“That actually made me feel a little better.”
“Yeah? How bout this? I hereby command that Georgia Kilduff meet her Scottish soul mate, shag his ever lovin brains out, and live happily ever after.”
“Well shit.”
“Now go have a pint. Speak to some Scots. They always loved you.”
Georgia rushed past the last pub as though she might catch something if she hovered too long. “Will do. You have a good night.”
With that, Georgia pocketed her phone and rushed down to the first taxi in the line. Despite shutting herself into the warmth of the idling car, still she felt cold.
CHAPTER THREE
“Get tae fuck!” Garrett MacCauley grumbled as he rolled over in bed, slamming his hand on his nightstand in search of his wailing phone. He snatched it up, squinting into the light, then groaned and set it back on the table, silenced. It was the real estate contact calling about the shop.
At seven in the morning.
He would not be answering that phone call. Have some god damn manners, he thought.
Despite his best efforts to fall back to sleep, Garrett was awake, and he wasn’t pleased with the fact. By half nine he was up and on his way to Costa’s for a coffee.
“Mornin, twat.”
Garrett shot Barry a two finger salute as he shuffled into line behind a pantsuit wearing woman with frizzy black hair. Barry was settled in his usual corner, mulling the morning away with his laptop and some cappuccino, if Garrett knew him well – and he did.
“Ye look bright eyed this morning,” Barry said as Garrett sat down across from him.
“The bastard agent called at seven today.”
“That prick. Did ye tear a strip off?”
‘Nae, didnae answer the bloody thing. Couldnae be fucked,” Garrett said, sipping his coffee.
Barry made a face. “That’s not like ye.”
Garrett shrugged. “Maybe. Feelin a bit tired these days. And honestly, I was just glad it wasnae Nicola callin.”
Barry gave a low whistle. “Hen’s callin again? What’s she after now?”
“Same. Still lookin fae me to come get my things. Told her more than once to toss the lot. She won’t listen.”
“She just wants tae see ye, you know that, don’t ye?”
Garrett nodded. “Aye, which is idiotic. Didnae want no to do with me when we were together. Now, it’s like ‘let’s have a drink,’ let’s get coffee,’ ‘be nice to catch up.’ I say, nae. I bloody disagree.”
Barry sipped at his cappuccino as Garrett fought a yawn. “She wasnae like this before. I mean, after ye left.”
“Nae. She had a fella then. They’ve split. Now she wants tae ‘give me my CDs.’ Got a bloody iPhone now, woman. I don’t need any fuckin CDs. Pardon my language.”
Garrett directed his apology to the older woman at the table beside them. She looked him over and gave a mischievous smile.
“Have ye told her nae?”
“Multiple times. Finally just stopped answerin the phone.”
“Christ on a bike. She’s soundin a bit desperate like.” Barry said.
Garrett tested his coffee against his lips and found it cooled enough to sip. He took a taste, letting the warmth of it travel down his gullet. It was another cold morning. “S’pose. Dinnae care. Spent years treadin lightly for the lass. Nae more.”
“Aye, good for ye, then. Now what the hell ye doin here so early?”
Garrett slumped back into his seat and stared across the table at Barry. Barry was one of his oldest friends, a writer and graphic designer who spent much of his time tapping away at laptop keys, and spewing vitriol on the internet for several pence a word. Barry was older than Garrett by two years, and his dark hair had grown gray at the temples. Garrett’s own brown hair held its color well enough, but was growing a bit longer than he’d like.
He brushed it back from his forehead. “Got another signin in the mornin. Have to meet the delivery lad before we open today.”
“Really? Still doin signins when you’re tryin tae sell the place?”
“I am, damn it. Just because I’m leavin disnae mean I’m leavin it in ruin.”
“Is it someone I’d know?”
Garrett chuckled. “Isnae Irvine Welch, if that’s your question.”
“Damn it. What good is ownin a bookshop if ye can’t get any decent writers in it?”
“Hey, got a pretty decent one comin. It’s that Mason woman – the one writin the romance novels set in Scotland.”
