His phone dinged from his pocket with an incoming text. He ignored it, but she could see it cost him a certain effort. Another ding. Then, another. With a sigh, he pulled his phone out, glanced at the screen, then flipped a button on the side.
“Who are you blowing off?” She nudged his chin toward his pocket.
He hesitated, and she tensed. What if he said girlfriend or wife?
“My … mum among others.”
“Your mother?” She couldn’t stem the disbelief sailing her voice into the stratosphere.
“Did you think I sprang from moldy cheese or something equally as horrid?” His dry self-depreciation only made him more attractive—which was inconvenient considering he was a potential mortal enemy.
“I’m partial to a good gorgonzola,” she sparred back playfully.
His laugh was a rumbling pleasant sound.
“Do you and your mother not get along?” she asked. “Is that why you’re ignoring her?”
“Mum loves me. At least I’m pretty sure her exacting ways are born from love. She can be rather maddening.”
It was yet another peek into his personal life. Or was it? She didn’t have much experience reading liars. Old Mr. Brown, who spent his mornings in a rocking chair playing checkers out in front of the Drug and Dime, told anyone who would listen that his grandpappy had buried a fortune on his land, and he should be living in a big house instead of a trailer. Everyone knew he was lying to make himself feel bigger in town, but no one called him on the harmless delusion.
If Alasdair was a liar, he would be a talented one. She had a feeling he would be good at anything he put his mind to, even lying.
“Is your name really Alasdair Blackmoor?” she asked.
His eyebrows rose, but she couldn’t detect any outrage, which was troublesome in itself. “Search my name on the internet if you don’t believe me.”
Dangit. That’s what she should have been doing instead of listening at his door like a ten-year-old. Actually, these days a ten-year-old would have known to head straight to the internet for information. “Maybe I will.”
“Fine.” They stared at each other until he nudged with his chin. “Do it right now to settle your mind.”
She slipped her phone from the back pocket of her jeans and typed his name in her browser, glancing up periodically to see if he was preparing to make a run for it. His expression remained bland. Several hits came up on her phone. Scanning the first page, she didn’t see a police bulletin among them. She tapped the first link.
“You work for Wellington Financials?”
“As an acquisitions and development risk manager.”
“Sounds interesting.” Now it was her turn to lie, but it was a polite white one.
“I’m not exactly changing the world, but it’s challenging.” He didn’t sound bitter as much as resigned. “I identify and determine whether an acquisition is worth the risk of investment. If it is, then we develop it for commercial use.”
“Risk manager. Are you a risk-taker by nature?” She tried to read him, ready to Dr. Freud his answer.
“No.” He switched his unblinking focus from her to the tree line off in the distance. “At least, not anymore.”
Unable to gain insight from his answer, she huffed and followed his gaze to the expanse of virgin timber. “Are you counting all the houses and stores you could fit if you bulldozed the woods?”
More than one real estate developer had offered them a fortune for their land. Her daddy had chased one particularly persistent gentleman off with a shotgun. Izzy took a more sugared approach, taking their cards with promises to consider their offers but never returning their calls.
“Actually, I was wondering what sort of costs are associated with owning so much land in the states.” His gaze was back on her and absent any sentiment. He looked ready to perform a risk analysis on her.
“The games help defray the costs.” Without the games, they would have to sell off parcels to keep Stonehaven solvent until there would be nothing left. Her salary as an accountant was a pittance compared to their property taxes and upkeep, which made them vulnerable.
“Maybe I can help.”
“What are you talking about?” Had this been the plan all along? Gareth would butter her mom up and gain her trust, then Alasdair would swoop in to make an offer for their land? His charm had breached her guard. She poked a finger into his chest. “We’re not selling.”
A flash of surprise crossed his face. “You misunderstand. I wasn’t speaking as a Wellington employee, but a Scotsman. I’ve been to the real Highland games. I could help make yours more authentic.”
“I don’t need your help.” Only after the words were out did her rude tone register. “Mom and I have been planning the games together for the last decade. We can handle it.”
