by Amy Vansant
“You mean if you’re already upstairs. Waiting. Got it.”
“No, I mean—”
Jeanie turned her head and winked as if to hide the gesture from Broch. Unfortunately, she winked with the eye still facing him.
“Subtle, Jeanie, thanks.”
“Hullo,” said Broch with a little wave.
Jeanie blushed and giggled. “No,” she said, waving him away.
Catriona glared at Jeanie, tugged Broch toward the elevator and opened it with her key. “We’ll have to get you the spare key. I’d get it now but only Jeanie knows where it is and I’m going to give her a minute to get herself together.”
Broch grinned back at Jeanie. “She seems lovely.”
Jeanie melted into giggles.
Catriona rolled her eyes and guided Broch into the elevator. She scowled at red-faced, waving Jeanie as the doors slid shut.
They rode the elevator to the third floor, disembarked, and entered the spare apartment. The layout echoed her own, a mirror image only accessible through the elevator in the payroll office below. The studio used it as a flop-spot for low-level visitors, assistants and other emergencies.
The kitchen hadn’t been updated since the late nineties and the furniture resembled the sort left behind by a vacating fraternity, but it possessed all the basic necessities to be comfortable.
“So, you’ve got your living room and kitchen here. The television probably isn’t hooked up so I hope you smuggled a good book here under your kilt.”
Broch raised an eyebrow. “Ah promise ye there's no room there.”
Caught off guard, she snorted a laugh, hated herself for it, and tried to hide her amusement by walking to the bedroom as he followed.
“This is the bedroom.”
He tossed his long kilt on the bed and sat, bouncing up and down on it before flopping back, arms out to the side like he’d just fell backwards into a pool.
“It’s a fine bed.”
“I’m glad you approve.”
“Haes a lot o’ give and take.”
She squinted at him. “Are you hearing the things you’re saying? I’m never sure with you—”
He stood and pulled his t-shirt over his head. She watched his muscles rippled over his rib cage.
Okay. Unfair.
Tossing the shirt on the bed he began unsnapping his pants.
“Hey—whoa. What are you doing?” She held aloft her palms as if they would protect her from whatever might spring from his jeans. Realizing she looked like a frantic crossing guard, she closed her fingers and tried again more calmly.
“You—you can’t just start undressing here.”
“I’m aff tae put mah own clothes back on. Ah cannae move in these.” He hovered his hand over his crotch and winced. “Mah baws are—”
“Okay, okay, I get the idea. They look tight. But you could warn me before you start stripping.”
“Sorry.”
“You’re going to put the kilt back on?”
“Aye.”
He turned away from her and she took a step toward him, pointing to the closet on the other side of the room.
“No. Do me a favor and look in the closet. We keep a menagerie of stuff in there for visitors. I’ll try and find you some other clothes. You can wear the kilt in the house if you have to, but when we’re out working you have to wear normal pants. One stiff breeze under your skirt and we’ll have a lawsuit on our hands.”
He chuckled. “Stiff breeze.”
“You’re like a five-year-old.”
“No, ah’m not. Ye said it.”
“Whatever.”
He turned and she found her face nearly nestled between his pecs. She could feel the heat rising from his chest and her hand twitched. Her fingers wanted so badly to run across the ridges of his abs. They just looked so…touchable. They looked like an old-timey washboard—
Oh. Duh. Right. That’s where that comes from.
She flashed back to her fingers brushing the V beside his wound and silently cursed him for being so damn attractive. She’d feel better if she could reveal him as the conniving rogue he probably was. He just needed to stop saving people and coming to her rescue and being so freaking nice. But that was the problem with handsome liars, wasn’t it? They never showed you their true colors until it was too late.
Broch stared down at her with his tawny eyes and she tried to telegraph her wishes into his brain.
Do something bad. Show me you’re the con artist I know you must be.
