“You’re not fooling anyone, old bird.” He ducked as Deydie took another swing at him.
“Yere sass will get you in trouble one day, wee Graham.”
He gave Deydie his best devil-may-care grin. “Until then, how about some breakfast?”
“Get yere arse up and get it yereself.” Deydie huffed from the room.
The old gal loved it when he teased her, and he loved her back, regardless of her biting personality.
Cait scooted to the edge of the couch. “You’re lucky she didn’t sweep the floor with you.”
“I can handle your gran.” He wasn’t nearly as certain he could handle her granddaughter. Caitie looked irresistible this morning, all mussed up. It gave him a glimpse of what it must be like to wake up next to her after a night of rolling around in the sheets together. He got to his feet, nuzzling Precious on the way. Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on how one looked at it, his nose got close enough to catch another whiff of Caitie. Last night’s whiskey wasn’t nearly as intoxicating as the pheromones she gave off now. Dammit, he needed a distraction.
“Here.” He offered his hand to help her off the couch. “I’ll whip us up an omelet.”
She ignored his hand. “Another time.”
He pulled it back and jammed it in his pocket. He had been raised to have good manners, but women like her didn’t appreciate them. It infuriated him. He actually worked hard at being a nice guy. Just last month, Us Weekly named him Nicest Man in Show Business. But he wasn’t feeling it now. “Something better to do?” It took everything in him to keep the words from coming out as a jeer.
“I have to get ahold of that darned Realtor,” she said. “I need to talk to Mr. Sinclair about my house, too.” She adjusted her sweater, and it caught his attention, giving him a better idea of the lay of the land under there.
She paused. He looked up to find her giving him the eyes-up-here glare and she went on. “The sooner I get my house rebuilt, the sooner I’ll be out of your room above the pub.” She rose without his help. “Thanks for having me over.”
“Another time?” He echoed her words back to her.
She narrowed her eyes. “We’ll see.”
He needed answers, sooner rather than later. The only thing he’d gotten from Caitie last night was companionship. As great and unusual as it had been for him to spend an evening in lively conversation with a cute, brown-haired firecracker, he hadn’t gotten to the truth. It rankled, so he tried another tactic. “How about this afternoon? By the dock. The sun sets at three thirty. I’ll bring food.”
She shook her head. “Seriously, a picnic? Do I look like a polar bear?” She leaned down and slipped on her boots.
He snatched up her parka as if to take it hostage. “What kind of reporter turns down an offer to spend time with a missing screen idol?”
She stilled at his words. Aha, got you, Caitie Macleod.
She pretended to adjust her boot, avoiding looking at him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I told you I’m a quilter.”
“Aye. And I’m a bluidy fisherman.”
She took a deep breath and finally faced him. “I really must go.”
“Yeah, I’m sure there’re some urgent quilting matters awaiting you.” He held open her coat for her, like a gentleman ought to do. But with her, he felt more like a rogue. As he slipped the coat over her shoulders, he leaned down and whispered in her ear, “If it’s any consolation, I enjoyed sleeping with you.”
Gooseflesh rose up on her creamy neck. He’d gotten to her, and she couldn’t deny it, even if she wanted to.
Ah, hell. A lot of good it’d done. Turning her on had turned him on as well. He couldn’t stop himself. He breathed her in and felt a little drunk all over again.
She whipped around, finger raised, snarkiness smeared all over her face, ready to give him a piece of her mind.
But before she could, he dropped one of his disarming smiles on her. Like an anvil. She stopped. Oh, yes, he knew all about disarming women. He spoke with the consistency of honey. “Why, Caitie Macleod, your eyes have grown to the size of camera lenses.”
“Oh, you. You . . .”
He smiled because Miss Smart-Mouth Reporter couldn’t think of a single comeback.
Like a skittish doe, she lurched for the door.
He let her go. Though it amused him to have an effect on her, the truth was, he wasn’t immune to the effect she had on him.
