CHAPTER ONE
CALLIE
Do Scots kiss betterthan Americans?
I’m almost two years into my doctorate at UCLA for psychology, so I consider myself a fairly intelligent and reasonable human. I wouldn’t typically generalize people so broadly, but there’s something about a Scottish accent that sets off a primal response deep in my gut, andscientifically, I can’t help wondering if that extends to Scottish lips.
Which is part of why it’s the first thing on my Scottish Bucket List: Kiss a Scot.
I’m standing in the lobby of my small hotel in Inverness, trying to understand the list of restaurants the concierge is giving me. Either my fourteen hours of airtime from LAX to Heathrow to Inverness have slowed my brain power—an extremely valid possibility—or he’s throwing random words in there to mess with me. His thick beard makes it impossible to read his lips, but even if I could, I doubt I’d pick up more.
Still, I search for his lips beneath an overgrown mustache. How kissable are they?
Nope. No idea. They’re fully hidden. I’m getting no help there.
My stomach rumbles. I regret asking for recommendations to begin with. I saw a pub next door when the taxi dropped me off, and that’s good enough for me. Besides, my sister met her husband in a British pub. They’re good luck for us Winter girls.
Now the guy is blinking at me. I’ve stared at his overgrown mustache too long, haven’t I?
“Thanks,” I say, though I didn’t pick up a single thing he said after,oh sure, sure.
His eyes dart down my body. “I’m off in an hour?—”
“I need to eat now,” I hurry to say. I’m not going to subject myself to an entire meal trying to decipher his accent. For all I know, he’ll be telling me about his grandfather’s funeral and I’ll think it’s an invitation to move closer. Better find a different set of willing lips. “Have a good night!” I call as I make my escape.
His eyes follow me all the way down the stone steps to the street. I slip my hands into my coat pockets and shiver, bringing my shoulders up to my ears. Noise blooms from the stone pub, laughter and chatter and music assaulting me from all sides as I push through the door and into the warm building. A real fire crackles from a stone hearth in the center of the dining room, every table full of families, groups, and dates, all at various stages of their meals.
There’s no employee standing at the door, no hostess waiting to seat me. A woman walks by and pauses. She can probably sense I’m a lost rabbit in a foreign land. “Sit anywhere, hen. You can leave your coat on the hooks there.”
Did that woman call me a chicken? I stare for a beat too long, the late hour and jet lag getting to me.
Food. Time to eat. To the bar, it is. I shrug out of my coat and leave it near the door, then make my way toward an open leather seat at the long bar. Snippets of conversations reach my ears as I settle in, and I can understand next to nothing. I’m starting to wonder if this is going to be the way my entire trip goes. Or is it just the jet lag? I’m here for three weeks, spendingwinter break in the UK with my sister between university quarters.
Luna moved to this side of the world four years ago to marry her hot pub owner—her words—down in the English Cotswolds. She and Rhys have one little boy together and are ridiculously happy. But his grandmother died this year, so it’s his first Christmas without his Nan. Which is why Luna orchestrated this whole Christmas in Scotland thing to begin with. Rhys’s best friend, Hamish, has a cousin out here with a big cottage and the patience to house all of us for the holidays.
Why am I here, joining them? Because my sister begged me, my parents are coming next week, and I couldn’t stay in LA for a minute longer, suffocating under the weight of my education and classroom politics. To make sure I don’t spend my entire vacation eating Cadbury and watching theHome Alonefranchise, my best friend helped me write a Scottish bucket list.
In my line of work, some would call this avoidance or distraction. I prefer to think of it as focusing my attention on worthwhile pursuits.
Anything can sound good if you say it the right way.
A woman approaches, setting a plate of steaming pie with chips and a pile of mushy peas in front of the guy next to me. My mouth salivates enough to fill a small stream.
“I’ll take one of those,” I say, pointing at his meal.
She flips her dark, wavy ponytail and gives me a nod. “Anything else?”
“Water.”
The woman leaves, and I sink into the stool a little more. Forget good posture. There’s no professor here to smack a ruler against my knuckles and double-check my homework. The freedom that grew in my chest as the miles stretched between me and my university campus was almost alarming, but I mostly attribute it to how hard I’ve been working over the previous five years.
Only five more years to go.
I should have followed my sister’s example and built a following on YouTube. Much less school, and she definitely makes more money than I ever will.
Speaking of Luna, I pull out my phone to let her know I’m back in her time zone.
Callie
