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He walked over to me, his eyebrows pulled together. “Everything all right?”
“Yes.”
He hesitated drawing any closer. I exhaled a sigh. I’d heard it—I sounded snippy and out of sorts. I could feel the crease in my forehead, embedded there by Lincoln’s continual requests and my own complicity in working through this vacation.
I tried to look less murderous. “No. My boss wants me to do some design work.”
“Ah. You won’t be joining me today.”
His resigned disappointment hit harder than outright bitterness would have. For the first time, I saw just how skewed my priorities had been. He expected me to drop everything for work—because I’d been doing exactly that this entire trip.
I curled my hand into the crook of his elbow and smiled up at him. “I’m still going. I sent him an email saying I’ll do the work when I’m back in the office on Monday.”
A slow grin lit across his face, even as my own spirits plummeted. Monday and all it signified left my heart hollow.
I only had two days left in Scotland.
twenty-eight
Would runningfrom the dock screaming kill the vibe of this date?
Duncan and I walked hand in hand down to the harbor for the seaplane tour that he’d magically managed to book last-minute. I’d hoped to find a sudden storm had blown in to prevent the flight, but no such luck. The day was calm, with azure skies and light clouds that could hardly be considered ominous.
Fickle Scottish weather.
My heart thumped at a terrifying speed and my stomach had turned into a hard ball of dread, but I tried to look composed. Casual. Not at all like fear was about to splinter my brain into a hundred pieces.
“Have you ever flown in a seaplane before?” I asked.
“No, but when I saw the listing on the website, it sounded too good to pass up. I reserved our spots before I asked you—they’d had a cancellation just this morning. Lucky me, you agreed to go.”
“Lucky you.”
But that was Duncan all over—see an opportunity, take it, and hope for the best. I was more the type to see an opportunity, take a hundred pictures of it, and think back on it as a fond memory. Maybe I needed to take a little more action in my life. Taking action had brought me here, and I wouldn’t trade this trip to Scotland for the world.
Then again, taking action had landed me on the dock about to board a prop plane on pontoons. Seemed a hit or miss deal.
I spotted the bright yellow seaplane long before we reached it. Apparently, it was some sort of bylaw that every dedicated tour vehicle in this country needed a hideous paint job. A few people stood around on the dock, eagerly looking at the plane as though they couldn’t wait to get going.
Psychopaths.
I neared the plane like a death row inmate approaching the electric chair. Duncan kept glancing at me, like he could tell something was off, but he wasn’t sure what. Maybe the way I’d gone kind of stiff and couldn’t seem to relax. Maybe it was my wide, fake smile. Pretty sure he couldn’t hear my weird, labored breathing.
I could have just confessed my fear of flying right then. I would have plenty of time to run back to the lodge before the prop engine even started up. But I didn’t want to keep leaving opportunities behind, even if this one freaked me the heck out.
We reached the others on the dock, and Duncan checked us in. The pilots-slash-tour guides introduced themselves as Scott and Brodie, both of whom looked like they’d barely graduated high school, let alone successfully completed pilot lessons. Their youth unsettled me, but to be fair, I wouldn’t have been any more at ease if they’d both been Rupert’s age.
“We’ve got ninety minutes to show you the best of the Isle of Skye, and we don’t think you’ll be disappointed.” Scott grinned as though no one among us could possibly be five seconds from a breakdown about flying in a small hybrid aircraft.
Brodie opened the plane door and motioned us aboard. The layout turned out to be a more cramped version of our mini-bus, with seating for nine in groups of one and two. We’d fill the plane, and I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. I’d read an article once that said planes that crash are usually not at capacity because some small percentage of travelers cancel their flights at the last minute. The article insinuated the people who’d changed their minds might have had some kind of ESP that wound up saving their lives.
I couldn’t remember just what type of magazine I’d read that in, and it probably hadn’t been the most scientific, but Duncan’s last-minute booking didn’t feel so lucky now.
We piled on, and he offered me the window seat. He had no idea how it pained me to take it. I would hardly need a window with my eyes shut tight. Still, I slid onto the seat and buckled in, tightening the strap several times. I put on the headset that hung on the back of the seat in front of me, presumably so I could listen to the pilots give their spiels about scenery.
My hands twitched as I checked my seatbelt again.
“All right?” Duncan had a casual air, but just like on the bus after my tumble into Loch Ness, he watched me too closely. Any minute now, he would figure out my panic, and I wanted to delay that as long as possible.
