Page 81 of Knots About You
As tempting as his offer had appeared, for about three seconds, I’d found the part of me that wanted the city and the ring and the perfect job had gone a little quiet since I’d ventured north.
Maybe because other things had grown so much louder.
Mainly my orgasms, to be fair.
thirty-one
OWEN
By midday,the fair had gone from ‘nice turnout’ to wild stampede. I think the last time our village held so many people was when King Charles came to open the new gardens at the manor house.
Boots and buggies, toddlers and tipsy adults. The stalls soon emptied, and villagers scrambled to refill them. A queue that snaked past the tombola and merged into the queue for the beer. Which was less queue and more pile up of bodies.
We once ran out of cocktail ingredients, and Isla had to make a mid-afternoon dash to the supermarket to top up all but the whisky and ginger syrup. The sherry short acquired a fan club, and my phone pinged in my sporran all day long with tags on our socials. I hadn’t dared look at them.
Poppy, the influencer, arrived with a ring light the size of Saturn and possibly the bubbliest demeanour I’d ever encountered.
‘Your kilt is practically a national symbol at this point, Owen,’ she said, filming my hands like they were beings of their own. ‘And after today, you’re going to be everywhere.’
The Cosy Country photographer drifted along behind her, looking bored out of his mind, and aimlessly photographing whatever Poppy did. Mum fussed over Dad, who’d sneaked both a pulled pork sandwich and three beers when she wasn’t looking. Isla had Jef run ragged, and looked like she needed a holiday.
I could send her on one.
Hell, maybe we all needed one.
The idea of Claire and me on a sunny beach, curled around one another on a sunbed, was quite the temptation.
Claire soothed a toddler with a biscuit when he got fed up with his parents trying the whisky, adjusted the table every time a bottle was purchased, making it look fantastic despite the chaos, and chatted happily with the queue to ward off boredom.
Every time she met my eyes, I fell a little bit more under her spell.
I wanted us to work. It had been a long time since I’d been more sure of something. Or someone. Since she’d stumbled into my life, everything else that mattered to me began to fade.
And the recent virality had assured me of something else: I didn’t want it. Being pawed. People kept trying to lift my kilt to check the validity of my Scotsman status. Not to mention all the comments about how good I am with my hands, right in front of Claire, she didn’t seem bothered, but it botheredme.
I smiled, deflected, and focused on pouring. If there’s an award for politely sidestepping horny commentary, I’d earned it.
Late in the afternoon, the crowd had dispersed, the golden light filling the emptying village square. The Cosy Country writer launched into the interview section of the article. My inside edges were frayed, but Isla was so excited about the article, and I didn’t want to disappoint her.
‘So,’ she said, gripping her recorder. ‘Scotland’s most dashing distiller. Thosehands. How does it feel knowing half the internet wants you to…pour their dram?’
I took a steadying breath. ‘I’m grateful that folk like the whisky.’
‘Come on, you must be enjoying all your new fans,’ she coaxed.
Isla gave me a look that saidPlay nice.
‘I’m very appreciative of their love for our distillery.’
The reporter looked… bored.
‘How about I give you news?’ I looked past her to the people I loved. My family. And Claire. She gave me a bright smile that made me square my shoulders.
I hopped up on the tasting bench and lifted a hand. Heads turned. Isla slid to my elbow and looked at me like she might throttle me.
‘First, thank you. You’ve all done a smashing job on another Autumn Fair, one of the highlights of our village festivities. We’re daftly proud of this wee place. I’ve known anywhere but here, and I never intended on knowing anywhere else either. But despite all of the good, some things have stayed stuck in the past for too long.’
The knot in my chest loosened.