“I have no doubt you can, but Rose seems distracted by Gareth this year.”
He was right. Her mom had already dropped the ball on confirming the food trucks, and Izzy had had to scramble to get commitments. Haggis and potato cakes would not satisfy the diverse crowd. “I have things under control.”
She almost believed it. Before the stress and worry could transmit to him, she did an about-face and walked toward the field of flowers. Not picking up the elephant-sized hint, Alasdair fell into step with her. She clenched her jaw and looked the other way. If she ignored him, would he leave her alone?
“Gareth is a good man.” His voice was thoughtful and lacked any defensiveness. She glanced his direction. He stared toward the horizon, his hands clasped behind his back.
“I never said he wasn’t.”
“You don’t trust him with your mother.”
“To be fair, I wouldn’t trust anyone with Mom. Except Daddy.” As it was clear she wasn’t going to shake him, she halted. Wild tiger lilies swayed around them as if they were in a rolling sea of flowers. The beauty and tranquility did little to alleviate her low-key anxiety.
“He’s been gone for a long time.” His annoyingly calm voice annoyed her.
She tried to get a handle on her tongue and failed. “But not forgotten. By me, at any rate.”
Wanting to kick herself at the admission, she crossed her arms over her chest. She’d given him insight to use against her. It was supposed to be the other way around.
“You’re worried your mother has forgotten him.”
He had laid her fears out in the starkest of terms. Betrayal twinged in her heart watching her mom and Gareth together. Her attitude made no sense, and she would never admit it aloud, but Alasdair was able to verbalize the ugly feelings she fought. Her gaze skittered down as if her shame were a physical ooze welling at their feet.
The scrunch of his toes in the grass cast her back to childhood when she’d spent her summers wandering the woods barefoot with only her imagination as companion. The grass and dirt would be cool, and for a moment, she wanted to kick her flip-flops off and run into the woods to discover what simple adventure awaited.
“It doesn’t matter. You and Gareth will be gone soon enough. Right?” Pushing her shame away, she hardened her gaze and tipped her chin up to meet his eyes.
Alasdair’s expression was serious, but otherwise inscrutable. “Right you are.”
She sensed an opening to redirect the questioning. “How did you and Gareth become such good friends?”
“We’re both from Scotland.” Alasdair rolled his shirtsleeves higher, revealing a few more inches of taut skin.
“Everyone from Scotland is friends? How many million is that again?” She layered her sarcasm on thick.
“My da and Gareth grew up together.”
“That doesn’t explain how you and Gareth became such good friends.”
“I spent my school holidays and summers at Cairndow with Gareth growing up. He never married. No kids. He taught me how to shoot and sail and swim. It was a treat to get out of Glasgow.”
Their families must have been very close. Still, she couldn’t imagine her parents sendin
g her off for an entire summer. They’d been like the Three Musketeers. “So he’s kind of like your godfather?”
“Something like that.” It was clear the subject was a sore one and it wasn’t her place to pick at the scab.
She cleared her throat to steady her voice. “Dinner will be around six. I have some festival business to handle. Feel free to borrow a book or watch TV in the living room.”
“Thank you.” He inclined his head, his tone formal and devoid of emotion.
She walked away and didn’t look back or break stride until she entered the office she shared with her mom. The piles of papers on Izzy’s desk looked chaotic, but they were segregated into logical piles. Stonehaven business was one pile—tax information and estate upkeep mostly. Another pile was work related to her accounting job. Her current manuscript was in a folder for her to edit with a red pencil. The tallest pile at the moment involved the festival.
In contrast, her mom’s area was neat with only the bare essentials cluttering the desk. An unusual layer of dust marred the stained-glass panes of the lamp on her desk, and even stranger, her mom hadn’t even noticed.
While her mom and Gareth had spent the week gallivanting around north Georgia, Izzy’s to-do list had doubled. Things needed to shift back to the way they were that instant. Izzy was a big talker, but the truth was she couldn’t do it alone.
