The door to Jordan’s rented flat opened into the kitchen. She walked to the fridge and opened it while she waited to see what the tall Scotsman would do. There were only half a dozen items inside, left as a token of welcome by the man who rented her the space. She scanned the contents about twenty times while pretending to be nonchalant.
He stepped over the threshold and put his hands on his hips, ignoring the fact he was letting cold air in. “I’ve considered, Miss Lennox, and I’ve concluded that ye would rather not ken much about me. I believe that, despite my ultimatum, ye mean to keep yer distance, remain detached. Do ye no’?”
Jordan dropped the pretense and straightened, letting the fridge close. It was impossible to hide her disappointment. “You’ve reconsidered, then? You don’t want to work with me?” Was that why he’d left the door open, so he could high-tail it out of there?
“I’ll do as I promised. But I believe the safest thing for ye is to think of me as some fictional character, one ye can walk away from at the end of our venture and feel nothing.”
“That sounds a little harsh.” She opened the fridge again and picked up the back-bacon, wiggled it in the air until he noticed it, then put it back in. She did the same thing with a small carton of eggs. “I didn’t mean to insult you, by the way, when I asked if maybe you don’t need the money. I’m not some gold-digger, wanting to know if you’re worth pursuing, you know?”
“No insult taken, lass. However, I believe I have already confessed enough. So, from this moment onward, think of me as...one of those lads from Brigadoon. I have no need of money, ye see, because I’ll have everything I might ever need when I disappear into the mist again.”
Jordan rolled her eyes and exhaled loudly. “Fine. But I should point out that you said you have two days. The citizens of Brigadoon only get one.”
“Weel, now, that’s because I come from Brigadoon two-point-0.”
She bit her lips for a second to keep from barking out laughing. “So naturally, your village and your magic bridge won’t disappear for two days.”
“Precisely. And now, having unburdened myself of my secrets, I feel light as a feather. I can enjoy our time together and not be trippin’ over my tongue, aye?” He stepped further into the room so he could close the door behind him.
“So I’m Gene Kelly in this version?” She held up the tiny tomatoes and a small brown sack. “These are mushrooms. No sign of blood sausage.”
He nodded but waved away her concern over the missing ingredient. “Nay, lass. Neither Gene Kelly nor Cyd Charisse. Ye’re the lovely American photographer, Jordan Lennox. No need to play parts, here. This is our story alone.”
Our story sounded pathetically, wonderfully romantic, but she wasn’t about to encourage him. They were far too chummy already, without getting starry-eyed. Better to keep debating—and to avoid as much eye contact as possible with those…were his eyes completely green now?
She swallowed and looked away. A can of baked beans and a package of coffee sat on the counter. She picked them up and held them out between her and her guest. “This is everything, I think.
“Auch, aye. Breakfast will be grand, I’m certain.”
Lordy it was hot in that kitchen all of a sudden. And if he kept purring like that, the whole house was going to burst into flame. It was better when he was lying to her.
“Uh. About that fish supper...”
“Aye?”
“You acted like you’d never had fish and chips before. But I suppose, in Brigadoon 2.0, they don’t deep fry anything.”
“Precisely.” He moved back to the little table, pulled out a chair, and sat backwards on it, carefully tucking the drape of his kilt between his legs as he lowered himself, not that she was watching. “In all my three hundred years—popping in and out of the mist, mind—I’ve never once been served anything so hearty as tonight’s supper.”
She laughed, finally relaxing again with the chair between them. “You sound so convincing.”
Lines crinkled around his eyes. “Imagine that.”
Jordan put the beans and coffee back and excused herself. In the bedroom, she took off her coat, heavy with humidity, and draped it around a pink tufted chair so it could dry. She could hear him, feel him pacing in the kitchen as if he were as nervous as she felt, and the idea made her smile.
Imagine, a guy like him, nervous about anything.
Putting a wall and a closed door between them didn’t do much to help her adrenaline settle down. In fact, wondering what he might do and say next just made her heart beat harder. So she slipped out of her clothes and into a comfy pair of sweats and a hoody, took a deep breath, and went back out.
Kerry was sitting backwards on the chair once again, like he’d never left it. The hushed footfalls of an upstairs neighbor drew her attention to the ceiling and she realized the tall Scot hadn’t been the one pacing after all.
