Knockin' Boots

by Desiree Holt

  “Thank you. I have a reservation—”

  “Aye, I know who ye are.” A copper strand slipped free from the tight bun at the base of her neck. She tucked it behind her ear, giving him a motherly smile. “At least I think I do. Mr. Andrews?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’re all ready for you. Do you want to come this way? I’ll get ye settled in.” She waddled inside with Simon following, a backpack slung over his shoulder, computer bag strapped across his chest, and an oversize duffle bag in his hand.

  The warmth of the lobby fireplace surrounded him. Soft instrumental music floated through the air. The scent of some sweet treat drifted from a nearby room. The ancient walls held gigantic swords and carved wooden items. On a table by the staircase sat a tea tray carrying all the necessaries for coffee or tea and a glass water jug.

  Jennie led him into a small office with two desks. He stopped in the doorway. The computer parked on the corner of one desk was layered with dust. Papers covered every inch of the desktops and chairs, leaving nowhere to sit.

  With nimble fingers, she sifted through one of the piles. “Mr. Andrews, I’ve given you a room next to the lass who’s expecting you.”

  “Mam, where are ye?” a small voice called from behind him. He peered at a mini version of the pregnant woman.

  “Hush, lass. I’ll be with you in a moment. Can you say hello to Mr. Andrews?”

  The kid couldn’t have been more than six. Her red curls flopped over her eyes as she chewed on one finger. “Hello.”

  He crouched down. “Hi. What’s your name?”

  “Bridget.”

  “I’m Simon. Nice to meet you, Bridget.”

  Her smile grew wider.

  “Ah, here we are.” Keys jingled behind him.

  Standing, he accepted the keys. “Thanks. You wouldn’t happen to know if Ms. McKay is in right now, would you?”

  “Aye. She’s in our pub, having an afternoon cup of tea. It’s to the right of the door.” Bridget grabbed her mother’s fingers. “Bridge, go along now. I’ll be with ye in a bit.” But the little girl whined, refusing to release her mother’s hand. “Wssssht!” She tugged free of her child. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  He held up the keys. “I’m all set for now, thank you.”

  “All right. Dinner is served between six and nine o’clock.”

  ***

  The soft Celtic tune eased the soreness from Grace’s shoulders. Closing her eyes, she rolled her head from side to side. People around her in the bar chatted away, some with thick Scottish accents, some with other European accents, a few speaking an unknown language. Maybe Gaelic. She’d heard some parts of Scotland were trying to revive the language.

  The bone around her eye socket still ached—too much time rushing through the woods with scary animals on her ass. She broke off another piece of cheese scone and slipped it into her mouth as she perused the contents of the folder next to her plate. Cuddled together on a small red velvet settee in front of the fireplace, a middle-aged couple laughed. Grace set her chin in her palm. How wonderful to have such an easy, comfortable life. Normalcy looked so…tempting.

  But not for her. She’d chosen a different lifestyle which kept her on her own 98 percent of the time. No big deal. After twelve years, she’d learned to live with it. Sometimes she even enjoyed it.

  Shifting in her seat, she continued to review the file. The letters on the page blurred. How many days had she been searching for her uncle’s prize? How many years?

  After sipping her tea, she picked up another piece of pastry. Midway to her mouth, she stopped. A tall, thin man, glasses clinging to the end of his nose, strode through the doorway and scanned the room. A loose-fitting, faded T-shirt covered his chest, and khaki shorts hung on his hips. Kind of thin and bony for her liking, although the soft shade of ginger hair with a hint of blond in it grabbed her attention. It reminded her of her favorite movie star. Both hands were inside his pockets.

  With a crooked grin, he walked straight up to her table. “Grace McKay?”

  “Yes. Can I help you?”

  He held out his long fingers. “I’m Simon Andrews.” He waited as if his name was supposed to mean something.

  She didn’t shake his hand. “What can I do for you, Mr. Andrews?”

  He lowered his arm. “Your uncle said you’d be helping me on my expedition here.” From his New England accent, he could only be American.

  Uncle Thomas sent him? Of all the crappy things he’d done, this had to be the worst. Did he not believe in her enough to allow her to handle the job? She stood, gathering her papers. “My uncle was wrong. I don’t need any help with my expedition. Good-bye.” She shifted around him and started for the lobby. Studying her paperwork in her own room would suit her better.

  “Ms. McKay, wait.” He grabbed her arm.

  She froze. Every muscle tensed.

  “I realize you want to help in the search, but your uncle hired me to—”

  She tugged herself free. “I know what he hired you for, but I’m telling you, you’re fired.” As she stalked across the pub, many pairs of eyes stared at her, some wide in question, some narrowed. Who cared? She hadn’t done anything wrong.

  “That’s not your call, sweetheart,” he said.

  She jerked to a stop just inside the door and spun around, gritting her teeth. Andrews stood waiting, as cocky as could be, with his hands on his hips. “First, I am not your sweetheart. Second, I don’t need a partner.”