Do Your Worst(73)
By the time they were decent enough for the entrance hall, his dad had worked himself into a theory. Clark could tell by the way he studied Riley, his head tilted just so. The same expression as when he picked up his trowel for a delicate extraction.
Riley hugged the wall on her way out, like she thought she could slip past without a formal intro, but his dad cut that off at the pass, striding forward with his signature rakish grin.
“Apologies for disturbing you this morning.” Alfie Edgeware wore his gray hair comfortably, his cheeks sun-browned, each of his fine lines well-earned. While all the Edgeware men shared the same bone structure, his father’s face had more character, scars and pockmarks that make him rugged—approachable—to Clark’s pretty. “I’ve been on a lot of work sites over the course of my career, but as it turns out an old man can still be surprised. I’m Alfie. Clark’s father.”
He used the title, Clark knew, not as a primary identifier, but under the assumption that his reputation preceded him.
“Riley.” She held out her hand, back straight.
His dad slid his leathery grip into hers, raising a brow like he expected to hear more. A last name. A form of relation. But Riley, clever girl, gave nothing away.
“Nice to meet you.” She didn’t sound particularly pleased. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to my room at the inn.” Riley dipped her head in a way meant to signal her exit, but her approach misfired—the obvious withholding snared his dad’s attention.
“If you’re only in town for a visit, you should join me and my son for lunch. I’ve arranged for a private tour of a distillery on the Isle of Skye. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”
All of this was news to Clark—and Alfie to a tee. Find something local and exclusive, enjoy handing it out like a benevolent king, repeat.
“I appreciate the offer.” Riley looked to Clark, holding his gaze to confirm she understood the earlier directive not to give his father an in. “But I’m afraid I’ll have to pass this time.”
Once again, she made for the door, but this time Alfie turned to Clark. “Surely this lovely young lady hasn’t tired of your company already?”
The most surprising thing about the comment was that Clark wasn’t ready for it. The smarting meanness of the words, belied by a chipper tone.
Last night, he’d gone into it promising himself he’d leave nothing on the table. That meant prying himself open for Riley, inch by inch. Even his father’s unexpected arrival hadn’t managed to close everything back up.
He was already trying to think of an excuse, but Riley didn’t bother when she cut in.
“Actually.” Clark knew that little half smile. He’d seen it right before he found a dagger pointed at his heart. “You know what? I am available.”
Clark stepped between them, just in case, as he led the way out.
A few hours later, after he and Riley had had a chance to shower (her) and panic (him), his dad drove them in his rental car out to Skye. The gorgeous drive included rolling green hills, misty moors, and the loch—as mysterious as it was vast. Not that Clark could appreciate any of that.
He kept waiting for an axe to fall, his palms so sweaty they left damp spots on his dress slacks. But his father must have wanted the benefit of eye contact for his interrogation, because he kept the conversation light—chatting about people he’d met abroad, something funny someone said to him on the plane, the perils of jet lag.
Even the tour of the distillery went off well. The charming owner showing them different kinds of casks, where they processed the grain, large pieces of giant metal machinery that looked like alien robots as described in a sci-fi novel he’d read recently. Not until they’d gotten seated around a high top in the luxurious private tasting room did things start to go downhill.
The owner brought out a leather-bound menu of all the different varietals and vintages on-site. His father surveyed it before ordering a round of something old and expensive for the table.
“Doesn’t matter how many times I come to Scotland,” he confided after the man left, passing over the menu now that he’d already ordered. “I’ve never been able to develop a taste for the stuff.”
“You’re drinking the wrong kind.” Riley skimmed a finger down the selections. “Next time try something less peated and you’ll enjoy it more. The flavor is richer, caramel instead of smoke.”
With the beckoning of a hand, she summoned the host back to order her own drink.
“Whiskey’s an acquired taste.” Riley passed the menu back to his dad. “It’s misplaced machismo that convinces men they have to prove themselves by putting back Lagavulin sixteen.”
Alfie blinked.
Clark tried to remember the last time someone had explained anything to his dad, gently chiding.
“You’re probably right.” His father’s smile was bemused. “Know a lot about whiskey, do you?”
“A fair amount,” Riley said. “I’ve been a bartender for over a decade, and I’ve got a particular affinity for scotch.”
Nicely done. She’d managed to neatly neutralize the subject of her occupation.
“Is that so?” Alfie leaned back in his chair. “In that case, I insist you pick out my second glass.” By grace of his warm chuckle, the question didn’t come across as condescending. Still, a test given in good faith was equally revealing.