Page 39 of Scotlander

Finn broadened his stance so that he completely blocked the narrow stone stairwell. ‘Not until you have a wee natter with your pal, there.’

‘Oh, is this how we’re playing it?’ She might not want to talk with Gabe, but maybe she did have it in her for a ‘wee’ bicker with Finn. She crossed her arms and shot him a cranky smirk. ‘Me big Scottish McManly man pretending to understand what I’m feeling? Shall I run off and find a talking stick? Unpack all of my childhood issues while I’m at it? Is that what you want? Emotions here, emotions there, Willa’s got feelings everywhere!’

Finn leant against the wall indicating he had all the time in the world. ‘If you like.’

‘Pah!’

A lock of his straw-coloured hair fluttered in her derisive gust.

Still, he stood, waiting like an irritatingly patient parent more than happy to watch their child scream themselves to silence in the cereal aisle.

In all honesty, she’d love to offload on someone she’d never see again. Val had been her go-to emotional laundry basket. A completely judgement-free friend who she could dump all her dirty problems into. After spinning them round a bit (‘Do we really need to have the blue-versus-green-mascara-will-change-everything discussion again?’), Valentina always returned her more trying life issues clean, neatly pressed and stacked in an appealing colour-coordinated order.

Right now she was a tangle of inside-out leggings, scrunched-up socks and savaged sports bras, but she wasn’t about to put on that particular light show in front of Finn Jamieson. Losing the plot would only confirm what he already thought about her: that she was a superficial, Californian hot mess.

She put her hands on his chest and tried to push past him. Not so much as a whisper of a teeter. Not that she had the brain-space for this sort of detail right now, but having actually touched it? She could silently admit that Finn’s chest was really, really nice. It wasn’t over-the-top gym buffed like a lot of the guys back home. It was more . . . organically strong. As if his day-to-day life had crafted the curve of his pecs and the – oh god! She was groping him. Not good. Definitely not good.

‘You’ve got to talk with him, Willa.’ His voice was low and rumbly and literally vibrated from her feet all the way up to her top of her head. Or maybe she was freezing to death. The wind was brisk up here and the stairwell had not come equipped with central heating.

‘Don’t want to,’ she said sulkily, then sneezed.

‘Are you feeling alright?’ He frowned as he inspected her. ‘You’re looking a bit peely-wally.’

‘That sounds like I have leprosy.’

‘It means you’re not looking a hundred per cent.’ His frown deepened. ‘Is that you shivering? Here. Take my coat. I’ll not have you freezing your tits off— freezing to death,’ he quickly corrected.

Despite herself Willa half-laughed. Her boobs should have come on this holiday by themselves.

Finn shrugged off his worn wax jacket and slipped it round her shoulders. The inside was quilted and she instantly felt the heat from his body transfer to her shoulders, cocooning her like a forcefield.

‘You okay there, Willa?’

She tugged the two halves of the jacket close round her, then pursed her lips at him in a happy now? expression to hide her actual reaction. A swoon. The gesture was pure chivalry.

‘C’mon, lass. Go and speak with him.’ His smile was gentle, encouraging. ‘You know I’m right.’

She did. But she wasn’t quite ready to admit as much.

In all honesty, her choices were fairly limited right now.

She could scream until he moved, run back to the stables, crash through the handfasting ceremony, flounce up the stairs to her hayloft, cram all her clothes back into her bag, then dramatically bump her wheelie bag down the stone steps, slip her stylishly oversized sunglasses on and demand someone call her an Uber.

A perfect plan if she were Elle Woods or Kim Kardashian. They, at least, had the guarantee of someone chasing after them to make sure they were okay, even if it was a camera crew. Something told her the chances of Gabe running after her to beg for forgiveness were slim to nil.

The thought pulled her up short.

Why did Gabe need forgiveness? All he’d done was hug a hipster in a rainbow kilt. This, after being an absolute gentleman from the moment she’d met him. Rescuing her car, buying her clothes, getting her upgraded for a long-haul flight and not mentioning once that she was personally responsible for scarring him for life because of her own epically stupid costume failure. From the moment he’d first clinked shot glasses with her, he’d been exactly what she’d needed. A friend.

She huffed out an aggrieved sigh. Was the universe really guiding her towards a moment of true grace or would she choose the easy route and destroy the first two weeks off she’d had in years by being in a huff? God, she wished it was LA time. Then she could excuse herself to answer the inevitable text flurry over who was or wasn’t Ready to Rock This Year’s Movember Moustaches.

‘So . . . what?’ she grudgingly asked Finn. ‘You think I should just walk out there?’

‘Unless you’re planning on teleporting yourself, it sounds a pretty good way to me.’ Again, his tone was kind, warmed with what she could now recognise as his gentle, trademark humour.

Asshole.

She wanted – no, she needed – someone to be cranky with, and Finlay Jamieson was in the unfortunate position of being perfect for the role.