Page 48 of Scotch & Dreams

"Well, no canned tuna tonight. Dinner is on me." Violet snagged a couple of bags off Fiona's arm to help her carry them all. "I really appreciate you helping me out today."

"Ye really do huv a knack for this stuff," she said, looking around to get her bearings. "Now, let's go find some scran. I'm pure Hank Marvin!"

Violet stared at her and burst out laughing, but Fiona was already marching down the cobbled street on a mission. Violet jogged to catch up. She still hadn't gotten used to all the Scottish expressions. But it was safe to assumescranwasfood, andHank Marvinmust meanstarving.Starvin', she corrected in her mind, wondering if it was like the Scottish version of Cockney slang, where the last word in a phrase rhymes with the real word.

“All right, spill it!” Fiona declared as the server strode away, leaving behind post-dinner martinis on the glossy black and gold cocktail table of the trendy bar they'd found.

“What?” Violet looked at her curiously over the wide rim of her glass.

“Oh, ye ken exactly what.”

“I do?” She picked up the stir stick, sliding off the green olive in her teeth.

“Ye and our boss. What is going on? I cannae take it anymore. I ken there’s something, and I’m a little pissed ye huvnae filled me in yet.” Any pretence was gone.

Violet giggled at her friend’s choice of wording. “Don’t be pissed. There is nothing going on.”

“Do ye think I came up the Clyde in a banana boat?” she snapped.

Violet snorted and almost expelled martini out her nostrils. She was going to need to get a notebook and start writing down all these expressions.

“There is something going on, and we willnae be leaving this bar until ye tell me what it is." She crossed her arms over her chest.

“Are you holding me hostage, then?” Violet quipped, sucking back the last sip from her glass. That martini went down far too easily.

“Aye, if that's what it takes.” Fiona caught the eye of their server, indicating another round.

“Well, as long as they keep the drinks coming, then I’m good with that. I'll settle in," she said, dropping the stir stick back in her empty glass.

“Violet.”

“Fiona."

They squared off.

“Stop torturing me. Tell me already.”

“What makes you think there is anything going on?” The martini was doing good things, warming her belly and softening her mind. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to talk about Lachlan with Fiona, despite the fact she'd tried all day not to let him cross her mind, an impossible feat lately. Every time she saw the men’s section in any of the shops they went into, she immediately thought of him. At first, she’d pictured him in her mind's eye, wearing a very snappy black dress shirt she'd seen in a window display. And when Fiona was shuffling around in the change room, Violet’s thoughts gave way to what it would be like if she had the chance to style Lachlan. Finally, she had to deliberately ground her imagination to a halt when her daydream became more elaborate—helping him button his shirt over his incredibly muscular chest while feeling his eyes, hungry on her. That daydream was far too visceral. It was the kind reserved for late at night in bed when she could put a hand between her thighs and let her imagination run wild.

“Hmm, how about that every time he enters a room, ye do yer damnedest to leave it. Every time I've seen the two of ye in the same room, there is some kind of invisible fireworks rocketing between ye. He looks at you like he’d like to throw ye on any horizontal surface and shag ye daft.”

Violet almost choked on the first sip from her second martini of the evening. “No, he doesn’t!” Violet shot down that idea flat out, but she couldn't help the little wave of excitement that it could possibly be true.

“Och, aye, he does,” Fiona stated flatly. “Has he made a move? Did he ask you out? Why do ye seem to run away from him? I dinnae get it. He's wealthy, handsome, and even seems like a decent lad. God, woman, what is wrong with ye?”

Violet took a gulp of her drink, nearly emptying her trendy V-shaped glass. The alcohol burned down her throat, but it didn't stop her from finishing the last little sip. She put it down on the table in front of them, her eyes drawing up to Fiona's, who's were trained on her. “It's him, Fiona. The guy who helped me after my accident.”

She stared as if Violet had just given her a very complicated math problem to solve.

“Lachlan, ishim?”

“Yes. Lachlan is him.”

“Oh dear, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.” Her brow furrowed worriedly.

Their server, not missing a beat, brought another round of martinis to the table. Violet leisurely fiddled with her stir stick and plucked off the olives while she let Fiona grapple with this new piece of information.

“Has he made a move?” she finally asked. "Like an actual move, no' just longing looks.”

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