buzz. Now that’s a non-negotiable for you,” she said, and horror of horrors, she followed up that inane comment with a wink. What in the hell am I doing right now?
She took a healthy bite of her sandwich as she tried to think of how to rein this all back in. “I took dancing lessons a few years ago,” she said in a desperate attempt to turn the comment around. “Ballroom. But I had two left feet. I couldn’t do a paso doble to save my life. And forget the quick step—my partner said I looked like I was having a seizure. Apparently that was a non-negotiable for him.”
God, she wasn’t reining anything in, she was rambling and making it worse. Why oh why did she always have to talk so much? It was a horrible, ingrained habit of hers—if no one else talked, there was some automatic switch in her that shifted into turbo mode, filling up all the available air with words.
She looked down at her plate. “Well this is delicious.” She took another big bite of the sandwich. Too big. Her eyes watered. She chewed maniacally and managed to swallow it down. “So delicious!” she said hoarsely. “What’s on it?”
“Chutney.”
“Chutney! That’s different.” A little too different for her tastes. “Not familiar. Where do you get it?”
“We make it.”
She imagined him and a cute little blonde making whatever the hell was ruining her perfectly good sandwich. The cute little blonde’s name was probably something very Scottish, too, like Fiona. They probably wore matching aprons and laughed gaily as they stirred something in a ginormous pot, then fed each other bites of it. She coughed.
“Beer?” He pushed away from the kitchen counter and walked to the fridge.
“Actually, could I have some water?” she asked hoarsely.
He got her a glass of water and set it down before her. “Thank you,” she said. He was watching her closely as she drank, probably wondering if he should dial 9-1-1. Jenny put down the glass and forced a smiled. “So whose wedding was it? Yours?” She laughed at her own joke.
His brows dipped.
“Oh, I get it. Too soon in our relationship for me to ask.” She laughed again.
Now he just looked horrified.
“Sorry. Dumb joke,” she said with an airy wave of her hand. “I know we don’t have a relationship…yet.” Come on, sometimes, jokes just teed themselves up.
But Outlander didn’t think she was as hilarious as she thought she was, and turned to the sink and began to wash things.
Okay, so the sexy guy in a kilt wasn’t much of a talker, and clearly he had no sense of humor. “It’s so pretty here at Lake Haven. This whole area is beautiful. You know what I like about it? People are so friendly and helpful.” That was really more of a guess than actual experience, but whatever.
He turned back to the island and reached for the bag of chips, but before he could do something ridiculous like put them away, Jenny put her hand on the bag to stop him. Her fingers brushed his, and she glanced up into stark green eyes that were boring through her. “Sorry. I’m just really, really hungry.”
He pulled his hand back from the bag. “And I’m really, really knackered.”
“Ah. I can take this to my room.” She stood up, gathered up the plate and her water as he checked his wristwatch. She resisted the urge to burp as she stuffed the bag of chips under her arm. “Thank you so much, Edan Mackenzie.”
He nodded.
God, but he was a tough one. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re a very quiet man?”
A vague hint of a smile turned one corner of his mouth, and he arched a brow. “I’d wager a quiet man is the only type of man you’ve ever met.”
Surprised, Jenny laughed. “Very funny,” she said, nodding. “I’ve been told I am a woman of many words.”
He braced one hand against the island.
“Okay, all right. I know that look,” she said. “That is definitely the look of a man who has been kept too long in his apron.” She started for the door.
“We’re good, then?” he asked through a yawn. “No cake?”
“Surprisingly, no,” she said. The waistband of her palazzo pants was so freaking tight all of a sudden. “I’ll save it for breakfast. What time is breakfast?”
Outlander looked at her like she was crazy, but Jenny was definitely the type of girl who needed to know where her next meal was coming from. “I’m kidding,” she said. “But…breakfast will be served, right?”
“No. The inn is closed,” he reminded her. “There’s a market in East Beach if you need anything.”
Jenny had no idea how to get to East Beach, obviously, but she’d figure it out tomorrow. She was suddenly too full and exhausted. “Great. Well, thanks again,” she said, and started for the door. When she reached it, she looked back. Outlander was still watching her. Warily. As if he expected she’d make a run at the pantry. “Wi-Fi?” she asked hopefully.
The corner of his mouth rose up so fleetingly that it was possible she’d imagined it. “You canna eat Wi-Fi.”
“More’s the pity. But I need to email my dad and tell him where I am.”
“In the lounge,” he said.
“Great. Thanks again, Edan. Good night.”
“Good night, then.”
She walked out with the vision of a pair of muscular legs beneath that kilt dancing in her mind’s eye.
Of all the gin joints in all the world, she had to walk into his, she thought, in her best Humphrey Bogart accent.