She took a deep breath, refusing to be the first to move. He smelled like the sea. How was that possible? Like the sea mixed with herbs. Was that bergamot? Why was he so close?
Did I step towards him?
They’d been standing frozen, so close, for much too long.
That’s when she realized what was happening.
He’s going to kiss me. He’s building up the nerve. He’s going to grab me and kiss me and when he does I’m going to slap him. No—I’m going to drag my hand across his stomach first and accidentally see what that feels like, and then I’m going to slap him—
“You’re awfully mouthy for such a plain lass,” he said without changing his blank expression.
Catriona gasped as if she’d been slapped. He turned, re-buttoning his jeans as he moved to inspect the closet.
Did he just call me plain?
She cleared her throat. “I think I missed something with your accent there. It sounded like you called me plain.”
Rooting through a pile of clothes he’d found, he glanced at her. “Aye.”
“Oh—uh...What does that mean in Scottish? Is it some sort of slang?”
He scowled. “I dinnae think so. It means plain. Nothing fancy.”
She pointed to the center of her chest and opened her mouth, but no sound escaped. She’d been called many things in her time, but plain had never been one of them. A boy had once called her sporty in a mean tone, but she’d taken that as a compliment and proof that he was an idiot.
She scoffed.
“The women in Scotland must be amazing, because I’ll have you know there is no shortage of men around here who don’t think I’m plain at all.”
She cringed.
Oh that sounded so obnoxious. Why did I say that?
He straightened, flipping out a folded pair of jeans he’d found. “Ye don’t say?”
“I do say. Some fairly famous actors and stuntmen and—” She swirled a finger in his direction. “Men every bit as hard and strong and bulgy as you.”
She slapped her hand over her mouth.
Now he’s making me repeat this obnoxiousness. Someone shut me up.
He grunted and held up the jeans. “Ye think these will fit me?”
She crossed her arms against her chest, her jaw set. “I—”
She cut herself short. No. Don’t say another word. She threw up her chin, lips puckered in the hopes she could keep them shut.
He tilted his head. “Were ye aff tae say something?”
No, don’t fall for it. Don’t you dare.
“It sounded like ye were aboot to say somethin’?”
She shook her head and heard the words explode from her mouth.
“What is it you think is so wrong with me? I suppose I’m not girly enough for you, huh? Nails not long enough? Heels not high enough?”
Now it was his turn to cross his arms and squint at her. He stared at her for a good minute. She wanted to smack him. Or run. Be anywhere but feeling as stupid as she did at that moment. If he thought she was plain that was fine. That was his prerogative, crazy as it might be. But her defensive reaction to it—she wanted to crawl under the bed.
He scratched at his chin and nodded as if he were a detective making an important deduction. “Ye know, ah think yer accusin’ me of somethin’, but the way ye said that word—girly—it sounds tae me like yer the one with a problem with the lassies. What’s wrong with bein’ girly?”
“What? There’s nothing wrong with
being girly. I just meant you’re probably intimidated by my confidence. Like you’d prefer I wear frilly dresses maybe? Be a bit meeker—”
He walked to her and she refused to fall back.
The idea that this swaggering animal can intimidate me—
His hand moved toward her hip.
She flinched but held her ground. She mentally ran through the checklist of the ways she would destroy his world if he tried to hurt her before a calm washed over her.
He’s not going to hurt me.
She smirked.
It’s a joke. I get it now. He is going to kiss me. He’s slipping his hand behind my back to pull me tight. He thinks he’s some romantic hero about to sweep me—
Instead of reaching behind her, he encircled her wrist with his index finger and thumb and gently pulled it forward. He laid her hand flat, palm down, against his own palm. Her hand looked dainty in his great paw. She’d never considered her fingers particularly dainty before.
“Yer nails are painted.”
Her focus adjusted to the tips of her nails, painted in a muted coral tone.
“So?”
“So, that’s girly, isnae it?”
She looked up. “I suppose. So?”
