Page 28 of Not Quite a Scot


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Chapter 12

Finley. Of course. Why did he always have to catch me in compromising positions? I scooted my butt backward, wincing when pieces of gravel bit into my hip. “Take this,” I said, holding up the camera. “Be careful with it.”

Without the heavy piece of equipment, it was a lot easier to grab the guardrail and lever myself to a standing position. I brushed off my pants and wiped my hands on my shirttail. “Thanks,” I said.

When I looked up, his expression was thunderous. “Do you have a death wish?” he demanded. “Are you that reckless with your life?”

“Oh, pooh,” I said. “I was perfectly safe. Don’t be such an alarmist.”

He pointed to the red-and-white sign with the stick figure of a person tumbling off the cliff. “They put these warnings here for a reason.”

“I wasn’t standing. I was sitting. And I was hanging on tightly. I got the most amazing pictures.” I wanted to dance around in celebration, but Finley didn’t share my enthusiasm.

“Most tourists use an iPhone,” he pointed out, sounding grumpy. Was he pale beneath his tan? It was hard to tell.

“What are you doing here?” I asked. “Aren’t you supposed to be in your workshop playing with exhaust pipes and handlebars?”

“It occurred to me I didn’t have much in the way of food in the house when you left. I stopped to pick up some meat pies and blueberry scones. I thought we might have a picnic.”

I stared at him. “Why are you being nice?”

A smile tugged at his lips. “Am I? Being nice, that is?”

Nodding, I grimaced at the state of my clothes. “You are. Suspiciously so. My mother taught me to beware Greeks bearing gifts.”

He saluted. “American, remember? Don’t be so paranoid. Maybe I wanted to take advantage of this beautiful day.”

When a man offers a woman a picnic, he generally has one thing on his mind. Since I was starving, I decided to ignore the subtext and satisfy my hunger. At least the hunger that could be appeased with savory food and yummy dessert.

I had yet to see a picnic table. Did they even have them in Scotland? “Where are we going to sit?”

“How about the hood of your car?”

It was a good choice given the state of the ground. I was already dirty though, so it wouldn’t have mattered. Still, the hood was warm from the sun and we had room to spread out the food between us. Finley had included a couple of apples as well. He pulled out a pocketknife and offered me one piece at a time as he cut them.

“Good apple,” I mumbled. Something about having a man feed me fruit was almost as intimate as kissing. His hand to my lips…that kind of thing.

Finley finished off the last slice and put the core back in the paper sack. “So what’s this obsession with thrill-seeking photography?” he asked.

“You build motorcycles. I take pictures. I’d like to be good enough to have an exhibition of my work. It excites me. I thought about getting an MFA, but I like the challenge of figuring out things on my own.”

“Are you any good?”

Even with his sunglasses on, I could tell he was teasing. “I’m no Ansel Adams, but I’m getting there.”

With my belly full and my artistic drive appeased for the moment, I leaned back on my elbows and closed my eyes. I’d covered my exposed skin with sunscreen earlier, so I let the hot rays soak into my face without guilt. Nothing felt as good as basking in the sun with the breeze lifting my hair and the sound of the ocean far in the distance.

When I sneaked a peek beneath my lashes, I saw that Finley, too, was sun-worshipping. Except that he had reclined against the windshield and laced his hands over his flat abdomen. I studied him surreptitiously. His profile was classic; only a small silver scar on the bottom of his chin marred perfection.

His hair was a deep, glossy black that shone in the sun. It was his lips that intrigued me the most. Full and sensual, they belonged to a man who lived life fully, in all its wonderful, messy extravagant emotional chaos.

If I could have reached my camera, I would have photographed him exactly like this. I didn’t know what to make of Finley. He seemed full of secrets and contradictions.

I wasn’t averse to the idea of a vacation romance. I’d wanted to meet my version of Jamie Fraser. Finley wasn’t it. Even so, it would be fun to have a companion occasionally as I explored the island.

He slept now, deeply, peacefully. I wanted to reach over and unbutton his shirt…to feel his smooth belly and trace the ribs beneath his golden skin.

My pulse raced. I’d rarely felt such an immediate physical attraction. In the beginning, when I assumed he was a Scotsman, there was some excuse for my fascination. But Finley was a plain old American. Not exotic at all. Should I let this zing between us run its course, or should I hold out for a real hero?

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