Total pages in book: 192
Estimated words: 183663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 918(@200wpm)___ 735(@250wpm)___ 612(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 183663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 918(@200wpm)___ 735(@250wpm)___ 612(@300wpm)
“Why wash it only for it to get dirty again?”
The pair continue their bickering, which is more like light-hearted banter over the condition of my transport, as my suitcases find themselves in a tiny hallway off the open front door.
“I’ve put the hot water on,” Chrissy says over her shoulder, disappearing deeper into the cottage. “Come along, then!”
At the doorstep, I turn back to Cameron. “Are you coming in, too?”
“I—ah. No.” His boots scuff against the gravel. “I’d best be off home, but I’ll see you around.”
“Sure.” I try to tamp back my smile. I think I’m relieved that he’s leaving, oddly. “I mean, I don’t know exactly where I’ll be, but . . .” My words trail off as his smile grows.
“I’m sure I’ll find you.” With that, he turns back to the car. “Or you can ask around to find me.”
“They know you around here, huh?”
“Aye, just ask for Cameron the not murderer.”
I duck my head and huff a small chuckle. “Well, that’s good to know.”
“Better they know me for my finger skills,” he says wiggling all ten of them in the air. I begin to laugh, slapping my hand to my mouth. And I swear, his cheeks turn red. “I mean my green fingers. I’m known for my green fingers, not . . . not anything else.”
It’s kind of cute that he’s embarrassed, and I’m still smiling as I close the front door.
“He’s gone then?” I find Chrissy in the tiny kitchen where she’s boiling an electric kettle. Now we’re in the light, I can see her pale hair is actually white and that’s she’s a little older than I’d originally thought. Upwards of sixty years old, maybe? But they’re years she’s wearing well, watching the way she almost wrestled Cameron for the smaller of my two cases.
“Yes, Cameron left.” I place my bag down on the countertop and stick my hands into the back pockets of my jeans. The air is kind of stale and the kitchen is worn and dated, but clean. Formica cabinets and cream tiles, dotted every so often with one featuring an urn, overflowing with fruit. I glance down at Gertie the dog, wondering if she comes as part of the job.
“He’s a good lad,” she asserts, busying herself with a solitary cup. “He has a big heart and he’s not too hard on the eyes.”
“I can’t say that I noticed.” My bland look meets her sly one and we both chuckle. Me and Chrissy are going to get along just fine, I can tell.
“Then you’d be the only one on the estate not to.”
“Popular, is he?” I know I need to move on, but there’s no way I’m getting involved with the local lothario, treading on toes before I’ve even had a chance to decide if I’ll like it here.
“Like I said, he’s a good lad.” I guess that was one way of putting me in my place. “You’ll have no trouble with him.” I sense the female population hereabouts might prove otherwise. Mari in particular.
“Right. The kettle is on, and so is the emersion heater, should you want a bath after your travels.” I’m not sure what that is but I don’t want to appear ignorant. I’m sure there’ll be plenty of opportunity for that in the coming weeks just listening to the Scots language. “There are a few basic staples in the fridge,” she says, pointing to the under counter appliance, “milk and the like to get you started. I’ll leave you the now to get settled, but my house is the last house on the end,” she adds, pointing left. “If you’re needing anything, just yell oot.”
“Okay. Right.” I might nod a little manically, not that she notices as she pours hot water over a teabag. Maybe the Scots are like the English in their belief that tea makes everything better.
“Dinnae fash about the morning.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Dinnae fash. Don’t worry about being at work first thing. Lady Isla isn’t due until mid-morning, and tomorrow the castle isn’t open to the public.” Oh, I remember that. It’s open to the public Wednesday to Sunday, unless advertised otherwise. And the woman I’ve been dealing with via email is called Isla. Maybe Lady Isla, as in, a member of the aristocracy? Big whoop, I reassure myself. Blue blood or not, everyone puts on their underwear one leg at a time.
“I’m sure someone will come and collect you before then.”
“Great.” Great that I’ve been addressing my emails with such reverences as hi! and see you soon!
A teaspoon chinks against the countertop. “I’ll be off then, but I’ll see you in the morning! Come along, Gertie.” She taps a hand to her thigh, and the dog lumbers after her.
Carrying my tea—mainly because the cup warms my hands; I’m not a great fan of hot tea generally—I inspect the rest of the small cottage. A small, square living room with a sofa, a small TV, and an overuse of chintz. A bedroom with a pair of squeaky twin beds and a bathroom that has seen better days. But it’s all clean and kind of homey in its own way, and more importantly, mine for however long I stay. Overall, I’m thankful for my blessings, for opportunities risen from the strangest of places. Not to mention acquaintances.