He put his other hand over hers. “Ye said mah problem with ye is that yer nae girly enough for me. But you’re girly enough noo, aren’t ye?”
She stared at him, dumfounded.
He smiled, white teeth flashing against his dark stubble. “Not girly enough? Na. Ah guess that’s nae it.”
He tapped the tip of her nose with his finger.
“Oooh.” She ripped her hand from his.
In the midst of planning a scathing retort, she heard the elevator doors open. Quaking with anger, she shook a fist at the brute and pounded to the main living area.
I shook my fist at him. I’m a freaking cartoon character now—
She found Sean standing in the living room, a book in his hands.
“Sean, what are you doing here?”
“I hope I’m not interrupting anything. You look flushed.”
She cleared her throat and jerked her thumb in the direction of the bedroom. “Of course not. I’m showing Kilty MacJackass his new apartment.”
Sean chuckled. “Sounds like the two of you are getting along splendidly.”
Broch entered the room bare-chested but wearing new, well-fitting jeans. He brushed past her.
“Hello again, sir,” he said, shaking Sean’s hand.
“Hello again sir,” she echoed in a barely audible, mocking tone. “Sorry Sean. He’s stills struggling with the whole wearing a shirt thing.”
Sean clapped Broch on the arm as if he was an old war buddy. “I see you found some better jeans. And I heard you did a heck of a job with that terror Jaxson.”
Catriona found her patience waning. “Yeah, rocks are the answer to all our problems. Who knew? What are you doing here? Is something wrong?”
Sean cocked an eyebrow. “You think the only time I come to town is when something is wrong?”
She silently held his gaze.
“Fair enough. You could have a point.” He grimaced and held up the book in his hand. She could see now that it was a composition notebook with the classic speckled black and white cover. “I’ve thought about this long and hard, and I’ve decided it’s time I shared some things with you. I was going to hold off but—I want you to read this.” He held out the book.
“What is it?”
“Just some notes A sort of hasty personal history, most of which you already know but…”
Catriona looked at him and his gaze darted away.
“Why don’t you just tell me what it is you want me to know?”
He grunted and dismissed her comment by shaking the book. “This is easier.”
She took it. “Why now? Why here in front of him?”
“You’ll see. I have to go. I have a meeting. I’ll talk to you when I get back. Just read it.”
He nodded to each of them and turned to leave. Catriona lunged forward to grab his shoulder, the force of her grip turning his body.
For a moment it appeared he didn’t know what to do, and then he grabbed her, hugging her tight.
“What’s this for?” she asked.
“I need a special reason to hug my girl?” he asked.
He released her and she was struck how much his eyes reminded her of Broch’s; fawn in color, flecked with stars of a darker brown.
He winked and then looked past her at Broch. “Take care of her.”
Broch nodded. “Aye.”
Sean walked into the hallway and entered the waiting elevator. The doors closed.
Catriona looked down at the book in her hand.
“I’m going to go back to my place. It’s right next door if you need anything.”
Broch nodded and she headed down the hallway to her apartment, holding the book tight against her chest.
Nothing felt right.
Chapter Seventeen
Broch heard the floors creak, rolled over and sat up.
Catriona stood at the foot of his bed, holding the book Sean had given her in the air like a weapon. Her hair was wet and scraggly, as was his own. He’d discovered the shower and found it impossible to leave the warm water until it turned to cold.
“Did you make him write this?” she asked, her voice high and strained.
“Eh?” He gathered the sheet to cover himself. The glowing box beside him said it was three o’clock in the morning. He glanced at it, noted the time, and then found it hard to pull his gaze away.
Glowing time. What a place the world has become.
“This nonsense about time travel—It’s you, isn’t it?”
He turned his attention to Catriona.
Lassie looks mad.
He had an inkling of what had riled her, but chose not to respond for fear he’d guessed wrong. That would be like handing an unarmed person a weapon.
