Page 67 of Scotlander

Finn frowned at her. No. He didn’t. Whatever problems were buzzing away on her phone would no doubt pale in comparison to what Finn and his family were going through. And yet, as soon as she dived into her bosom, took the phone out and began thumbing through the texts, she could feel the closeness between them begin to diminish.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Aubrey Washington: Hey Willz. I can’t find that list of questions you’d written up for the interview with Britney. Resend?

Bryony Stokes: Willa? Where are the questions for Britney? Also, I can’t log into your account any more. I might have accidentally changed the password and can’t remember what it was. Anyone in IT I need to sweet-talk for that? And also, there might have been a teensy accident with a mushroom smoothie in your pen drawer. Soz!

Bryony Stokes: Never mind. I pulled out the charm and I’m back in. Might need to talk to someone about fluffing the petty cash supplies. BTW your filing system is certifiable.

Charlie Foster: Willa? I’m actually being serious here. Bryony’s like IRL Lindsay Lohan on steroids. Before the fall.

Martina Glaubitz: When you come in for the morning meeting could you please bring all of the run sheets for the Zendaya/Rita Ora special? Having RuPaul do the interview should really pull in the numbers.

Bryony Stokes: Hey Willa. Weird question. Do you know how to get hold of RuPaul? I might have accidentally said you already booked her????? #BubbleBrain!

Mom: Hi there sweetie. Just wanted to let you know we’re planning on making a bit of a splash for your dad’s sixtieth. I know it’s a few months off and not very ‘Jenkins’ of us, but if you could think about coming up for a couple of days one of your brothers will pick you up from the Portland airport so you don’t have to worry about the puddle jumper over to Pendleton. Oh, and could you pick up some of those California almonds for your dad? He loves to snack on those. Says they remind him of you.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Willa sent off her last email and popped her phone on top of the ‘headboard’ bales. There’d been so many messages and emails flooding in in the end, Finn had brought her back here to the hayloft and she’d been glued to her phone for most of the day. She’d answered as many questions as she could, but her father’s oft repeated edict was gnawing at her brain like a primordial earworm. Gotta be in the game to get the touchdowns, Willy. The only question was: which game did she want to be in?

She’d been right about the texts. The ‘crises’ at TiTs paled in comparison to Finn’s To Do list. Now that she knew what was going on behind the scenes at Balcraigie Castle she felt compelled to stay and help Finn. It’s what she’d been raised to do. Help people who needed it. The fact she was beginning to like Finn a whole lot more than she originally had was a different story, but . . . Pushing all of that aside, she was fighting an increasingly panicked feeling that Bryony was trying to get her job.

If she lost it? She would be right royally screwed. Interviewing celebs about the rigours of fighting a pterodactyl on a green screen wasn’t a highly transferable skill. If she returned home to find her security pass had been revoked? She would end up doing exactly what her mother had predicted the day she’d packed up her car to head south: turning back around and getting the only guaranteed job going in Pendleton.

Don’t be too proud to take shifts at the Dairy Queen, honey. Scowling because you think you’ll spend the rest of your life making M&M Blizzards won’t change things. Remember, those cavity machines pay bills. Dreams don’t.

She tried not to let the memory rile her. Saying stuff like that was her mother’s way of being helpful. She was the grandchild of Latin American immigrants who’d earned their keep through physical labour. Her mom had been the first in her extended family to go to university and even that hadn’t been easy. The only way she’d been able to pay for it was to serve in the military. During a war. She wasn’t a cosy, cuddly, c’mere-let’s-watch-Gilmore-Girls-and-eat-pints-of-ice-cream kind of mother. She was more of a do-something-productive-with-your-time – other-people-don’t-have-half-the-time-you-do-moping-about-a-life-that’s-pretty-great mother. It had taught her resilience. And not to rely on anyone. Which was why her friendship with Val had been such a comfort to her. They ‘got’ each other in a way she’d never felt understood by her own family. Val could read her moods and do just the right thing to make it better and with absolutely no judgement. Having that perfect a relationship taken away from her, and so cruelly, felt like walking around with only one lung.

A soft knock sounded on her door. ‘Willa,’ Finn whispered. ‘It’s me.’

A shiver swept down her spine.

Stupid, sexy Scottish accent. She’d have to become more immune to it.

She padded across the thick, worn-by-time planks as lightly as she could, aware Gabe was below her and that it would be very easy to misread Finn’s pre-planned visit as a booty call.

Just because he was deeply attractive, and far more sensitive than he appeared, didn’t mean there was any depth to her visceral response to him. It wasn’t genuine attraction. This was, at most, a holiday crush. All she had to do was keep it at bay for the next ten days, then she could get on the plane, giggle with the flight attendant until they reached the big city with its superhighways and palm trees and pollution and juice cleanses, where she could get back to the business of doing what she loved.

She opened the door, sending covert looks left and right like a spy, but all she got was a face full of tweed jacket. She looked up.

Blue-grey eyes met hers. Straw-coloured waves of hair stuck out from under his flat cap, grazing the collar of a green and fawn checked shirt. His shoulders were filling out his tweed coat with Disney-hero panache and his thighs . . . Knee-weakening. She’d met Channing Tatum a number of times and had never bit down on her cheek as hard as she was now. Well-worn moleskin trousers were now ruined for her. The bastard.

She ushered him in, trying not to sniff him as he entered. He was so solidly Finn. A man. A farmer. A teacher. A brother trying to make amends. A Scotsman.

She felt flimsy in contrast. A shadow human. How could she not when her biggest form of personal identity was her job?

After she’d closed the door behind her, he took his hands out from behind his back with a flourish. In one hand he held a laptop. In the other, a steaming bag of microwave popcorn.

‘Ooo!’ She pounced on the popcorn. ‘Gimme.’

He gave it to her and looked around the room. ‘Where do you want to do this?’

An awkwardness descended. The most comfortable spot was on the bed. But . . . it was a bed. And, having given her Jacobean top a scrub in the bath, she was wearing a unicorn onesie with the word ‘smitten’ stitched into the front of it. She really should have pre-thought the impression she was giving.

She pointed at the foot of the bed. ‘What if we make a little coffee table out of one of the bales and use the bed as a backrest?’

Much further into the first series than either of them had anticipated, Willa was feeling decidedly torn. Jamie and Claire clearly had the horn for one another. She, Willa, was sitting next to someone who made her horny. She also had signed a waiver promising not to jump him like the sexy hot potato that he was. This, after having experienced that one – perfect – kiss. It was torture.