AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Gwendoline sticks out her hand, clasping mine firmly. “Why, thank you, good sir. I am Gwendoline Robinson, BFF”—she performs a curtsy—“if you haven’t already picked up on my name and sadly, the ride isn’t mine. I’m just the delivery lady, but I do look forward to hearing all about you, mystery man.” She flirts with me, but I know she is only playing about from the nudge she gives Ophelia in the side.
I bow my upper body slightly toward her in response to her curtsy. “I’ll make a deal with you. Give me five minutes, and we can exchange information. I am sure you have the gossip on Hamlet.” I tilt my head toward Ophelia and murmur, “Hamlet, you need to let this side of you out to play more often. I like seeing you with your walls lowered.”
Before Ophelia can respond to my comment, Gwendoline points her finger at me. “Hamlet. Oh, that is an old one but a goodie. You’re already at cute nickname status.” The woman is practically clapping her hands in glee. “You two are going to make an adorable couple.”
“Oh, brother,” Ophelia mumbles, with no eye-roll in sight.
Gwendoline’s a quick study.
I like her.
Thirty-Six
GWENDOLINE TAKES ON THE MIGHTY MACDOUGALLS
Ophelia
I adore Gwendoline, but I forgot—for a millisecond—her tendency to have no filter when she thinks she’s struck gold.
Tucker would be the bullion.
Gwen knows me well; she just sails right on through my bullshit. I should pull her aside and give her a whispered reminder of where her loyalties should lie when the sound of a car traveling up my driveway interrupts my train of thought.
What now?
I am supposed to be showing Alice the animals as promised, but it looks like another delay is in order.
“Oh, this will be for me.” Without another word, Gwendoline jogs over to the powder-blue Mustang, leans over into the backseat, and grabs a large bright blue suitcase, plonking it onto the ground before reaching in again to snatch up a bright pink carry-on bag, which gets dumped on top of the case.
Next, she’s retrieving her precious silver, portable, original 1980s stereo boom box with a double cassette player and radio from the front seat. It belonged to her adoptive parents until they gifted it to Gwen. I remember the squeal of excitement and smile on her fifteen-year-old face; it was like they gave their daughter a million dollars.
And lastly, her red messenger bag, which she throws sideways over her shoulder and across her body before grasping the handle of the boom box. The luggage can get stolen for all she cares, but the boom box is family, and part of her collection of cassettes is in the messenger bag. When we were teenagers, the gal never left home without her beloved boom box. The sound might be less in quality than modern sound technology, but the boom box has character all day long.
Tucker, ever the gentleman, has already headed over to clutch Gwen’s luggage in each hand, and now they both walk back to me just as a familiar black Pontiac pulls to a stop near the Mustang.
Six well-built men unfold their bodies from the Pontiac, whistling loudly at the vintage car as though she were a sexy girl walking down the street. Not that I condone wolf-whistling.
Tucker places the luggage beside me and takes the boom box from my friend, resting it on top of the suitcase. “Excuse me, ladies, the Mighty MacDougall Brothers have arrived.” Tucker says the ‘mighty’ like it is part of their title. “I was only expecting Shamus, Angus, and Wiley, but the six of them decided to pile on into the Pontiac.”
“I’ll get Shamus’s luggage and load it into the helicopter.” Tucker walks over to meet theoohingandahhingmen crowding around the Mustang, oblivious to us standing here.
I recognize Shamus, and that reminds me of his surname. MacDougall. He’s dressed in his uniform: kilt (black leather today), leather jacket (brown), a plain T-shirt underneath, and boots with the laces undone.
“I am expecting a Wiley MacDougall. Whichever one out of all that man-candy is—” she digs around in her pocket, pulling out the Mustang key. “—he’s here for the ’Stang,” Gwendoline supplies. “Your man must know the MacDougall brothers well.”
“I know only of Shamus. I met him briefly Friday, the brother wearing the kilt. I didn’t realize they had their own sizeable clan.”
“Small world.” Gwen shrugs.
“It sure is a small world,” I murmur, getting distracted by the back-slapping, bear-hugging, and general loud, boisterous behavior as the brothers clamber to greet Tucker and inspect the Mustang.
The MacDougall brothers are all over six feet tall and look like they would have been a handful in their younger years for their parents. All are handsome, strapping men, dressed in jeans and button-ups and jackets. Shamus is the stand-out with his edgy, kilted rocker style.
He catches me staring and acknowledges me with a familiar warm smile and a wave.
Gwendoline turns toward me. “Kilt-man isgorgeous.How do you know him?” She tugs me closer. “Even better, what do you know about him?”
“Not much, but he’s sweet and kind and plays the drums.”