She would put her foot down and force things to return to normal. She strode to the doorway and took a breath to holler for her mom. Before a sound escaped, the sight of her mom and Gareth ascending the stairs side by side, their heads close, squeezed her lungs like a vise. Her mom touched Gareth’s beard with an undisguised tenderness.
Izzy closed herself behind the office door, slid to the floor, and buried her head in her arms.
Chapter Four
Isabel had retreated like a general at war, her stride long and her back straight. It was clear she didn’t trust him one iota. Alasdair let out a long sigh, relieved her internet search hadn’t delved deeper than his job at Wellington. If she’d scrolled further into the search results, she might have turned up his lineage and the direct bloodline connecting him to Gareth. Part of him almost wished she had discovered he truth. Lying didn’t sit comfortably on his conscience. It made him feel squashed into a corner.
Yet, hiding poorly behind her suspicions was a sense of humor that had him smiling even now and a vulnerability that had made him want to take her in his arms. Or was the electricity that thrummed between them behind his wish to wrap his arms around her and bury his nose in her hair?
Alasdair let out a sigh and rubbed his jaw. His suspicions equaled Isabel’s. She had been cagey with him, but he’d learned a few things. For one, Stonehaven’s fortunes hinged on the festival.
Alasdair understood more than most how expensive maintaining a large estate could be. While Stonehaven didn’t face the same issues as Cairndow, old houses and land devoured money at an alarming rate. Was it coincidence, fate, or intentional that Rose had found Gareth only weeks before the Highland, Georgia, festival?
Alasdair scrunched his toes in the grass and flowers. Bees flitted around him, darting from flower to flower. The scent was reminiscent of the hours he’d spent roaming the cliffs and moors around Cairndow. The best and most indelible memories from his childhood originated with Cairndow and Gareth. The Scottish games he’d attended with Gareth growing up had been the highlight of his summers.
Another memory inked the light with dark. It hadn’t always been just the two of them. His da had been there one summer. The distant, shadowy figure on the edge of his memory resolved itself into flesh and blood.
His da had got smashed in one of the tent pubs. A fight erupted. Gareth had tucked Alasdair out of the way before striding into the melee like some ancient laird, his kilt swinging along with his fists to defend his kith and kin.
His pride for Gareth had equaled his embarrassment of his da. But like always, his da had brushed off the incident. It became a lark and it had been easier for Alasdair to forget. Except, he never actually forgot; he ignored it. He was like his mum in that way, he supposed. She had done too much ignoring over the course of her marriage to his da, and it had hardened her.
The sun inched toward the tree line, and Alasdair drew in a gusty breath. A sense of contentment blanketed him in spite of his worries. It was only when he named the feeling that he realized how long it had been since he’d experienced it. His work days were spent on the edge of spinning out of control. The first few years had been thrilling, like a roller coaster, but now he was exhausted.
The breeze sent a flower brushing against his hand, and his mind reeled back to Isabel. It was difficult to imagine her plotting and scheming unless she was protecting someone she loved. Or something. Stonehaven made a pretty picture against the deep blue, cloudless sky.
Was the estate in financial trouble? She’d certainly bristled when she thought he was probing too deeply. The resources to dig up and parse all of Stonehaven’s financials were at his fingertips. He reached into his pocket for his mobile, ignored the unread messages, and fired off an email to one of the analysts who worked for him. By the time he woke in the morning, he would know how much the Buchanans spent on toilet paper.
He checked his watch. Dinner would be served soon. Showing up without a token of appreciation went against the rules of decorum his mum had drilled into him. He plucked a variety of flowers to form a bouquet of wild colors.
Unable to do anything at this point but wait for information, he ducked into the kitchen with his bouquet. Mother and daughter were side by side at the stove engaging in a whispered conversation. He cleared his throat.
Isabel cut a glance toward him before refocusing on the skillet of sliced squash she was tending. Whatever she and her mother had been discussing had left her emotional. His stomach lurched toward her, and he found his feet following.
