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What exactly are we doing now? We have the rest of the movie shoot ahead of us—fingers crossed—but then what? Two nights of wild passion don’t add up to a future—yet.
But I want one, with him…
I look around at the bright, welcoming cottage, full of homey touches and the gorgeous sweep of the Scottish Highlands beyond. I can picture him here. I can pictureushere: Fraser painting in his studio, while I write by the garden window, working on my dissertation, or research for another movie project…
But I’m getting ahead of myself. I don’t even know if that’s a path Fraser wants to take. He’s the Suit Guy, I remind myself. His high-powered job is back in London, chasing those corporate profits for his ass of a boss. And even though I finally know the truth about what happened all those years ago, that doesn’t mean the past is wiped clean.
When things fell apart, he shut down. He shut me out.
Is that what will happen the next time life gets tough?
“Is he gone yet?” Fraser reappears in the kitchen, freshly showered in clean clothes, and looking utterly delicious.
“Yes, it’s all-clear,” I smile at him, and just like that, my worries seem very far away. “Wait, you shaved?” I blink, taking in the clean line on his jaw, his face transformed and looking like we’ve leapt back in time. “Just when I was getting used to the beard!”
“Say the word, and I’ll grow it to my knees,” Fraser grins, moving close enough to kiss me, tasting minty-clean and fresh.
“Now, let’s not go that far.” I giggle, stroking his smooth chin. “I like it. You look all suave and debonair, and other fancy French words. You could trade with Hugo Chambers for Darcy in a heartbeat.”
Fraser rumbles a laugh. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. I checked the traffic report,” he adds. “The bridge is open, and the ferry’s running too. Want to make these bacon butties to go, and get to it?”
I nod. “The sooner we bring Hugo back to set, the sooner I can get into my hotel room for a real change of clothing.”
And we can figure out what, exactly, the future might hold for the two of us.
18
JJ
We sayour goodbyes to the MacKenzie family, and hit the road. The drive back across the Highlands to the ferry port only takes us a couple of hours, and the road stays clear the entire time… Until we reach port and find a winding line of cars stretching way back, waiting to board. We manage to make it onto the next sailing though, which is packed with families and groups squeezed onto the ferry like sardines.
“Did everyone in the country decided to take a day trip?” I ask Fraser in confusion, after fighting my way through the crowded bathroom line.
“Apparently, the annual festival is on,” he replies, nodding to the aging hippies in tie-dye and floral headpieces, already grooving out on the upper deck. “Livestock, attractions, all kinds of amusements.”
“Sounds like fun,” I beam, lacing my hand through his. “Maybe we can check out the party… After we’ve put Hugo on a train, of course. Or into a car.”
“At this rate, we’ll need a private plane to get him back in time,” Fraser says, eying his watch.
“So it’s lucky that we’ve got that company credit card of yours,” I reply, determined to stay upbeat. After four days and who knows how many miles, we’re finally within striking distance of our goal, and once I’m face-to-face with Hugo, I’m sure I can get to the bottom of his whole ‘quitting Hollywood’ call.
I’m nothing if not persuasive.
“Although, I have to give him credit, Hugo picked a gorgeous spot to run away to,” I add, taking a deep breath of the salty sea air. The ferry is cutting through sparkling ocean water, with the green, craggy hills of the Isle of Skye approaching in the distance.
“Aye, that he did.” Fraser moves beside me, wrapping his arm around my shoulder as we look out over the railings and admire the view. “There’s nothing like it.”
I lean into him. “I never pictured you living in London,” I admit. “You always talked nonstop about moving back up to Scotland after art school. In fact, you were pretty insufferable about it,” I add, teasing. “A one-man tourist board for the wonders of the Highlands.”
Fraser gives a shrug. “I got a better offer down south. And with everything after my mum…”
“I know, you needed that finance job to support everyone,” I say quickly. “But that was years ago. Your siblings are all grown up.”
He gives another vague shrug.
I pause. “I guess I’m just trying to understand why you would stay away from this place, when you love it so much,” I say quietly, looking out across the water. It feels like we’re on the edge of the world, way out here in the Scottish Isles, and the horizon beckons, full of possibility. “It’s in your blood, in your art, it always has been. The landscapes you paint, the colors you use in your prints… I can see it in you, too,” I add, shooting him a glance. “It was like the moment we crossed the border, you exhaled, became more like yourself again.”
It's obvious that he belongs here, in his rugged flannel and paint-splattered jeans, not buttoned up in some designer suit, peering at a spreadsheet all day.
