Finding It (26 page)

Luc. Celine. My stream of consciousness carries me from peaceful emotions to a churning whirlpool of longing, grief, and blinding anger. I sneak a peek at my iPhone. It’s been two hours since Fanny asked Celine to tell Luc to call me, and still no calls or texts.

“I believe you were about to show me the proper way to drink a whisky?” I look from my iPhone back to Calder. “Unless that was just you being blustery and braggadocious?”

Calder’s friends whoop it up and slap him on the back. It’s a, “Damn, Son, you just got called out” moment that brings me less satisfaction than I thought it would because Calder shrugs it off as if to say, “Ain’t nothing but a thang.” I think Fanny is right. My language and attitude have gone a little urban.

Calder gestures for a shot. Dougal slams a glass down on the counter—not a wee lassie-sized shot glass, but a brawny Scot-sized glass—and pours a generous amount of whisky.

Calder stares at me as he gently swirls the liquid around in his glass, then brings it to his lips, inhales, and takes a small sip. He holds the whisky in his mouth for several seconds before swallowing. His whisky-wet lips curve seductively, and I wonder how many times he’s pulled this routine in pubs. How many women has he seduced with his deep stare and sex-you-up grin? It’s good. He’s good. I’ll give him that much.

Calder tips the rest of the whisky into his mouth and swallows it.

I tear my gaze from his and look at Fanny.

“Is it hot in here?”

“No.” She smirks. “Not at all. Are you hot?”

Calder sits on the stool next to me, his back to the bar, his long legs stretched in front of him, and grins.

I look into his eyes and say, “Nope. I am definitely not hot. In fact, I’m actually a little cold.”

Even though my skin is flushed with the heat caused by the whisky and the Scot, I remove my jacket from the back of the stool and slip my arms in the sleeves.

“Let’s go.” He nudges my shot glass closer. “Show me what you’ve learned, Young Jedi.”

I push the shot glass away and gesture for the bartender.

“Excuse me, Mister Dougal, but please give me a glass like that.” I point to Calder’s empty glass. “Thank you.”

Calder’s smile falters.

“Vivia.” He leans closer and lowers his voice. “What are you doing, lass? Ye dinnae hae tae prove anythin’ tae me. I was joking.”

I fix him with one of my own naughty grins and lift the glass in a jaunty little salute. Check yourself, Highlander, because I am not some lilting British flower. I am an American, and in case you missed it, we don’t know the meaning of the word retreat.

“
Merde
!” Fanny mutters. “Here we go.”

I keep eye contact with Calder while I mimic each step in his whisky ritual, the swirl, sniff, sip, savor, and swallow. I finish by slamming the glass on the counter with the swagger of a skilled Scotch swiller. It’s mostly bravado. The whisky is still burning my throat.

I cross my arms in my best badass Bring-It-Bitch pose, even though keeping eye contact is becoming more difficult with each second. The alcohol appears to have affected my facial muscles because my eyes want to cross and my lips feel cold and tingly, like they do after an injection of Novocaine.

I shouldn’t be consuming alcohol with sexy-hot strange men—especially after what happened at Boujis—but the Novocaine numbness is spreading from my lips to my broken heart.

Connor pats me on the back.

“Weel done, Bùtais!”

I don’t know what or who Bùtais is, but I mumble my thanks and take a quick swipe at my lips with my hand to make sure I am not drooling.

“She’s nae what I expected,” Duncan says to Calder, as if I am not sitting four feet from him. “Ye dinnae do her justice.”

Dude! I picked up on his flirty vibe thing, but I didn’t realize Calder was
that
into me. I wonder what he’s been telling his pub pals about me.

I don’t have to wonder for long.

“Calder told us about the ram.” Duncan laughs and shakes his head. “I wish I could have been there for it.”

What the…? I can’t believe he told his buddies I said I wanted him to ram me. I glare at Calder.

“Duncan is talking aboot auld Torcach,” Calder explains.

“How does he know about what happened with that poor old sheep?”

“I told him.”

“How do you know about it?”

“Angus told me.”

“Angus told you?” I am gobsmacked. “It just happened a few hours ago.”

Calder shrugs. “’Tis a wee village.”

As if on cue, another of Calder’s friends joins our group.

