Eros (Contemporary Mythos Book 4)
Eros: Chapter 10

Feeling rather saucy in the middle of the night, I slipped on the one negligee I owned—a fiery red one—and snapped a photo to send to Graeme. Highly uncharacteristic of me but I felt compelled to do it regardless. Anyone who passed up a free trip to Scotland would be a complete buffoon, but a little extra incentive couldn’t hurt.

I sat in the cab the following day on the way to the airport, repeatedly refreshing my text messages. Graeme had yet to reply. Was it too forward? Did he hate red? Was my body not what he imagined with his metaphoric x-ray vision staring at my clothes in the bar?

With a grunt, I gave up and tossed my phone into my purse.

“Where you headed, miss?” The driver glanced at the rear-view mirror, his eyes hidden behind the Ray-Ban sunglasses resting on his wide-brimmed nose.

“Scotland.” I rested my chin on my hand, staring out the window at people on the sidewalk, watching him from the corner of my eye.

His bushy gray eyebrows rose, deepening the wrinkles in his forehead. “Wow. What’s in Scotland?”

“My family.” I didn’t mind small talk in cab rides but preferred to give short answers. Dad used to tell me they could be interviewing you to see if they wanted to rob you blind. I’d never been mugged, but the thought stayed in the back of my brain into adulthood.

The driver nodded, removing his blue Maple Leafs baseball cap long enough to scratch his bald head and slip it back on. “Special occasion?”

“Calling of the Clans.” The air escaping my nose fogged up the window, and I drew a little heart.

The driver went silent.

I half-smiled. “Members from different clans come from all over the world to represent their own. It’s a big festival. A small ceremony with mostly drinking and dancing.”

“Sounds amazing. And in a land surrounded by castles, hm?” His thick mustache bristled as he grinned.

My smile widened. “It’s beautiful. Even with all the rain.”

The driver stayed quiet for the rest of the trip, and I checked my phone another four times with still no reply from Graeme. Once at the airport, I went through the regular humdrum routine of gate check-in, security, and two tram rides to get to my international gate. And now it was time to peruse gift shops for two hours until my departure.

Have they created teleportation yet? Ugh.

Canadian souvenirs—maple syrup, maple leaf keychains, t-shirts, and hats filled gift shop number one to the brim. All overpriced and complete junk if you asked me. As I made a beeline for the magazine rack, The Shoop Shoop Song (It’s In His Kiss) played over the loudspeakers. It started subtly, but then the music boomed in my ears. I clapped my hands over my head in a panic, spying customers staring at me wide-eyed.

How could they not hear how loud the music had gotten?

Grimacing, I raced out of the shop. Thankfully, the music faded away, replaced by kids crying, dozens of conversations, and the faint buzz of the overhead lights. I never thought I’d be so thankful for ambient airport noises.

Another shop one gate down had nothing but books and magazines. Perfect. It was a ritual of mine to buy a new book or several magazines I’d read to entertain me on the plane ride. Though I always hoped my body would let me sleep for the duration of the flight. I dragged my fingertip over various books that caught my attention—Blood & Promise, Famine, Divine Blood.

My neck tensed as This Kiss by Faith Hill played lightly in the background. The decibel raised until yet again, it was as if the speaker blasted right next to my ear. I ground my teeth together with a growl and wanted to shout to the universe, “Shut up!”

“Excuse me?” Said a woman perusing the bookshelf next to me.

I’d said that out loud. Was I losing my mind?

“Not you. Sorry, I’m—” The word “kiss” repeated several times in the song, and the modestly-sized shop suddenly felt like a coffin.

An image of Graeme leaning forward with his lips parted and eyes closed flashed through my brain. Frantically, I shook my head with such force, my vision blurred.

I bolted out to the walkway, the coolness from the A/C vents above drafting over my face, squelching the ever-growing heat in my cheeks. Heading for my gate, I found a vacant seat in the corner surrounded on three sides by walls. After plopping down and flipping the hood of my sweatshirt over my head, letting part of it droop over my eyes, I shoved in my earbuds. I’d show whatever cataclysmic force was trying to mess with my brain who’s boss. I couldn’t hear music from the loudspeakers if I piped my own playlist into my head.

The familiar Italian music fluttered into my ears, and my eyes burst open. That’s Amoré by Dean Martin. I shrieked and tore the earbuds away, throwing them into the aisle. I didn’t care if someone stomped on them, stole them, or threw them away.

No more music.

Lifting my feet, I wrapped my arms around my legs and buried my face against my knees.

Was this how having a mental meltdown felt?

I ignored everyone and everything until I heard the gate agent announce we were boarding. Bring me to the land of rolling green hillsides, bagpipes, ale, and kilts. Take me away from irritating yet devilishly charming bartenders, pushy friends who made too much sense, and repeatedly failed dates. In roughly fourteen hours, I’d step off the plane, smell the dew in the air, and all problems would melt away.