While he took a good look at her change of clothes, including the tear in the knee of her sweats, there was a raw masculinity to him that made her fingers itch for her camera. It wasn’t to take advantage of him for a sellable shot, but to prove to her future self that Kerry Mather had been real, sitting in her kitchen, within reach—in case she made the mistake, one day, of thinking her memory had embellished the image.
The reality of him being within reach was dangerous enough to warrant more distance between them, so she marched to the opposite end of the kitchen and parked her butt on the counter, next to the bag of coffee.
Jordan began feeling like an idiot, for being the only nervous one, until she noticed Kerry tapping his thumb on his tartan-covered thigh. He wasn’t as calm and cool as she’d thought.
Maybe he worried she was going to jump him.
Maybe they were both worried about the same thing…
She shook her head while she sucked in a deep breath. No one was going to jump anyone. He was a gentleman, wasn’t he? He’d only come inside when she’d bullied him into it, and it was she who’d insisted he stay the night. Though she waited for alarms to go off in her brain, for her survival instincts to warn against letting a stranger stay in the house while she slept, the only thing stirring was her hormones, and those could, literally, cost her career.
The job at Foster and Foster, the job it would kill me to lose.
At the moment, however, she couldn’t separate that job from the man sitting at her table. So she reached for a little justification.
“I hope I didn’t freak you out by asking you to stay. If I would’ve let you leave, I would worry all night that you’d change your mind and not show up in the morning.” She put her hands between her thighs and shrugged. “You see, I let Fate decide where to look for the perfect shot, and Fate sent me to you—er, to Brechin. I just don’t want to screw it up, that’s all.” Jordan’s words replayed in her head and she groaned. “That probably didn’t help.”
Kerry’s breathing changed, and Jordan had the craziest sense of him moving toward her, even though his butt was still in the chair. “Tell me how Fate led ye here.”
She shrugged again. “The usual way. I closed my eyes and pointed at a map.”
He nodded, but he seemed disappointed, like he expected her to say something else.
“Look. I’ll play along with your Brigadoon story,” she said lightly, looking anywhere but his eyes, “but for all I know, you really did step off that pediment, a ghost stepping out of the statue.” She let her voice go all spooky with the words, then laughed. “But seriously, you are the spitting image of it, you know. In fact, I think we should go down there in the morning and take a shot of you and the statue together.”
He jumped out of his chair like it had caught on fire. “I would rather we dinnae. Statue or no, I’d rather not face my ancestor again until I’ve earned my place beside him.” He sighed and looked at the ceiling like he could see beyond it, to that ancestor waiting for him in Heaven. Then he closed his eyes and shook his head. “I cannae expect ye to understand.”
“Part of that Scotland I can’t see?”
He smiled and opened his eyes. They were green after all, with little specks of yellow that flashed bright and glossy, and nothing like a statue. “But ye will, Jordan lass. Ye will.” He gestured with one hand toward the living room, then suddenly frowned and moved to the door, to lock it. “A lass like yerself shouldnae be leavin’ the door open. Ye never ken what sort might wander inside, aye?”
Drawn like a magnet to the lilt of his brogue, Jordan followed him into the living room. “You’re right. Good thing I’ve got an ancient Highlander here to protect me.”
He glanced again at the hole in her knee, then looked away. “Perhaps ye’d best wrap yerself in a blanket until I get a fire lit.” He moved toward the little fireplace, but before he could get to it, Jordan flipped the switch that turned on the gas. The guy jumped and stumbled into her. And while he patted her shoulders and apologized, all she could do was laugh.
“I’m fine. You didn’t step on me.” She chuckled again. “It’s a gas fireplace, Mr. Eighteenth Century.”
“I realize it now, aye. But I wonder...” He walked slowly to the little fire and held his hands out in front of the smeared black glass that contained the small flames. “Doesnae seem to lend much warmth, though.”
“It will in a minute.”
He glanced at her knee again. “Ye must be cold as a witch’s...fingers.”
“Cold as a witch’s fingers? Is that how they say it in Brigadoon?”
He smirked. “In the 2.0 version only.”
Since the guy couldn’t see past the state of her sweats, Jordan headed back to the bedroom and caught sight of herself in the mirror. How long had it been since she’d grinned herself silly? How long had it been since she’d had that much fun?
Maybe she had been living her life with a camera in front of her face…instead of just living. Photography was a solitary job. Even when she was shooting people, there was always a lens sitting between them. But then again, it was necessary if she was going to make it back into the award circles.
Since there wasn’t a camera in front of her face now, however, maybe she wouldn’t have to wait until morning to see more of that Scotland she’d been missing…