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“I might have a wee Starbucks addiction,” I admitted.
“How are your knees?”
I nearly choked on a sip of hot coffee. “Better.” Scintillating conversation. Wow.
He tossed a slip of paper on the table. “I spoke to woman I know in the village. She and her daughter promised to clean your house tomorrow. That was the soonest I could find anyone who was free. There’s the phone number. Her name is Mrs. Clark. I told her you’d meet her at Cedric’s place at nine in the morning.”
My mouth hung open. “Excuse me?”
He shrugged. “You were asleep. I know the people here. It seemed like the most efficient way to proceed.”
I tamped down my temper with an effort. The man was trying to help. “I’m accustomed to taking care of my own business,” I said, “though it’s kind of you to make those arrangements on my behalf.” The words I spoke aloud were certainly much nicer than what I really wanted to say.
Finley continued, unfazed by my oblique reprimand. “The car rental place in Inverness will be out with a replacement vehicle and a truck to do the tow before dark tonight. They’ll likely be able to force the trunk open so you can get your things. You’ll have to sign some paperwork. It shouldn’t be a problem.”
I cocked my head. “Were you ever in the military?”
His eyes widened. “God, no. Do I look like the kind of guy who does well with authority?”
He had me there. What he looked like was a fallen angel. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but from now on, I’d prefer to handle my own arrangements. I’m sure you’re a busy man.”
“In other words, keep your arse out of my business, Mr. Craig.”
“I didn’t say that…exactly.”
He chuckled. “You were thinking really loudly.”
Wrinkling my nose, I stood and poured my third cup. “Don’t take it personally.” I had to pass far too close to him on the way to the coffeepot. He smelled like the soap from his shower and the freshness of a Highland morning. I told myself I wasn’t impressed.
Striving for nonchalance, I leaned against the counter and eyed him over the rim of my biker mug. “Do you mind if I ask what you do for a living?”
He poured himself coffee as well, turned a chair around backward and straddled it. “I suppose not.”
Stubborn man.“Well,” I said, reining in my impatience. “Don’t make me beg.”
“That’s one of my spe-cial-i-ties.” He said it all British and proper. When he waggled his eyebrows, I had to laugh.
“Seriously, Finley. What do you do?”
He shrugged. “I build high-end motorcycles for individuals who can afford them.”
“As in the rich and famous?”
“Aye. We normally start by sharing ideas via e-mail. I come up with sketches. When I get far enough along, the buyer comes to Skye for a firsthand look and a test drive. It’s peaceful here…quiet. No paparazzi. No one to blink an eye if Jay Leno drops by for a modified Ducati with a Rolls Royce turbine engine.”
“Jay Leno? Seriously?”
“He and Justin Timberlake, among others.”
I studied his face for a long minute. “How does one get into that line of work?” I asked.
“That’s a story for another day.” The words were flat. Definitive. He finished his coffee and carried the cup to the sink. “I assume you can amuse yourself, lass. The town of Portree is at your disposal. I’d recommend lunch at the Boar and Brigand. My housekeeper will be by in a bit. She usually makes up a shepherd’s pie for my dinner. If that suits you, you’re welcome to share.”
“Aren’t you going to show me your workshop?” Suddenly, the prospect of being on my own had lost its charm.
He hesitated, clearly trying to formulate a polite answer. “I’m in the middle of a few things. Maybe tomorrow.”
I nodded, refusing to admit that my feelings were hurt. I had lots of friends who wanted to spend time with me. Finley’s gruff, barely tolerant attitude was disconcerting. “Fine. I’ll do some exploring today. If I’m not back by six, feel free to eat without me.”
