Page 4 of The Finest Scottish Fate

She considered herself an upbeat, positive sort, but a girl had to be careful about being too trusting. She eyed the phone number on the letter. Speaking to a human would help her know for sure. A person’s tone revealed a lot about them—even if they were putting on an act. She prided herself on being a good judge of character and able to sort the wheat from the chaff after a few minutes of conversation. With a decisive nod, she tapped the number into her phone and braced herself.

“Craig Durness Tourism,” answered a deep, gravelly voice that sounded more like a guttural growl than a natural tone. “How can I be helping ye?”

“Hi, this is Evie Waterton. I received a registered packet regarding a free month-long stay at Craig Durness. I’m calling for more information?”

“Well, hello to ye, Miss Evie Waterton!” The man’s voice changed pitch, brightening like a chorus of happy church bells ringing out good news. “We’ve been trying to reach ye. What information can I be telling ye that will bring ye to our lovely town? Can I help ye complete yer travel arrangements?”

“I didn’t enter your sweepstakes.” Might as well make it clear that she was no fool to be hooked and reeled in like an unsuspecting fish.

“Aye?” The man appeared to be waiting for her to continue.

“Well…since I didn’t enter your sweepstakes, I don’t think this can be right.”

“Oh, it’s right. Right as rain, I tell ye.” He went silent again. Getting information out of this guy was like pulling teeth.

“What is it going to cost me?” Might as well cut to the chase and get the ugliness out of the way so the emails would stop filling her spam folder.

“Cost ye?”

“Yes. Cost me. Like processing fees or whatever.” Just because she was from the South, didn’t mean she was stupid.

“We pay for everything, ye ken? Did the letter not make that clear for ye?”

“There has to be a catch—especially since I didn’t enter the sweepstakes.”

“Do ye not believe in luck, Miss Waterton? In fate or destiny? Everything happens for a reason, ye ken? Ye canna fight the path ye’re meant to take to get to yer final destination.”

Final destination? That sounded as if she were headed for the grave. What was this guy getting at?

“Shall I send ye an email with the link for ye to provide us with all that we need to arrange yer travel? Air, trains, rental cars, and such. We can have yer tickets ready and make yer connections easy as can be.”

This fellow sounded sincere, but there still had to be a catch. “A month is a long time. I’m not sure I could get that much time off.” She had plenty of vacation time built up because she never took it. If she put in for an entire month, though, her manager and drivers would freak. “Are you sure there’s not some sort of mix-up? Are you sure someone else isn’t due this prize?” Try as she might to sniff out the scam, this deep-voiced Scot felt genuine. Her gut trusted him.

“The prize is yers, miss. I swear it.” He cleared his throat. “Now, what say ye? Shall I send that email? We need passport numbers and such information to make yer travel just so.”

“Sure. Send the email. I’ll have a look at it and get back to you.” She had to think long and hard about this. A month in Scotland? She’d always wanted to travel, but an entire month away from her drivers? Her freight haulers were like her babies. She hated entrusting them to another dispatcher, and something about this was just…strange.

“There’s a good woman. Coming to ye, and I look forward to meeting ye in person. Forestor Grimheart, at yer service.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Grimheart. Thank you; I’ll be in touch.”

Maybe. This called for some serious studying with a large slice of pizza and an ice-cold soda.

*

Evie stared at the email still sitting there in her inbox. The notification flag beside it blinked like an annoying alarm that wouldn’t stop buzzing. It had been a week. She needed to make up her mind and either take the plunge or delete the silly thing and block their number so they couldn’t reach her by phone.

The adventurer in her wanted to jump at the chance, but the street-savvy girl who’d survived on her own since her grandparents had passed away kept saying, Hold on a minute, girl. If this little treat isn’t real, there’s no one to thump you on the back when you choke on it.

Most of her friends were in the same financial shape as she was: drowning in debt and trying to enjoy life on a shoestring budget. If the opportunity had been stateside and turned out to be some obnoxious trickery, her loyal team of drivers would storm the offenders and make them beg for mercy. But this was overseas. Some remote place in Scotland. Eighteen-wheelers didn’t handle seawater very well.

Her doorbell camera went off, and she popped the video onto one of her eight monitors. She leaned closer as she enlarged it. It was an attractive woman with long, dark hair tumbling across her shoulders in the latest soft, curly style. Not dressed up but not dressed down either. Those jeans looked expensive, and in the country music capital of the world, that woman’s boots would have the locals drooling.

Evie clicked on the mic. “Can I help you?”

“Miss Evie Waterton?” The woman possessed a lilting, musical voice, and she definitely wasn’t from Nashville.

“And you are?”