Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 90951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
I have to tell them. Soon. But not yet.
I still have a few more weeks before I have to leave Scotland and enough wood to get me through the increasingly chilly nights.
I drop my phone on the kitchen counter and waddle over to the woodstove. I’m truly waddling by the end of the day now sometimes. I’m only six months along, but Bean’s a big girl, and I’m carrying low.
So low, the women in the village swore up and down I was having a boy.
They weren’t impressed with the ultrasound proving otherwise. Magda and Eleanor are convinced Bean is going to come out with a peen and prove folk wisdom right. Who knows, maybe they’re on to something. I’ve only had one ultrasound, and Bean was crammed in there pretty tight.
Either way, it doesn’t matter to me, as long as he or she comes out in one piece.
The wind howls outside, rattling the walls as I slide a fresh log in and shut the stove door. I wrap my cardigan tighter around me and step to the window.
Beyond the glass, the Firth of Clyde is churning. It’s been like this for days—wild, moody, and gray. My morning walks along the coastal trails feel haunted by winter fairies, promising a rough season ahead.
If it weren’t a very special Friday night, I might be tempted to stay in and keep cozy by the fire.
But I’m not about to pass up The Stag’s Head shepherd’s pie or the chance to see my brother play. Hamish and Rory, the pub owners’ teen sons, are massive hockey fans and have promised to have the Voodoo season opener on the big screen. Luckily, the first game kicks off in the afternoon in Louisiana. Even with the time zone difference, I should be able to watch the whole thing before I toddle home.
I’ve been looking forward to it all week. I miss Baylor so much, and it’s always exciting to see someone you love in his zone of genius.
I tell myself that’s why my stomach flips through pulling on extra socks, my coat, scarf, and hat.
I tell myself the fact that I’ll be seeing Archer, too, has nothing to do with it.
Even women in their Happily Single Era lie to themselves sometimes, I guess.
No matter how hard they try not to.
The short walk to the village is bitterly cold, but the instant I push through the heavy oak doors to The Stag’s Head, the chill is forgotten.
The pub is, quite possibly, the coziest place on earth, with deep, hunter-green walls covered in sketches of local fishing boats and faded black-and-white photos of locals holding salmon. There’s also a bookshelf full of books and games, rocking chairs in every corner, and a stuffed salmon in a top hat named Clyve, who keeps watch above the hearth, where Hamish Sr. and Mary almost always have a fire going.
The pub is the village living room, and from the moment I stepped through the doors back in May, I’ve felt like family.
“There she is! We’ve been expecting ye, love,” Hamish Sr. bellows from behind the bar, his face creasing into a map of friendly wrinkles. He’s a mountain of a man, with a graying ginger beard that looks like it was woven from sheep’s wool, who’s always in a good mood. “Rory, put another log on the fire; our American is half-frozen from that wind.”
Mary pops her head out from the kitchen hatch, wiping her hands on her apron. “Poor lamb. It’s bitter out there tonight. Sit yourself down, Bea. I’ve got a bowl of Cullen Skink coming your way to start, and a fresh shepherd’s pie will be out of the oven in two shakes.”
“Shouldn’t be walking on your own by the ocean in a gale like this, lass,” Cormac grumbles as I pass The Old Man’s Table, where they’re deep in a game of cards, as usual. “Asking for a run-in with a selkie, you are. I’ll be walking ye home. No arguments. Madge’ll have my head if I don’t.”
“She’ll have your head for the twenty pounds you just lost,” Joseph says, with his signature giggle. “Might be best for you if the selkies take ye. Spare ye the lash of your wife’s tongue.”
I pat Cormac on the shoulder and leave the old men chortling, waving to a few of the other locals as I head toward Hamish Jr. and Rory. The boys are already camped out at the table near the hearth, where we’ll have the best view of the screen.
They’re seventeen and fifteen, both already as massive as their father, and both wearing Voodoo jerseys they ordered as soon as they learned I wasn’t just a rock star. No, I was something far more interesting.
I was related by blood to a real, live NHL player.
“We tried to call you, Bea, but the line was down,” Hamish Jr. says, motioning toward the screen, where the commentators are animatedly commentating. “We had the time zone math wrong! You’ve missed the first two periods.”