Barry eyed him, skeptically. “That Victoria Mason woman?”
“Aye.”
“Comin here?”
“Aye?”
Barry gave an exaggerated frown, and an impressed nod. “That’ll explain the chairs outside the shop.”
Garrett leaned toward the window of Costas, craning to see his book shop just a block further down the way. “What’s that now?”
“Saw em on my way down. Six or seven of the bloody things. Thought we were havin a parade or somat.”
“Jesus, Bear. Ye couldnae said somethin!”
Garrett was up and out the door, rounding the corner to find Barry’s chairs, but there were near to a dozen now, and he recognized the rain-coated middle aged woman with short gray hair, setting her own chair at the end of the line.
“Can I help ye then, Margaret?”
She turned to meet him, smiling at being greeted. “Not til tomorrow, I’m afraid.”
Garrett’s eyebrows shot up. “Are ye no worried someone will steal these?”
“Och no. One of us will be here keepin an eye.”
Garrett passed the woman, pulling his keys from his pocket to open the shop door. “Are ye all really linin up for the signing, already?”
She gave him a bewildered look. “Well, don’t want to be waitin all day tomorrow, do we? The lines for Glasgow this mornin were all over the tele.”
Garrett opened the door to the shop as a bone chilling drizzle kicked up. He nodded toward the book shop door, and Margaret accepted his invitation, slipping into the dark shop to avoid the rain. He knew Margaret as a regular customer, and a rabid lover of Austen, Bronte, and E.L. James.
“The signin in Edinburgh, they say, ran four hours over. The other girls and I almost made the trip to Glasgow to meet her, but then she added this stop and we nearly died. Who comes this far north? Especially someone like that.”
Garrett shrugged. “Nobody.”
“Have ye read the Woman in White books, then?”
“I havenae yet,” Garrett said. Sadly, romance novels about Highlanders were not his usual fare.
“Oh ye must. She’s quite a gift that woman. Bit steamy and all, but the history of it – and the story!”
Garrett humored her, smiling. The rain began to piss down outside, and several people rushed past the windows of the shop, shoulders up against the cold. A familiar figure appeared at the door and Garrett gave the delivery man a quick shout.
“It’s open, Daniel!”
“How’d ye get her tae come here and no Waterstones?” Margaret asked in a hushed voice, as though Waterstones might hear her conspiring against them.
Garrett startled at this. Maggie had been regaling him with her devotion to the incoming romance novelist, but the mention of his nemesis startled him back to the conversation. “Uh, actually, I didnae do anythin. Apparently, she has a rule about only signing at privately owned shops. So she’s one of us, bless.”
“I knew I liked her. Oh isn’t that lovely?” Margaret fawned, as Daniel shifted through the door with a gurney piled high with boxes of books.
“Christ, we need all these?”
Daniel shrugged. “It’s what was on the order. This isnae even all of it.”
With that, Daniel disappeared back outside. Garrett shifted behind the register, pulled out a box cutter, and began tearing into the highest box, ready for the familiar smell of fresh paper and bound books. He
stopped a moment, looking down into the box. There were dozens upon dozens of clean white covered books within, but atop the lot was a good sized poster for the shop window. Garrett stared down into the face of Victoria Mason.
She had long reddish brown hair, a rather straight nose, and was sitting at a table with a steaming cup of tea before her, her chin rested congenially in her hand. It was a generic author portrait, and one he’d seen a thousand times, but something about her made it endearing – like she was listening intently, her eyes crinkled at the corners in a smile that hadn’t yet made it to her lips.
“Goh, she’ll be here tomorrow! I can’t lie tae ye, I’m very excited!”
Garrett chuckled, tearing himself from the face in the box. “I can tell, Maggie. You can go home. I’ll no let anyone steal the chairs while we’re open.”
“Oh, what a love. I’ll be round later, I’m sure. See how the line looks!”
With that Margaret was gone, and Garrett stood in silence as Sam brought another four boxes of books into the shop.
“Mornin, Mr. MacCauley.”
