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I made a promise to myself. No matter what. I am going to stick—
I go cross-eyed at the proximity of fingers clicking in my face.
“Are ye sure ye are feeling okay, lass? Ye just spaced out on me, and ye looked like ye were praying.” He has one hand resting gently on my shoulder.
Nope! I feel nothing for this man. No sparks are zapping me. No tingles down in the girly department—nothing. I look at Tucker, and fairies start skipping around the oak tree hence my need to be stubborn around him because I don’t like my libido fighting against the rules that I laid out for us to stick to. The sooner Chance gets here, the sooner I can put an end to—
“Lass, ye are doing that thing again.”
“Erm… yes. I may have gotten caught up in my thoughts. Sorry about that, Shamus. Thank you so much for doing this for me. I appreciate you giving up your afternoon driving out of your way to follow me here. I promised the doctor I wouldn’t drive, and I won’t. I messaged my cousin earlier to meet me here, and I deliberately planned for Tucker to pull over at this rest stop. I live close by, and I would rather end the trip here with you both.” I rest my hand on his arm. “I’ll be safe with my cousin. He and his wife will look after me.”
“Aye, family are good to have around us, but Tucker—”
“No male distractions,” I say firmly. “I made a deal with myself for one year. I have my reasons.”
“Aye. I see you have yer own shields.” He nods his head knowingly and without judgment.
“Maybe,” I reply. He rests his head at an angle against Manny’s window frame and waits. “Okay”—I raise my voice—“yes! I have shields.” I expel a heavy breath, part annoyance and part relief that I said it out loud. I need my year to grieve and work hard. I won’t tell Shamus that my year of no-male-distractions is already into its ninth month. I’ve got this far; I don’t want to cave.
Tucker wants a date.
No can do.
Tucker is my forbidden fruit.
“Ye are going to be good for my friend, lass. He likes a chall—”
Manny’s roof gets a drumbeat tapped out on it and not by Shamus.
Chance’s head appears at the side of my passenger window, knocking twice—a signal to wind my window down.
Where I’ve got thick, raven-colored hair, he’s got thick, copper-brown hair. I take after my mother; he takes after my uncle. I should say ‘took’ because they have both passed away.
“Ye know the lad at yer window?” Shamus sits up and has Manny’s driver’s door open.
“It’s okay, Shamus. It’s my cousin, Chance.” He continues getting out of my car.
I wind the window down. It is weirdly satisfying not pressing a button to lower the window. Cranking it down is far more old school.
I turn my head fully so he can see my face. “Hey, cuz, thank you for coming.” I watch him openly blanch, whistling low.
“Bloody-hell! Your message didn’t quite cover the extent of your littlemishapwith a hard café counter—you poor thing.” He screws his face up. “You’re going to scare my son.” He winks at me to let me know he’s only kidding. “And this Scottish Highlander in the awesome kilt, coming toward me, will be Shamus?” My cousin sticks out his hand. “Chance Bateman.”
“Aye. Shamus MacDougall.” He grasps my cousin’s hand in a firm handshake. “Pleased to meet ye.”
“Cool kilt.”
“Er, thank ye.” Shamus looks down. “Cool goat.”
“Oh, my goodness. You brought Pixy for a ride!” I squeak out, attempting to unbuckle my seatbelt in a hurry. I love Pixy. Chance refers to him more as ‘Bugger’ or ‘Mutton,’ but I like Pixy.
I open Manny’s door and narrowly miss hitting the adorable long-haired goat with the side of it as I reach down to pat his cute little head.
“Baaaa!” Pixy bleats and then promptly faints.
I push up to my feet, casually steadying myself for a couple of seconds against the door frame.
I don’t even have to look at Shamus to know me grasping the door frame didn’t escape his attention because I see his feet take several steps toward me before stopping.
