Glancing around, I scour the place for some kind of tool that I can use for self-defense. There aren’t any big shovels or rakes in here—those are stored in the nearby shed—not that, with the state of my hands and wrists, I’d even be able to wield one with any particular control or accuracy. I spot a short handle shovel leaning against the potting table, which will be perfect. Not too long or heavy, with a short but solid wood handle that leads to a wide, sturdy metal base.
Carefully, I ease up to a squat and awkwardly crouch-walk my way over to the potting table, then grab the shovel. My knees hate this position, so I risk standing until I’m bent at the waist, peering through the tidy rows of flowers in various stages of growth on the center table.
Another snore rumbles through the air.
Quietly, I stand until I’m fully straightened and peek over the flowers. I still don’t see anyone, so I start to walk the length of the table, shovel raised in my hands. My heart pounds, faster and faster.
When I finally get to the table’s end, another snore rends the quiet, and I come to a dead stop.
First, I see brown boots leading to legs crossed at the ankle. Not boots like the city guys around here wear, polished and fancy, worn purely for style. These boots are scuffed and creased, the laces weathered and tugged tight, clearly worn for practicality. The jeans stemming from them follow suit, roughed up and threadbare at the knee, as if they’ve been bent in and worn countless times—working jeans. My eyes trail up the weathered denim—long calves, longer, thicker thighs. A sun-bleached olive green tee, two arms folded across it.
I gulp.
This dude’s body is entirely relaxed in sleep and yet his arms are ripped. His muscles have muscles. Veins and ropy tendons weave up his arms. Two bulky biceps peek out from the edge of his T-shirt sleeves. All across his skin are freckles.
Swallowing roughly, I clutch the shovel tighter. I’m such a sucker for freckles.
I shake my head to snap out of it. I am not eroticizing this intruder who, for all I know, could be an axe murderer.
Albeit a sleepy axe murderer. So probably not a very good one, but still.
I tip my head, trying to see his face, but his head’s bent, as if his chin’s tucked to his chest. I can’t see past the ripped brim of his ball cap that looks like it might have once been white but has faded to dingy oatmeal.
His leg twitches as another snore leaves him, and he’s either a hell of an actor or he’s out cold. I’m mid mental debate about which is the case when my quandary is solved for me.
A loud boom of thunder shakes the greenhouse and he jolts, as if startling awake. So he was asleep. Which means, most likely, he’s not an actual threat. Maybe he’s just some down-on-his-luck guy who crashed here to catch a few winks and ride out the storm before he goes on his way.
We don’t do that anymore, Juliet. We don’t give people the benefit of the doubt. We don’t assume the best of them. That’s what bit us in the ass last time. That’s what broke our heart.
Right. Time to brace for an attack. I lift the shovel higher, standing out of his reach but not so far that I can’t swing and hit him with the shovel, if needed.
I watch his ankles uncross, his ball cap shift as he sits straighter, then he freezes. The ball cap lifts a little, then a little more, as if his gaze is trailing upward. Up me.
Finally, his ball cap’s brim lifts enough to reveal his face, for his eyes to meet mine. A face that I recognize, eyes that I’ve seen before. Just once, across a bar in a small Scottish pub, seven and a half months ago.
Wide, catlike green eyes—sage, flecked with silver, fringed by auburn lashes. Long, straight nose. Two sharp cheekbones. The rest of his face hides beneath a thick, unkempt beard and similarly unkempt hair that peeks out beneath the ball cap.
It can’t be him.
But it could only be him.
I remember those striking eyes and that unforgettable hair, its color like nothing I have ever seen before or since—burnished penny copper, cinnamon fire. When I saw him that night at the pub, all I could think was he looked like a Highlander romance hero ripped out of the past, wrapped in modern clothes.
Highlander romances are my weakness.
As are redheads.
And I was not in Scotland to fall head over heels for a hot Scot. I was there to lick my wounds and heal from a horrible breakup. So I tore my gaze away, ordered a double pour of whiskey, knocked it back, then turned right around, headed for my Airbnb cottage, before I could act on the tug I felt right beneath my ribs, like a hook had sunk in, reeling me toward him.