“This is Scotland,” Jacob says with an easy smile. “There’s Indian food everywhere. I actually know this guy who runs an Indian takeaway all the way in the Outer Hebrides. People place their orders in advance because delivery can take up to two days to get there.”
“Really?” I say. “I’m not sure I even know where that is.”
“Isles even farther out from the mainland than Skye. I’ve never been, but James has. It’s actually a mutual friend of ours who runs the takeaway. James had talked about us doing a trip to go visit him, but…” Jacob trails off, lifting a shoulder helplessly. “James traveled constantly, and I’d join him sometimes. Before. But I wish I’d said yes to more trips.”
He smiles, but it’s bittersweet, regret and longing woven together.
“Anywhere in particular the two of you wanted to go?”
“Greece,” he says immediately. “James went one year, but it was during the semester, so I couldn’t join. But the islands look beautiful. And I’ve always loved the old poets. I’d like to see what inspired them, see the ancient ruins, explore all of it myself.”
“I think you’d love it,” I say. I finish off my tea, aclinksounding as my cup settles back in the saucer. “We filmed there four years ago. We were mostly at a resort, but I took some extra time off and spent a few days driving from one edge of Crete to the other. Then we took a ferry and just hopped around the islands. It was beautiful.”
“So that’s where your driving skills come from,” he says. “Not everyone can navigate the Highlands so well.”
“Another compliment?” I grin. “All this praise is going to give me a big head.”
“I’ll be more careful going forward, then,” he says, smiling in return.
He steals a piece of scone off my plate, popping it into his mouth. “So, who’swe?” he asks.
My brows crease. “What?”
“You said ‘we’ took a ferry. Did you do that trip with a friend, or with someone, uh, someone else?” He wipes a crumb off the table, the gesture as nonchalant as his tone, but I understand what he’s asking.
“With an ex,” I say.
“Ah.”
“We’re not together anymore,” I add unnecessarily.
“Right. And are you—are you with someone else now?”
I nearly choke at the directness of his question, and he must see some of that on my face, because he hurriedly continues.
“Sorry, it’s just—last night, when I came to your door, I heard you talking to someone, and I wasn’t sure if that was—”
“Do you think I would have slept with you if I was with someone?”
He flushes. “No. No, I don’t think—it’s only…I don’t know what it’s like in Hollywood. You hear all these things about poly, open, uh, different kinds of relationships, so I didn’t know if that was something…I heard the end of your phone call yesterday. And you said that you loved them, so I wasn’t sure—”
“So, you were eavesdropping?”
“I didn’t, no, I didn’t mean to,” he sputters. “I just heard it through the door, and I was curious, not that you have to, you don’t need to—I just wondered.”
He’s not looking at me, his eyes on the tablecloth. He’s flustered and out of sorts, completely at odds with the buttoned-up cardigan-wearing professor I’ve come to know.
He wants to know if I’m single?
My stomach flutters.
“I told you I wasn’t seeing anyone,” I say, my voice low. “The night that we met.”
His eyes fly up to mine. “You did?”
Heat rises in my cheeks. “Yes,” I say. It was embarrassing, the way I fumbled over my words, rambling:I’m not with anyone here, I mean. Or anywhere, really.
“I don’t remember that,” he says. “I—” He lets out a nervous laugh. “Those first few moments, when we met, it was all kind of a blur to me. I’d been distracted.”