Rose intercepted him, a lingering disquiet dimming her smile. “How lovely. Let me put them in water.” The haphazard array looked incongruous in the heavy crystal vase.
He shifted and glanced at the stairs. Where was Gareth? “Can I do something? I’m a dab hand in the kitchen.”
Rose was friendlier and less suspicious than Isabel, who was examining him with a worried crinkle between her eyes. “What’s your specialty?”
“Sheperd’s Pie.”
“That’s Izzy’s favorite dish at the Dancing Jig, isn’t it, darlin’?”
“Comfort food.” Isabel shrugged. “I’m a fan.”
“Me too.” Alasdair and Isabel exchanged a glance of pure understanding, before she turned away.
“Twenty minutes until dinner. Would you rather freshen up or open a bottle of wine?” Rose asked.
If he went upstairs, he wouldn’t be able to resist being sucked into a vortex of work and it would take hours to sort out his inbox. “Wine. Definitely wine.”
As if the pop of the cork reverberated through the house like a dinner gong, Gareth joined them. The talk was small and inconsequential, yet Alasdair was more relaxed than he’d been in years. He watched Isabel watch her mother and Gareth flirt and exchange small touches.
Ovenlike temperatures kept them indoors for dinner. Alasdair was grateful, not having the wardrobe or the stamina for the heat. After finishing a tender, breaded pork chop and fried squash, he took a sip of wine. “And I thought New York was steamy this week.”
Gareth pushed his plate away and folded his arms on the heavy wooden table that had no doubt seen countless family dinners at Stonehaven. “Even at the height of summer, Scotland can be downright chilly.”
“Do you like our Southern climate?” Isabel asked, her gaze intensely focused on Gareth.
“Aye. While I love Cairndow, I’ve lived with the cold and damp all my life.”
“Have you worked at Cairndow for a long time?” Isabel leaned forward, her hands flat on the table as if interrogating him.
“I was born on the property.” Gareth’s smile was faraway
and melancholy, his gaze darting to meet Alasdair’s for a blink before dropping. “Me and my brother both.”
“Did your brother stay close to home?” she asked.
“He couldn’t leave Cairndow fast enough. He’s passed on now.” Gareth shook his head. “As different as we were, I still miss him.”
The loss of his da had left a hollowed-out place in Alasdair’s life and history, but with a youthful selfishness, he’d never stopped to consider Gareth’s loss. Gareth had lost a playmate, a friend and a brother—an incalculable vacuum left behind.
Rose tucked her hand inside Gareth’s, and he raised it to kiss the back. Alasdair hadn’t pegged his uncle for the romantic, demonstrative sort, but then again, he’d never seen Gareth woo a lady.
“Everyone has losses, don’t they?” Isabel’s rhetorical question was weighted with a sadness Alasdair carried himself.
Rose steered them to lighter topics with the deftness of an expert hostess. They discussed world events and politics. They laughed at the differences in customs and speech between Scotland and America.
With everyone’s plates cleaned, the conversation stalled. Alasdair half rose. “Allow me to clear the dishes.”
Isabel cut her gaze to him before focusing on Rose. “That’d be great. Mom and I could use some time to work on some details on the festival.”
Rose’s hand fluttered to land around her neck. “Oh dear. I promised Gareth an evening at the pub. The Lowlanders are scheduled to play.”
“Mom! You’re killing me. You’ve got to talk to Loretta about her deposit.”
Rose patted Isabel’s hand. “I will. I promise. First thing in the morning I’ll drop by her shop and finagle the money out of her, okay? You should think about getting out and having some fun. The festival is practically running itself these days.”
Gareth said, “Rosie, if you need to stay and—”
“I don’t. Things are well in hand, aren’t they, darlin’?” Not waiting for an answer, Rose swept out of the chair and put her hands on Gareth’s shoulders, stooping to give him a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks for cleaning up, kids.”
A Highlander Walks into a Bar--A Highland, Georgia Novel Page 5