One layover in London, fourteen hours, and a train ride later…

I stepped out of the cab, taking an extra-long inhale of the fresh air. The hustle and bustle of Toronto city life never felt like this. Though the sun hid behind gray clouds, the majestic fog sweeping over the bright green countryside all around me made up for the lack of warming light.

The driver honked as he drove away, sticking his arm out the window to give a hearty wave. A settled smile pulled over my lips, and I waved back. People always seemed more carefree in Scotland. The yearly trip was better and more effective than any therapy session.

Rolling my suitcase behind me and adjusting the duffle bag on my shoulder, I walked down the small dirt path leading to the bed and breakfast Dad and I always stayed at—a quaint cottage with only two bedrooms owned by a lovely woman named Flora. Not only was it prime walking distance from where they held the festival in Carbost, but it was right down the street from a cozy pub and a five-minute walk to the beach.

I stopped in front of the cottage, beaming at its white-washed stone walls and contrasting black shingles. A wooden sign hung over the doorway; a Celtic-designed heart carved underneath the name. Ghaoil Cottage.

Huh. I didn’t practice my Gaelic as often as Da would like, but I didn’t recall the place we’d stayed in for over a decade being called Love Cottage. In fact, I thought it was the name of some flower in Gaelic. Shrugging, I breezed through the door, pausing in the foyer that’d been transformed into a petite lobby area.

A small podium with a phone, a binder, and several sets of keys hung on pegs on the wall behind it. A note stating, “Give Us a Ring” pinned to a corner of the desk, a slightly rusted bell over it. I slapped my palm on the bell, making the chime echo.

“I’m here, I’m here,” Flora’s familiar voice sounded from the hallway.

A welcoming smile already stretched my face when Flora rounded the corner. Her blazing green eyes widened and then softened, arms flying out at her sides. Her salt-and-pepper-colored hair was pulled back in wavy curls to a bun in the middle of her head. The brown dress and white apron shifted from side to side as she ran forward, wrapping her arms around my shoulders in a tight hug.

“Lani, dearie. So glad to see you again,” she cooed against the side of my head.

I hugged her back. My Scottish mom is how I referred to her. Whenever I was in Scotland, she took on this maternal instinct I suspected stemmed from having never been able to have any children of her own. I ate every ounce of it up.

“It’s so good to see you, Flora.” Not letting her go, I let the subtle smell of wheat and cinnamon wafting from her clothes and hair calm me. Yet another reason I loved this place.

She gasped, grasping my shoulders and pulling back. “Where’s your da?”

“He couldn’t make it this year. Been a bit sick and didn’t want to take any chances.”

She frowned and patted my arms. “That’s a right shame. You’ve been comin’ together since you were a wee bairn.”

I nodded, plucking my thumbnail against the handle of my suitcase.

“You here by yourself, then?” She touched a slightly gnarled knuckle under my chin, her skin warm and smooth.

“For tonight.” I half-smiled. “A man I’m seeing is coming out tomorrow for the festival.”

She gave a wicked grin, making an “ooo” sound, and elbowing me. “What be his name? What does he do?”

“You have a fresh pot on?” I jutted my head toward the kitchen.

A corner of her lip lifted. “You know I always do, lass. Come, come.” She frolicked into the kitchen, pulling out one of six wooden chairs surrounding a round chestnut table.

I slipped my gray peacoat off, draping it on the back of one chair before sitting. Flora hurried to the counter, whipping out two cups, sugar cubes, and a porcelain milk carton. After pouring steaming cups of rich coffee and setting everything on a tray, she returned to the table.

“Mm. The coffee is so much better here than in Canada.” I wrapped my hands around the mug, letting the warm vapors moisten the tip of my nose.

After taking a seat, Flora dropped two sugar cubes into her coffee. “Oh? And why’s that, you figure?”

“I haven’t the foggiest.” I poured a dabble of milk, followed by one cube of sugar. “The grains are more refined, maybe?”

“We didn’t come in here to talk about caffeinated beverages, did we, lass?” She grinned mischievously over the rim of her mug, taking a small sip.

I tapped my fingernail against my cup. “His name is Graeme. He’s Scottish. From Scotland. Hearty accent and all.”

“In Canada? Well then. Tis a small world, aye?” She adjusted in her seat, scooting forward to rest her elbows on the table. “Handsome, I’d imagine?”

“Oh, yes. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Nice smile. He’s a sports agent.”

“Sounds fancy. What sport? Rugby?”

I chuckled, spitting a little bit of coffee from the corner of my mouth, and dabbed it with a napkin. “Rugby isn’t exactly popular in Canada. He’s a hockey agent.”

“Oh, aye. Should’ve known that I suppose.” Her smile warmed my belly more than the coffee itself.

“I missed you, Flora.”