“Is this the American lass who thought auld Torcach was having a seizure?” He slaps Calder on the back, and then looks down at my Wellies. “Ah, I see it is!”

“What did Angus say happened?”

The story Calder tells is far more humorous than my memory of the events. My heroic effort to save the life of an animal in distress has become a scene from a screwball comedy, complete with pratfalls and laughable cultural misunderstandings.

“That’s not exactly the way I remember it”—I sniff and look away—“but if your brother needs to cast me in the role of village idiot to ease his guilty conscience for nearly abandoning a defenseless animal, so be it.”

The men laugh uproariously, cackling like a pack of hyenas.

“
Whatever
.”

Fanny reaches over and gives me a hug. “You were heroic, Vivian.”

“Thank you, Fanny.”

“Aye.” Calder’s tone is serious, even if his eyes still sparkle. “I believe ye were heroic. Is it true, then? Did ye force my brother to climb up the hill and flip auld Torcach back onto his feet?”

“Did Angus tell you that?”

Calder shakes his head. “Fiona did. Ye’ve become her hero. She has a soft spot in her heart for the foolish beast.”

“Fiona’s being generous.”

“Fee is an excellent judge of character.” He looks at me as if we are the only two people in the pub. “If she says ye’re worthy of praise, ye’re definitely worthy of praise.”

His unexpected compliment embarrasses me. It must embarrass the others, too, because Duncan abruptly changes the subject by asking Fanny a question about her job. The men gather closer to her, as if it is perfectly natural for three, macho military men to be enthralled listening to a strange woman talk about selling designer handbags and lip gloss.

“Will you excuse me, please?” I slip my iPhone in my pocket and stand up. “I just need to…”

To what? Forcibly eject the contents of my stomach? Check my voicemail for a message from my almost-fiancé, who has apparently rebounded faster than Shaquille O’Neal back into the arms of his skanky ex-girlfriend? Get away from you because I am raw and lonely and your flirting is making me feel both happy and guilty?

I don’t know how to finish the sentence, so I just walk away and leave him sitting at the bar with his disconcerting gaze and charming grin.

Since it is my first time in The Plastered House, I have to ask an elderly man wearing a plaid newsboy cap and nursing a pint of thick, foamy ale for directions to the ladies room.

He looks down at my feet.

“Nice Wellies,” he says, pronouncing it as wheelies. His cap wearing companions chuckle as he jerks his thumb in the direction of the rear of the pub. “Second door from the left, lassie.”

“Thanks.”

The small unisex bathroom, located at the end of a narrow hall, is precisely the kind of facility one would expect to find in an obscure Scottish pub, poorly lit and without a single square of toilet paper to be found. It’s the perfect place for me to reflect on my relationship with Jean-Luc. In fact, it looks like a setting out of a French film
d’amour
, shabby and steeped in ennui, the kind of place the heroine
tragique
would go to end her life.

I twist the rusty faucet until water spurts from the spout, then run my hands under the cold stream and press them to the back of my neck.

Snap out of it, Old Girl, you’re being way too maudlin. Things might not be as bad as you think. Maybe Luc is getting ready to call you back right now.

After I dry my hands on my jeans, I pull out my phone to check for messages. I have no new voicemail messages and the only text I have received is from my friend G, inviting me to Cannes for the Régates Royale. G is a bazillionairess with loads of connections—she is the one who introduced me to Jett Jericho and persuaded me to get an ass tat. Every year in September, she hosts chi-chi parties on her yacht to celebrate the Cannes regatta.

Thinking about sailing makes me think about my first official date with Luc, when he took me sailing off the coast of Cannes, and made love to me beneath the turquoise Mediterranean sky.

The pain that stabs my heart nearly knocks me to my knees and I have to hold onto the sink to keep from crumpling over. I send my iPhone clattering to the floor.

This is it. I am alone, again, naturally. I have lost Luc, the only man I will ever love, the only man who ever loved me completely. My spontaneous cry echoes in the single stall bathroom and startles me with its raw force.

“Vivia?”

I press my hand to my mouth to stifle my sob.

No! Not Calder! Not now!

The door creaks open an inch.

“Vivia?”

He sticks his head in, sees me clutching the sink, a hand pressed to my mouth, and pushes the door open with such force it slams against the back wall.

