“Here? Here’s fine if you want something plain, but if you want something real, a real taste of Scotland, I can take you someplace better.”
The uncertainty I was feeling about this man’s interest shiftsinto unease. I don’t know what it is exactly. I’m not against something light and fun, in theory. Something quick and temporary. Adrenaline and want and a racing pulse with a stranger I’ll never see again.
He lifts a hand, and his fingers brush my still-wet jeans, right above my knee, the denim damp and sticking to my skin.
I cringe.
There’s nothing wrong with him. He’s not unattractive. Another time, under different circumstances, maybe I’d engage with him. Maybe I’d flirt back. I could certainly use the distraction. But for whatever reason, I’ve never felt less interested.
“I live right around the corner,” he says, “and there’s a dozen places between here and there. We could walk that way, get something to eat, and then, if you wanted, we could maybe—”
I take his hand and remove it from my leg. “Thanks, but I’m good right here.”
His expression falls. “You sure?”
“Yeah.” I turn away, looking for the bartender, but she seems to have disappeared.
I tap my foot, restless energy thrumming through me. I need to order something quickly so I can change out of these wet clothes and get some sleep. I’m awake right now, but I’ve experienced enough travel exhaustion and jet lag to know I’m useless when those things set in. I’ve learned to cope with time changes, using a combination of melatonin at night and coffee in the morning, but there’s an unknown element at play here. Unlike all my other international trips, this one isn’t for filming or anything related to my job.
I’m here to see my dad.
The bartender from before darts into view, carrying a plate in each hand, and I stretch up in my seat, waving at her. But just as I catch her attention, the man to my left bumps against me, his shoulder sharply nudging mine.
My jaw clenches. This man seemed harmless, the kind who would take no for an answer, but I must have misjudged him. I pivot in my chair, heat traveling up my arms. “Look, I already told you. I’m not interested.”
The man’s brown eyes grow wide, and I nearly swallow my tongue. Because this…is not the same man.
He has thick black hair and a full, pouty mouth that stands in contrast to the sharp lines of his face. He’s startled, but behind his wire-frame glasses, his eyes are kind, framed by the faintest crinkles at the corners.
He’s wearing a white button-down with a blue-gray cardigan on top. The kind my boss and I sometimes call a “Mr. Rogers sweater,” because of the elbow patches. In fact, if we were casting for next season, I know we’d both agree that he’d be one of the “Brains.” There is a slew of boxes we try to fill to have a well-rounded group of men: “Harmless Goof,” “Villain,” “Tragic Backstory,” “Golden Retriever,” and my personal favorite, “Golden Retriever with Edge.” But this man is a “Brains” if I’ve ever seen one. Academic, well-dressed, probably attended an Ivy League school or its international equivalent. He’s well read. Confident, but not cocky. Probably enjoys spending most of his nights in, but he’d have a hidden talent we’d try to showcase with some B-roll. Salsa dancing, or maybe he bakes bread and complicated pastries from scratch.
My gaze drops to his left hand.
It’s habit at this point. I started doing it when I was just an assistant scouting for contestants in person, but quickly realized it was necessary in my personal life too. Sleazy married men in L.A. are usually practiced enough to remember to take the ring off, but there’s often a lingering tan line where the ring would normally be.
Thankfully, this man has neither.
“I…I’m sorry?” he says, his accent subtler than the other guy’s. A soft, pleasant rumble.
It takes me by surprise. I made a snap assumption that he was a tourist, like me, but I shouldn’t have. I know there are desi people living in Scotland. My dad, for one, but he immigrated here from India when he was an adult. He’s got no trace of a Scottish accent, even though he’s lived here for thirty years.
From the way this man speaks, I’m guessing he was brought up here.
“No,I’msorry,” I tell him. “I thought you were someone else.”
He looks over his shoulder. “The seat was empty when I got here, but if you were with someone—”
“I’m not with anyone,” I say quickly.
He blinks.
“Here, I mean. Or anywhere, really.”Ugh.Maybe I am more jet-lagged than I thought.
“Right,” he says. “Okay.”
The bartender chooses the perfect moment to make a reappearance, but the mystery man starts talking before I can place an order.
“Erin!” he says warmly. “You’re doing okay, then?”