He remembered her mother, Nora, a mixture of kindhearted and stubborn. Caitie was so much like her. Graham couldn’t reconcile the things he liked about Caitie with the idea that she had come here to expose him—his treasured slice of normal life, his family, his town, Gandiegow.
Alone, he went to his laptop and flipped it opened. He had to take precautions. Caitie was attractive, but she might be poisonous as well. Although he couldn’t stop thinking about her wrapping herself around him, in the end, he’d prove what she was all about.
* * *
As Cait rushed off the bluff back to the pub, her headache increased in size. Last night’s alcohol couldn’t take all the blame. Her gran’s surly temperament had Cait’s head close to cracking wide open now. Even more disconcerting had been the rapport between Graham and Deydie. Cait wondered whether she’d ever be as comfortable with her own grandmother as Graham was. How had he done it? How had he endeared himself to the prickliest woman alive?
More unsettling yet was how gorgeous Graham looked this morning—his rumpled hair, the splash of stubble on his face, and that sleepy-eyed look he’d given her. He’d had her close to forgetting the promises she’d made to herself—to never be a man’s pawn again.
She’d come to Scotland for a fresh start, not to share a morning omelet or have a cozy picnic by the sea. She’d given up on men. Given up the heartache. Finished with unfaithfulness. Men were dirty, lying bastards, and she had washed her hands of the lot of them.
But instead of being professional and viewing Graham as nothing more than an assignment, she’d let the lines blur between herself and Mr. Gorgeous. She had to rectify that immediately. Any moment now, she’d put aside that off-kilter feeling and kick back into reporter mode. She would get the story.
Cait quickened her pace along the path but couldn’t outrun the thoughts that chased her. How Graham’s breath on her neck had turned her insides into a mushy plum pudding. How the grin he’d given her as she’d left his house had scorched her. Not like burned toast. Or a match that had sizzled and gone out. Instead, it felt like her silly heart had wrapped itself around the wrong end of a hot poker and had gotten itself branded.
When she got back to her room, she forced herself into journalist mode, feverishly writing down everything she’d seen and heard since last night. Graham’s mansion, his dog, Precious, how cozy it’d been in front of the fire, how her gran was his housekeeper, how he had a way of teasing Deydie that made her seem halfway lovable. These were all sides of Graham Buchanan that the rest of the world couldn’t possibly know. She returned the notebook to its place under her mattress and grabbed her cell phone, ready to deal with the Realtor.
Of course the woman claimed to know nothing about the cottage fire and seemed relieved when Cait said she would keep the house—after an eighty-five-percent reduction in price.
Cait bundled up for a walk and went out. A good granddaughter would be headed off to Deydie’s, but Cait didn’t have the strength to deal with her gran right now. Besides, Deydie was probably still at Graham’s.
Outside, it was gray and bitter. Cait had hoped to make it out to the end of the dock to get a closer look at the sea, but the spray had turned the wood planks into a dangerous icy lump. She stood back and gazed from a distance. She wished for a calm sea to calm her, but it churned violently, definitely unhappy. An angry Christmas sea.
Of course, there would be no tree for her little pub room. No
twinkling Christmas lights. Her typical Christmas feast a bust. No husband. No happy family.
Christmas will be peachy, just peachy.
She’d probably spend it with Deydie, sitting by the fire drenched in one of her gran’s heartwarming scowls. Cait glared at the sea, and on a childish whim, she flipped it off. “Thanks for nothing, and Merry Christmas to you, too.”
She needed chocolate and went to the store to find it. The same young woman from yesterday, the one who’d waved to her, stood behind the counter and chattered away about the latest weather report, how the grand opening of The Fisherman went last night, and how Cait must love to quilt like her gran. Cait didn’t get a word in edgewise.
Chocolate in hand, she left the store and walked along the boardwalk, past the other businesses, past the one-room schoolhouse. As if an invisible hand reached out and blocked her path, Cait hesitated outside Saint Henry’s Episcopal Church. Darn its bright white exterior and its jutting steeple. As a child, Cait had kneeled and prayed here at the kirk. A good little follower of the faith. But then God took Mama and Cait had a falling-out with the Big Guy. Well, not a falling-out exactly, more like a parting of the ways.
