by C. A. Szarek
With a sigh, Jules slipped one of the bag’s straps over her shoulder and surveyed the room. She had everything she needed to be gone all day, including two flashlights and food in her bag in case she got the munchies.
She didn’t know the chick she was meeting at the pub. The woman was Irish—at least from her accent on the phone—and she’d called Jules in response to the missing persons ad she’d placed in the local paper.
What the caller knew about her sister was a mystery—she’d refused to spill on the phone.
“Well, I’m about to find the hell out.” Jules pulled her door shut.
“Goin’ ou’, lass?”
Jules plastered on a smile for the owner of the hostel when she made it to the foyer of the building. “Gonna check out that famous pub.”
The older woman smiled. “Enjoy tha day.”
She nodded, turning away without another word. The only way Jules would enjoy her day was if she found Claire.
The sea air made Jules close her eyes and take a deep breath. It permeated everything, but she didn’t mind. The wind was clean and refreshing. Too bad she couldn’t take a minute and enjoy the serenity.
Her sister had always been fascinated with Scotland, but until Jules had set foot on Skye, she hadn’t understood why. She could see the appeal now, with the sprawling green fields and rocky beaches, the castle ruins strewn about, and even buildings as much as eight or nine hundred years old still standing.
History and legend dominated the Hebrides and if she hadn’t been on a mission, she would’ve loved exploring. Every place Jules had visited had been beautiful, even if it was a bit cold. And the accent—add it to a cute guy, and she could see why Claire would melt. She probably wouldn’t get used to the plaid everywhere, though. It made her think of school uniforms.
Mostly male voices enveloped her as she opened the heavy wooden door into the place. The scent of musty wood and whiskey hit her senses, but the pub had charm. A sign boasted that it’d been established in 1892.
Jules waded through the mass of people, making her way to the bar, where she’d told the woman to meet her.
A good-looking redheaded man was wiping up a spill on the scarred bar as she slid onto a stool. He flashed dimples when they made eye contact. “What can I get ya?” His accent was thick, and appealed as much as the twinkle in his brown eyes.
“Just a water please.”
“American?”
“Yes.”
“Only water, lass?” He straightened and grabbed a glass from the stack on the counter behind him.
Lass. Another thing that would take some getting used to. Not like she was a spring chicken, at thirty-one.
Jules leaned into the edge of the bar and smiled at the guy anyway. “Yes, please. Too early for anything else.”
He winked. “Not ‘round here. Never too early for a drink.”
She laughed. Damn, he was charming. If she could take a minute to have fun, she wouldn’t be opposed to asking him to show her around.
The bartender scooped ice into her glass and made a flourish of filling it from the tap.
Jules couldn’t stop smiling, despite the weight that still settled over her chest. She sighed for the hundredth time that morning and sipped water, watching as the cute bartender moved on to fill another order. Every time she caught his eye he winked.
She glanced at her watch and frowned. Fidgeted on the stool. The chick that’d answered her ad was late. The caller had been the one to pick the pub, so she had to know where the place was.
I assume, anyway.
“What gives?” Jules dragged two fingers through the condensation clinging to the side of her glass.
Glancing over her shoulder, she scanned the pub, but no one seemed to be searching out someone they didn’t know.
Small groups of mostly guys sat, chatting or watching the television on the wall. Scottish brogues, as well as other accents—tourists like Jules—graced her ears, and the atmosphere made her shoulders loosen. There was no urgency. People laughed as they talked, enjoying their food and drink. Two waitresses balanced trays as they moved around the place, both smiling as they interacted with patrons.
Jules swallowed sigh one hundred and one, and studied the shelves of bottles perched on the wall across from her at the bar. All types of alcohol were on display, with the usual expensive stuff up top.
The words “By sea and by land” were carved into a wood plaque above the shelf. MacDonald was in all capital letters below it. Some sort of crest was beside that, wrapped in a plaid dominated by red. It was too dim in the bar to catch the rest of the colors.
The bartender shut the cash register drawer with a ching, and threw her another wink. “Sure I canna’ get you somethin’ else, lass?” He made his way to her. The smile he wore was infectious.
“No, but thank you. Meeting someone.”
“Ah. He shouldna keep you waitin’.”
Jules grinned at the sudden disappointment on his face. “I’m just anxious ‘cause she’s late.”
His broad shoulders loosened, that appealing smile back in place.
Her eyes trailed his chest. The short-sleeved hunter green shirt wasn’t skin-tight, but hinted at defined pecs. Jules tried not to stare or imagine his abs. It’d been a while since she’d been with anyone, and even longer since she’d had a relationship, and this guy was tall like she liked them.
Maybe she was just lonely.
“Rob MacDonald.” He threw his hand out for a shake.
“Jules.” She put her hand in his, liking the feel of his calloused skin against her palm. “Nice to meet you.”
“You, too. Jules, huh?” Her name in a Scottish accent made him even more tempting.
“Juliette, but it’s too formal for me.” She grinned.
“Jules fits you, like fine jewels.”
If she was in her right mind, she’d roll her eyes and disregard the cheesy pick-up line, but she winked at Rob. “MacDonald, huh? Like that plaque up there?” She pointed.
“Aye. Clan MacDonald’s crest. My family’s been on Skye a long, long time.”
So Jules had discovered when she’d looked into the history of the Isle of the Hebrides Claire had been most fascinated with. “MacDonald and MacLeod, right?”
Rob nodded. “Dunvegan, the MacLeod stronghold, still stands. Armadale, my clan’s castle, doesna, unfortunately. But there are ruins and a garden popular for weddings. Open for tours, I believe.”
“I’ll have to check that out.”
His eyes grazed her face and Jules tried not to squirm. Rob’s lips parted as if he was going to say something. Her gut screamed that he was going to volunteer to show her around.
“Juliette McGowan?” The feminine voice cut through the cute bartender’s almost-proposition.
Dammit.
Jules swiveled the bar stool around. Her gaze collided with a pair of dark brown eyes. “That’s me.”
“I’m Bree. I can take ye to yer sister.”
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About the Author
Bestselling, award winning author of romantic suspense and epic fantasy romance, C.A. loves to dabble in different genres. If it’s a good story, she’ll write it, no matter where it seems to fit!
She’s a hopeless romantic and always will be. Risking it all for Happily Ever After is what she lives by!
C.A. is originally from Ohio, but got to Texas as soon as she could. She’s happily married and has a bachelor’s degree in Criminal Justice.
She works with kids when she’s not writing.
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