“Oh, Lord!” I don’t know whether it’s the alcohol or it really is that this pair is hilarious. What I do know is I’ve barely thought about my man troubles for hours.
Oh, Alexander . . .
“Did you keep your appointment at the salon?” Emma suddenly asks her friend.
“I’m sittin’ here with you, am I no’?”
I run her answer though my alcohol-buzzed head, slow it down, and decide that her answer was no.
“There’s a salon here?” I interject as the word sinks into my alcohol sodden head. “Is it any good?”
“It’s the only one for miles,” Emma answers with a shrug before her attention turns back to her friend. “Why didn’t you?”
“Because I’m here with you—because the twat called and said he couldn’t make it. I was’nae going for a wax after that.”
Oh, so like a beauty salon. Good to know.
“But I pulled in a favour to get you that appointment yesterday.”
“But, Emma, there’s no point peeling a tattie if you’re no’ gonnae mash it.”
“Potatoes?” I ask, completely lost. I’ve heard Dougal call them tatties.
Emma makes a critical noise; a click of tongue and teeth. “She’s not peeling the potato if there’s no one to mash it. Or in other words, if there’s no chance of sex, she’s not paying for a wax. It’s a good job the poor woman at the salon does more than bikini waxes with that attitude.” Emma adds.
“Aye, because I could count the number of times I’ve had a decent seeing to in this village on one hand and still have enough digits left to finger myself.” Allie’s expression twists as she indicates the bar’s clientele. “The talent around here, as you can see, is abysmal.”
“I don’t need those kinds of complications,” I answer, reaching for my glass.
“What?” Emma asks, leaning in. “The fun kind?”
“She’s hangin’ out for her older man, remember? The other woman taunts. “With his own teeth and supply of Viagra!”
“I am not!” I take a sip of my drink, giggle, then hiccup. “Oh, man. These are strong.”
“Wet your thrapple!” Allie cackles. “Get it down you!”
“Wet my what’ll?”
“Thrapple.” The woman runs a finger down her throat before her attention slides over my shoulder and she suddenly sits straight. “Hottie alert. Ah, shite.” She slouches again. “He’s got a woman with him.”
I glance in the direction of the door and smile, sort of expectantly. “Oh, it’s Cameron!” But my smile doesn’t last long as Mari slides in behind him.
“That was a telling look.” Emma eyes me sympathetically. “Is he why you were drinking the hard stuff?”
“This is the hard stuff,” I say lifting my glass. Not the couple of small beers I drank earlier.
“Aye, but it’s good stuff, too,” Allie interjects. “You ken Cameron, then?” She cocks her head in the direction of the bar where the two are standing now. Standing pretty close, if you ask me, for people who just work in the same place.
“I work with him,” I answer as Emma’s attention follows her friends. “The girl, too. Mari,” I add in a perky tone, not wanting to encourage them.
“Are you on a working holiday?” Emma asks, turning back.
“No. Well, kind of, I guess.” It’s not like I plan on staying.
“You’re sure that’s no’ a bit of holiday romance?” Allie does this weird eyebrow thing then, if that wasn’t hint enough, she makes a circle of thumb and forefinger. With the other hand, she pokes it. “I’d do him.”
“Stop!” I protest with a chuckle, pushing her hands away. “It’s not like that.” Thankfully. Imagine the complications now, I think to myself.
“So, you work over at Kilblair Castle.” Emma says.
“Now, there’s an older man I go for.” Allie’s eyes go meaningfully wide. “If I’m gon’nae be shagging an auld fella, I want it to be him.”
“Who?” I glance behind me again, but the door hasn’t opened again, though I do notice how Cameron and Mari are snuggled up in a booth together. They do seem very friendly with one and other. I wonder how long that has been going on.
“The duke. He’s some man,” she adds appreciatively. “I’d totally do him.”
Does that mean—no. Don’t be stupid, I silently rebuke. I have no right to the flash of jealousy that just flared in my chest.
“As if you’d ever have a chance wi’ that one!” Emma says with a cackle. “And he’s hardly what I’d call old. He’s more what I’d call do-able.”
“He is, so why can’t I do him?” Allie answers, her tone aggrieved. “Like my granda likes to say, we’re all Jock Tamson’s bairns.”
“Who’s Jock Tamson?” I ask, my head beginning to spin, Long Island Iced Tea style.
“It’s just a saying,” Emma replies. “Jock Tamson is, I suppose, God.”
“I think your Bible must be very different.” A God named Jock? Why not, I guess. Scotland has its own currency, so why not Bibles, too.