Cait touched the church’s door. It hummed with warmth and invitation, but she knew better. A bait and switch scheme. Lure in the sheep and then mow them down with a sickle. She wouldn’t be sucked in again. Deliberately, she turned away and trudged back to the pub.
At the top of the stairs outside her room sat a box, the first of her things to arrive from Chicago. This one she’d marked specially: SEWING MACHINE. She carried it into the room, carefully set it on the bed, and pulled out the projects she’d shoved around it to protect her Viking machine.
A nagging feeling tugged at her. She could’ve sworn it came from the direction of the box. “Fine.” She pulled out the machine. “I’ll take you to Deydie’s, but prepare yourself for some serious unpleasantness.”
Cait put on her coat, jammed one of the sewing projects into her pocket, and picked up her machine. When she headed downstairs, the place was again crammed with Scots, but there were no bagpipes and no Graham. A bit of disappointment came over her. She ignored it and slipped out the front door into the cold. It wasn’t snowing tonight, but it was bitter. She walked hurriedly toward her grandmother’s. Apparently, the business owners had been hard at it this afternoon—multicolored Christmas lights glittered on storefronts, wreaths hung on doors, and garlands, like festive snakes, had wrapped themselves around streetlamps.
Cait sighed and trudged on, trying to outrun the thought of Christmas.
When she got to Deydie’s cottage, a front window stood propped open. Crazy Scots, insisting on having a wee bit of fresh air regardless of the weather. Cait heard women laughing inside.
Deydie’s irritated voice rose above the others. “Me granddaughter is too good for an ole fishwife like me.”
Another woman spoke. “Don’t take it personal. I hear American girls are independent sorts.”
Cait crawled closer to the window, set her machine on the ground, and peeked inside. Deydie and three other women sat around the big wooden table, some with sewing machines in front of them, others stitching quilt blocks in their laps.
“A decent girl would’ve been here with her gran.” Deydie harrumphed. “The pub indeed.”
Cait lost her footing, slipped on the ice, and knocked over her sewing machine.
“What was that?” came from inside.
Cringing, Cait quickly squatted down, trying to become invisible.
Moments later, an old woman peered out the window and found Cait huddling below the ledge. “I’m thinking your granddaughter has arrived. Come in, wee Caitie.”
Deydie swung the front door open. “What the devil?”
Cait stood with as much dignity as she could muster. She wiped off the snow, grabbed her sewing machine, and turned to her badger-faced gran.
Deydie waited in the doorway with her hands on her massive hips. “Why are ye skulking outside me house?”
The others moved forward, gathering around the door.
“Come in.”
“Get out of the cold.”
“We’ll make room for ye.”
Cait knew what they really meant. Give us a closer look. We’ll judge for ourselves whether you’re as bad as Deydie says.
Even though Deydie was frowning with more vigor than one person ought to be capable of, Cait stepped through the doorway into the overly warm room.
One woman took Cait’s sewing machine. Another got a towel and wiped it off. A third made room for Cait at the table. She recognized several of them.
“Go stand by the fire and get warm,” said an older woman with the same gray braids wound around her head from when Cait was young.
“Mrs. Lamont?” Cait said.
“Well, of course it’s me. I’m still Gandiegow’s teacher. But now that you’re grown, you must call me Rhona.”
“Hi, again.” The girl from the shop stepped forward, eager as a puppy. “I’m Amy, remember? I saw you in the store today. I’m from Fairge. I married Coll last spring. He works at the pub. Have you met him yet? Can I get you something to drink?”
Cait wondered if Amy ever stopped for breath. Before she could answer, her grandmother jumped into the fray.
“Caitie’s not staying. I’m sure she’s got more important things to do.”
Bethia, Deydie’s oldest friend, cleared her throat in warning. “Of course she’s staying. She brought her sewing machine.” Bethia had withered considerably since Cait had seen her last. But when she finished giving Deydie the what for by way of a killer glare, she turned to Cait and smiled, transforming herself into a younger woman. “We get together several nights a week here at your gran’s. She has updated electric.”