She reached across the table, patting the top of my hand. “I missed you too, lass. But what’s troublin’ ye?”

My eyebrows shot up. “Troubling me?”

“Mmhm. You’ve got this look about ye. And for invitin’ a lad to Scotland, you don’t look as happy about it as I’d imagine.”

My stomach rumbled. “I mean—that’s not to say I—”

Flora tapped my hand twice before she pulled away.

“I am excited, Flora. I am. It’s just—my mind has been foggy lately. It’s as if my brain can’t process or compartmentalize my thoughts. Which, you know me, it’s what I do. Hence the entire creation of my business.”

She squinted one eye, making the skin at the corner form deep creases. “Do you have feelings for him?”

My heart thumped against my chest like I’d been caught in a lie. “Who?”

“What do you mean, who?” She cackled. “Graeme.”

I pinched my eyes shut before bursting them open again. “Graeme. I mean—maybe? He makes me smile. He’s kind, affectionate…” My voice trailed off, thoughts delving into traitorous territory with images of Eric’s smile and awkward wink invading what brain space I had left.

“Aye. You’re probably just nervous, Lani girl. Not every day someone goes on a romantic getaway to Scotland, hm?”

“Nervous. Yeah, you’re probably right.” I took a big gulp of my coffee, almost choking on it.

“Here you are drinking caffeine, and I know you must be tired.”

I snickered, downing what was left in the mug. “I need a much stronger cure for sleepiness nowadays, I’m afraid.”

“Sex?”

I coughed and clapped a hand over my chest. “I suppose that’s uh—one way?”

“Look at you and your rosy cheeks over the word sex.” Her eyes sparkled as she stared at me, sipping her coffee.

It wasn’t so much the word as it was who said it. Biological mum or no, it was still awkward.

“I really should get to bed. Long day tomorrow.” I took my mug to the sink, memories of the fires burning for the festival already sparking in my mind.

“Does he have a clan?”

“MacFarlane.” I stared at the metal faucet. A drop of water fell every few seconds.

Flora’s chair creaked against the wooden floorboards. “Is he going to stand for Stewart too?”

I frowned and spun to face her. “We didn’t talk about that. I’m not sure he’s ever been to a Calling of the Clans.”

“Sounds like you two need to have a wee chat. Wouldn’t want a MacGregor incident, would ye?” She cocked a brow and patted my cheek as she slipped past me to tidy up the sink.

The MacGregor incident. It happened nearly a decade ago, but it was hard to forget. He single-handedly made the village outlaw use of fire during the festival for several years in a row. During the processional, he zigged when he should’ve zagged, panicked, dropped his torch, and set fire to several buildings. It took months to rebuild.

No. I definitely did not want to be a MacGregor.

“Goodnight, Flora.” I gave her a quick peck on the cheek and felt her lingering gaze at my back as I carted my belongings upstairs.

The sight of the two twin beds Dad and I had always used made my heart squeeze. Two simple beds with metal posting and light pink blankets. The room’s smell gave away the cottage’s age, but it didn’t smell musty or dusty. It smelled like comfort. There wasn’t much else in the room save for a small desk and chair, a window seat, and a wooden dresser painted white. Chips of the paint had started to wither away, revealing the deep brown color underneath.

Two twin beds. Oh, dear God. Graeme wasn’t exactly…petite. He wouldn’t fit on one like Da.

I gasped and slapped my hands over my mouth. What if he wanted to share a bed? We’d be breathing the same air with how close we’d have to be. I’d probably fall off halfway through the night.

Slide them together?

I pushed one bed, the metal legs scraping and groaning against the floor. Scratch marks glared back at me as it dug into the wood, and I let go with a yelp.

Great. What was supposed to be a relaxing vacation already had my anxiety skyrocketing.

I flopped my suitcase onto the bed Da usually slept in and removed my skirted kilt—white and red plaid with lines of yellow and blue. The red royal Stewart tartan was most popular, but I brought the dress colors since it was a special occasion. I carried it to the desk chair and draped it over the back to allow any wrinkles from travel to fade away.

Biting my cuticles, I snatched my phone from my purse and turned it on, waiting for it to work its magic and figure out the new location. As I stared at the text message icon, my heart galloped, hoping, expecting a response from Graeme. A solid two minutes went by, and still absolutely nothing. My throat dried.

I opened a new window and typed:

Me: I made it to Scotland in one piece! Can’t wait to see you. Xoxo.

My thumb hovered over the send button, staring at the “xoxo.” Rolling my bottom lip past my teeth several times, I deleted the “xoxo” and hit send. Groaning, I slapped my phone on the desk across the room and crawled into bed. I’d been traveling in the same clothes all day. What difference did it make to sleep in them too?

My mind whisked me off to dreamland, and it was full of nothing but white feathers floating around me in droves. One brushed against my lips, sending a static tingle down my spine. The same tingle I’d gotten…from Eric’s touch.