Garrett glanced up at Fionnula, his assistant manager and resident battleax. She was in her sixties, two daughters and a son, and a very quiet husband who enjoyed golf and cigars more than she’d like. Still, she was well loved, despite her brisk demeanor.
Fionnula took one look at the shipment and sauntered past him to the back room. A moment later, she returned with rolled up sleeves, ready to put the shipment to sorts.
“I need tae make a phone call. Can ye begin settin up the table?” Garrett asked.
“Of course I can.”
“Cheers.” With that, Garrett slipped behind the register and rifled through his notebook for the contact number the publisher gave him. After three tries and conferring with Fionnula, Garrett realized it was an American number.
“Heya!”
“Hi. Hello. Ehm - this is Garrett MacCauley. I’m up at Burns Book Shop in Inverness.”
“Yes, of course! Hi there, Garrett. I’m Miss Mason’s assistant, Cassandra. What can I do for you?”
“Ehm, well. I was calling to see if Miss Mason might ehm -”
Daniel appeared in the doorway with another round of boxes, and shot Garrett a look, setting the board on the counter for him to sign. Garrett scribbled his name, and mouthed his thanks as Daniel turned for the door.
“- See, we’re scheduled to start the signing around noon, but we open at ten. So I was wonderin -”
“Garrett, let me get right back to you, alright?”
“Of course. Of course. Take yer time.”
With that Cassandra offered her goodbyes and the phone blared in his ear. He took a deep breath, watching Fionnula organize the piles of Woman in White and The Seafarer along the signing table at the back of the store. Jesus, they weren’t equipped for this.
“Shall I put a few upright over the top, then?” Fionnula asked, standing by the table with a pile of books in her arms.
“Aye, that’d be grand.”
Garrett’s phone began to buzz on the counter and he snatched it back up. “Hello, Cassandra?”
“Uh, no. Sorry.”
Garrett stopped, turning into the phone. The accent was American, but Cassandra’s voice was high pitched, the tone of a hyperactive adult. This voice was deeper, smoother, and almost smoky in its American-ness. Was American-ness a word? Up for debate, he thought.
“I’m sorry, I was expecting a call. Who’s this?”
“Victoria Mason?”
Garrett turned, staring at the poster of the smirking woman waiting for her tea to cool, and his brain tried desperately to put this voice with that face. “Oh goodness! Sorry! I didn’t mean to bother ye.”
“You’re not bothering me. It’s a nice break, actually. Cassie said I needed to call you?”
“Oh, aye. Ehm, see we’ve got a bit of a line forming here, and -”
“Already? Are these people out of their minds?”
Garrett laughed. “Without question.”
She laughed right back, and it was an open and deep laugh. He couldn’t take his eyes off the poster as he listened. “Right. So the signin is scheduled for noon, but we open at ten. I thought ye might come a bit early, say nine or so, pre-sign a few dozen copies for the unwashed masses, and then we might start at ten? I’m told yer signin in Edinburgh went a bit over.”
“God, yes it did. Will that make it easier for everyone? You’re not coming in early just for me, are you?”
“No, no. It’s nae bother.”
There was a pause. Garrett waited, strangely transfixed.
“Alright, I can come in at nine. I might not be fully functional at the time, but I can come in,” she said.
“Oh right. What is it – six hour time difference you’re on?”
“Five.”
Garrett nodded. “Right.”
The quiet returned and Garrett felt almost desperate to find something to say, but couldn’t find anything.
“Alright, I look forward to meeting you tomorrow,” Ms. Mason said, her tone friendly and patient.
“Right. Right! Good luck in Glasgow, then. Bye. Buh-bye. Bye.”
Garrett heard the phone go dead and stood there, judging himself. You’re a fuckin idiot, he thought, staring at the screen of his phone.
“Ye gonna help, then?”
Garrett startled, turning around to meet Fionnula’s stern gaze, then set to work on hanging the poster of Victoria Mason in the shop window.
CHAPTER FOUR
“Oh my god, why did I agree to do this?”