Amy started jabbering again. “My auntie says, ‘The more the merrier.’ We always have tons of goodies to eat.”
“There’s always room for one more.” Bethia put her arm around Cait. “Ye’ll stay. Your gran wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Not agreeing or disagreeing, Deydie plopped down at the table and started up her sewing machine.
Amy handed Cait a mug of spiced cider. “Sit by me. I sit near the end.”
“No,” Bethia said firmly. “Caitie will sit next to her gran.”
Deydie made a guttural noise akin to a harpooned fish.
Amy happily pulled a chair to the opposite end of the table. “The other three won’t make it tonight.” She picked up Cait’s sewing machine and plugged it in. “What did you bring to work on? I’m making a lap quilt for my auntie. It’s a Churn Dash.”
Cait didn’t know who the others were that Amy referred to but pulled her project from her parka anyway. “A potholder.”
Deydie hahed loudly.
Rhona put her hand out. “May I?”
The potholder made the rounds, each of them having an opinion: “So many small pieces.” “Ah, this is lovely.” “It reminds me of yere mother’s fine work.”
Cait had started it for Deydie for Christmas, her first attempt at making a miniature quilt. She’d assumed Deydie would appreciate that it was both pretty and functional. Wrong again.
When the potholder made it to Deydie, she gave it a cursory glance and then set it aside. Rhona shrugged at Cait sympathetically. “Take your place and get started.” Her old teacher patted the chair between her and Deydie as if to say, I’ll be right here beside you.
Cait threaded her machine, made sure the potholder was lined up correctly, and pressed the pedal. It felt great to be sewing. But she didn’t get to do it in peace for long.
“I heard you had a sleepover last night,” Amy said.
Cait choked on her own breath and stopped sewing. Everyone in the room sniggered, except for Deydie.
So they’d heard. Small towns were exactly as the world i
magined. Everyone mucked around in everyone else’s business. Even in Scotland.
Deydie muttered. “Only in town ten minutes and the girl’s sleepin’ around like a—”
Bethia cut her off with a tsk-tsk.
Amy piped in cheerfully. “I saw you leave with Graham from the pub. I was helping Coll with the sandwiches. Graham put his hand on your back as you walked outside. Are you two—”
“Heavens, no!” Cait shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “I just met him.”
Bethia said, “And yet you stayed the night with him.”
Cait turned off her machine and gave them her full attention. “Listen. I drank too much and fell asleep on his couch.” She turned to her grandmother. “Tell them, Deydie.”
Her gran remained mute for so long that Cait wondered if her tongue had been sewn to the roof of her mouth. Finally, Deydie begrudgingly set them straight. “’Tis true what she says.” She looked as if she’d downed curdled milk. “Caitie was not in his bed, but on the couch, the dog with her. Graham sound asleep on the floor, the hound that he is.”
Cow-eyed and gushy, Amy laid her chin in her hand. “Will you be seeing him again?”
Cait huffed, sounding surprisingly like an exasperated Deydie. “Of course I’ll see him again. Gandiegow is a small village.”
“What we want to know is—” Rhona struck her teacher’s pose. “What are your intentions toward Graham?”
Bethia laid her hand on the table, kind of like a judge bringing down a gavel, soft but firm. “He’s a son of Gandiegow. No different than if he were me own. It’s our job to keep a lookout for him. And Duncan and Mattie. That’s why Duncan had the MacKinnon name from the start and not Buchanan. To protect him—and now to protect Mattie. ’Twas Graham’s mother’s surname. We’ll not let any harm come to our own.”
Deydie bore down on Cait like a freight train running over an injured dog. “We know ye’re a reporter. We’ll not be lettin’ you hurt Graham. Do you ken?”
As if Cait had dunked her head into hot bubbling stew, heat flooded into her face. Did they find out about People magazine and what’s written in my notebook?
To Scotland With Love Page 5