“What is it, lass?” He grabs my arms and looks deep into my eyes. “Are you hurt? Has someone harmed you?”

He looks around the bathroom—at the stall, the closed window, the shadowy corner behind the trash bin—and then back at me.

This small act of compassion, this protective posturing, is more than my battered heart can take and fresh tears spill down my cheeks.

Calder wraps his arms around me. I know I should pull away from him, but it feels as if I was floating alone on a dark, angry sea and someone tossed me a life preserver. All I can do is hold on until the waves of emotion washing over me subside and thank God I am not alone.

The melodrama of the moment is not lost on me; the heroine
tragique
found weeping in a dingy bathroom by a strange man. It’s so bad French cinema. If I weren’t heartbroken, I would crack a sarcastic comment.

The door starts to open, but Calder puts his foot up and stops it. He does this without letting go of me. It’s another compassionate, protective gesture that feels like aloe on my burnt heart.

The person on the other side of the door tries to push it open again.

“Away, ye bloody eejit!”

Calder’s voice rumbles in the small room. The would-be intruder stops pushing on the door and footsteps fade down the hallway. Calder lets me go and I lean against the sink to put some space between us.

“Damn, woman, but ye’re bonny!” He shakes his head. “Even when ye cry.”

I do a half-cry, half-laugh thing.

“Thanks, but I’m not sure how bonny I am with mascara running down my face. I look awful without makeup.”

“Ach, ye dinnae need makeup. Some lasses might, but not you.” He reaches around me and pulls a paper town from the dispenser. “Now, dry yer tears and tell me what has you crying in this manky hole.”

I take the towel, but I don’t tell him why I was crying. I don’t want to be that girl. You know, the ones who use their heartbreak as bait to reel in a new fish? Nothing makes a man more interested in a woman than the challenge of making her forget her love for another man.

I turn around to assess the damage in the mirror.

“It’s not important.” I wipe the mascara from my face and avoid making eye contact with Calder. “Just one of those silly, over-emotional female moments.”

Calder crosses his arms. “You don’t strike me as a silly, over-emotional female. Well, maybe a wee bit over-emotional when it comes to auld Torcach, but something tells me this wasn’t about a ram.”

I look at him in the mirror. “Okay then, Jedi Master, if you don’t think I was crying over that old sheep, use the Force and tell me what I was crying about.”

I meant it as a joke, to lighten the mood, and divert him, but he doesn’t fall for it. He narrows his eyes as if peering into my soul, and says, “Only a man can make a woman cry like you were crying, like someone reached into your chest and ripped out your heart.”

I turn around and stare at him. Just stare. What can I say? He didn’t just hit the nail on the head; he drove it all the way through with a single blow.

“I don’t want to say anything bad about the man who made you cry, because he must have some worth or you wouldn’t care for him the way you do, but—”

“But?”

“Never mind.” He shakes his head. “I dinnae want to be that man.”

“What man? The man worthy of my affections and tears?”

“Nay, lass.” He steps closer and wipes some mascara from under my eye. “I most definitely would like to be that man, but I dinnae want to be the man who steps into your heart by pushing another man out.”

“You can’t push someone who has already left.”

The bathroom door opens and the elderly man in the plaid cap is about to stagger in when he notices me standing at the sink.

“Ach, lad! ’Tis a queer place to court a lass.”

“Wheesht, ye auld bleating ram.”

Plaid cap laughs.

Calder bends over and picks up my iPhone, grabs my hand, and leads me out into the hallway. Instead of turning left to go back to the pub, he turns right, opens another door, and leads me out into the gloaming. We walk through the parking lot to a sexy, shiny blue sports car that looks like it took a wrong turn off the Le Mans circuit and ended up in the Highlands.

Calder must notice my wide-eyed, open-mouthed expression because he laughs.

“You like it?”

“This isn’t yours?”

“Really?” He holds up a remote and clicks it. The engine starts. “Then how did I get these keys?”

“How does a sheep farmer afford a”—I look for logos on the car to help me identify the model—“what is this, an Aston Martin?”

He shrugs. “I have a second job.”

“If you say you’re a brain surgeon as well as being a sheep-wrangling, dog-whispering, dart-playing hottie, I’m gonna—”

“So ye think I’m a hottie?”