Cassie began regaling her through the phone with the usual sorts of news – random positive reviews from fellow writers, funny tweets from people desperate for the next book, upcoming events she would now be taking part in whether she liked it or not.
“Cass. I’m not going to retain any of this information at this hour.”
Georgia stifled a yawn as she hustled down the sidewalk, following the tiny map sketched for her by the concierge at the prestigious Premier Inn of Inverness.
She was late. By fifteen minutes or so, but late enough to be considered rude in Scotland, she was sure. As she approached a bustling little Costas on the corner, she thought about giving up writing and staging her own mysterious disappearance. Not because she didn’t want to be on The Ellen Degeneres show in three weeks, but simply because she didn’t want this Scottish book shop proprietor to think she was high and mighty.
And she really just wanted to go back to bed.
“You said you’d go early. It wasn’t my doing this time,” Cassie said, scolding her.
“I’m aware.”
Georgia glanced down the side street and saw a quaint little sign hanging over a storefront – a storefront with a long line of chattering ladies in front of it.
She took a deep breath, bracing herself against the notion of greeting such a crowd on so little sleep. “Burns Book Shop? Is everything up here about Robert fucking Burns?”
Cassie yawned into the phone, betraying her own late hour. “Who’s that?”
Georgia caught the yawn as she arrived at the book shop door. Several of the waiting ladies made comment as she quickly greeted them on her way past. She returned her attention to the phone, hissing so no one else would here. “You made me yawn, you bitch. Go to sleep. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
The door opened before she could rap a gloved knuckle on the glass. “Miss Mason?”
Georgia startled at the sound of the chimes clanging over the door. She smiled, turning to meet the shop owner as the ladies around her drew quiet. “You can call me George -”
She stopped and found herself staring up into green eyes.
He raised an eyebrow and smiled at her. He had the straightest, warmest smile she’d ever seen. “George? Is that an alias or somat?”
“No, I – uh, it’s my real name.”
“George?”
She search
ed for words. For a split second, she actually almost forgot. “No, I mean Georgia. My name is actually - uh Georgia. It’s Georgia.”
“Really? Got yourself an alias? Very James Bond of ye. Are ye comin in, then?”
Georgia glanced at the ground and back up at the tall gentleman who had been holding the door wide open for a full minute.
“Shit. Sorry!”
She rushed inside as the man closed the door and turned to her, shoving his hands into his pockets.
“Well, welcome then. Got a bit of a day ahead of ye, ae?”
He led her into a back room to set her things down, and she slumped out of her jacket, cursing herself for not taking longer to do her makeup. She’d looked stunning in Glasgow. Now she looked like overcooked ham.
“Right. We’ve loads of books for ye to sign, here. Thought ye might sign, say, fifty or so, and I’ll keep the buggers by the register -”
He stopped, watching Georgia yawn. Then, he smiled, extending his hand. “I’m Garrett, by the way.”
She took his hand, shaking it firmly as her father would expect. His handshake wasn’t as firm, but it was nice. He was taller than her by at least six inches, and he had medium brown hair that was growing shaggy about his ears. He was wearing jeans and an almost basil colored cable knit sweater. He couldn’t have looked more Scottish if he’d worn a kilt and marched through the shop playing the bagpipes. She watched his face a moment too long, deciphering whether his eyes were the same shade as his sweater.
He raised his eyebrows at her. “You’re no awake, are ye, Georgia?”
Without hesitation. “Nope.”
He chuckled and she smiled up at him, almost drunk from sleep deprivation. In that moment, Georgia decided that Garrett looked the way a person would expect one of Arthur’s Knights to look, gallantly fighting dragons, saving maidens, and shooting heart stopping smiles throughout the countryside as he rode past.
The accent didn’t hurt in the slightest.
“Sorry, I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night,” Georgia said, succumbing to another yawn.
Garrett caught it and turned from her, covering his mouth as they both yawned. He turned back to her, smiling. “Well, how do ye take your coffee, then?”
Writing Mr. Right Page 3