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I saw it on a postcard once
(Blakely)
A few minutes later there was a knock on the door.
I shuffled over and cracked the door, but stood hidden behind it.
“I was comin’ tae check on ye.”
“Yeah...” I took a deep breath. “I’m okay, sorry about that...”
“No worries, Woodshee. Want some dinner? How’s packin’?”
I glanced around at the piles of camping supplies I hadn’t even thought about yet. “Not great actually.”
“I was thinkin’ about orderin’ a pizza. American-style is right shite, they daena hae deep-fried — ye ever tried deep fried Scottish-style pizza?”
I was staring at the back of the door, listening to him speak. It was so calming, his voice, low and sexy as he talked about something different from my marriage, my career, my Los Angeles life.
“No, I can’t imagine deep fried pizza, like with a crust?”
“Nae, just the oil, drippin’ loads of oil, tis the most braw thing in the world, the pizza, but we hae tae settle for American style, and it’s shite, ye barely need a napkin.”
I chuckled. “You make a terrible case for it.” I looked back at my piles. “I need to sort this, pack up. I ought to move to the cabin I rented and get out of your hair... but I don’t...”
“Aye, how about this — I will go get the pizza, ye can load yer things up intae piles. I’ll return, pick ye up, and deliver ye tae the cabin. Ye can invite me in for pizza, will there be a proper table?”
“Yes, it has all the amenities.”
“Good, I need a proper table for the shite pizza. And I will whinge on tellin’ ye that ye are packin’ yer bag all wrong, then I can go tae m’late shift at the pub.”
I chuckled. “Okay, Liam, that actually makes sense, and would really help my situation. But it also feels like too much, like you aren’t responsible for my food.”
“But ye are a guest at m’luxury hotel!”
“Once I’m at the cabin though...?”
“Och, ye will still be a guest because ye hae tae pay for tonight as well.” His hand slipped through the crack in the door to point at the sign over the light switch. “Check out, as ye ken, was eleven, that was six hours ago.”
“These are all excellent points.”
“I ken, I am Scottish, we are verra wise, we literally invented everythin’ that was important. I ken tis true because I saw it on a postcard once. What kind of pizza do ye like, Woodshee?”
“I like pineapple.”
He groaned. “Fruit? On pizza?” He pretended to retch.
“Very funny. I like anything, really, just not Italian sausage. Also not a fan of ham, but other than that.”
“Och, I will try tae find somethin’ acceptable tae ye that winna kill me.”