She pointed at him, and even in the dim light he could see her eyes aflame with anger, welling with what he read as tears of frustration. He closed his eyes.
“Don’t cry. Ah cannae bear it.”
“He’s losing his mind and you took advantage of him.”
“Wha?”
“Sean.”
Broch held up his hands. “Na. It isn’t whit ye think, lassie. We discussed our—time problem—but nothing more. Tis him what tellt me.”
“He tellt you what?”
“That he’d come here fae the past. As we believe ah have.”
Her nose wrinkled as if he was the most terrible thing she’d ever seen. He understood her confusion and anger; he, too, grappled with what Sean had told him. He didn’t know how he could make her believe what he now did, or if it would ease her pain to try. The short conversations he’d had with Sean by the pool had certainly done little to make him feel better.
“Listen. This mornin’ when ah went out tae bathe—”
She scoffed. “Don’t even get me started on that. You know swimming isn’t the same as bathing, right?” She glanced at the book. “Oh, I get it. That’s something a guy from the eighteenth century would do, isn’t it? Bathe in a pool. Nice try. Pretending you didn’t know what a phone was, wearing that stupid kilt—it’s all part of your plan, isn’t it?”
“Whit plan?”
“Sean doesn’t have any money, you know. Do you think he does? Did—wait—was this all a ruse to get a job on the lot? Are you trying to get discovered? Are you a paparazzi?”
He stood and tied the sheet around his waist. “A dinnae ken what yer sayin’—”
“Oh no?” She opened the book and flipped through the pages before reading aloud. “I can only assume that Brochan is in fact my own darling babe, saved from the fire by the Broken Women for whom I’d happily done many a chore.”
“Whit’s that now?” Broch strode forward as best he could with the sheet dragging from his waist and took the book from her hands. He re-read the passage.
&
nbsp; “Sean thinks he’s mah father?”
“That’s what you tried to make him think apparently—”
She jerked the book from his hands and he pounded an invisible table with his fist. “Na. This isnae a thing ah've done. Ah tellt him what I remembered and he tellt me he’d had the same happen tae him. He said it’s what our people do.”
“What your people do?” Catriona paced toward the kitchen, her hand on her head, muttering to herself. “I had no idea he was getting so old. He must be losing his mind.”
He shuffled after her as fast as the sheet would allow, feeling like a landed mermaid. “He isnae losing his mind.”
“How can you say that? You talked him into believing the two of you traveled through time. That you’re his son.”
“I dinnae. He made me believe it.”
“You’re up to something.”
As she spoke she chopped the air with the notebook to punctuate her words. Something flew from between the pages and fluttered to the ground between them. They locked eyes, frozen, before both dove to retrieve it. Catriona reached it first and spun away with it in her hand.
She scurried behind the kitchen island as if to create a barrier between them, studied the object, and then flipped over the square to inspect the other side.
“Is this a joke?” she asked.
“Whit?”
She handed it to him. It was a square piece of paper with a picture of a man sitting on the hood of a car, smiling. Broch stared at it for some time. He recognized the man in the photo from every reflective object into which he’d ever gazed.
He turned to Catriona for answers. “Tis me. Howfur can that be?”
“Look at the date on the back.”
He flipped over the square. “July, nineteen eighty-five.”
“I recognize the car. It’s Sean’s old Jaguar. But there, young—he looks like you.”
She remembered how she’d replaced Sean’s face with Kilty’s in her memory when recalling how Sean had saved her as a child. Now it made more sense. Young Sean and Brochan were almost interchangeable. How could they not be related?
“The drawing is amazing,” he said, running his hand over the image.
“Drawing? It’s a photo.”
Brock frowned. Pulling from her pocket the little black box she always kept near, she pointed it at him. It was the same sort of device she’d asked him to take from the boy—what had she called it? A phone. The boy looked as though he’d die when she’d kicked his into the pool. She seemed to have the same affection for her own toy.