Real Men Wear Plaid!. Rhonda Nelson

her shoulders once again. She wasn’t at all herself and talking to him was only making it worse. “Jeffrey was not my boyfriend.”

      “He’s definitely more boy than man, that one,” Ewan said, an unmistakable chord of anger in his intriguing Scottish brogue. She loved the accent, the rolling lilt to it. It was so different from what she was accustomed to hearing. And the misplaced irritation on her behalf was quite nice, she thought, suppressing the urge to preen.

      She started forward and he fell into step beside her, lighting their path. She felt the air crackle around them, wishing vainly that she’d gone ahead and stopped at the last B&B. Her feet were aching, she was hungry and it was getting darker and darker by the minute. She wasn’t exactly certain why she’d pressed on, been so reluctant to stop, but imagined it had something to do with the long lonely evening that stretched ahead of her. She was supposed to have shared this experience with her best friend. They were supposed to have sighed over hot tea, salivated over scones, clotted cream and jam and then bitched about their respective blisters.

      Instead he’d answered a cock call and she was all alone.

      Her gaze slid to the imposing presence beside her and she felt a knife of heat slice through her.

      Okay, she silently amended, not all alone.

      “So he just left? The boy you were traveling with?”

      Gemma released a long-suffering sigh. “He did.”

      Had Jeffrey really been her boyfriend, this could have been potentially as humiliating as the time she’d walked out the bathroom with her skirt tucked into the back of her pantyhose at church. The choir and pastor had gotten quite a little peep show as she’d made her way down the central aisle of the sanctuary. Thankfully, Ms. Betty Billings had come to her rescue, jerking her into the pew beside her before Gemma’d been able to go any farther. Ms. Betty had had quite a grip for someone so old and frail, Gemma remembered.

      “You seem more angry than heartbroken,” Ewan remarked.

      “I’m extremely pissed, a bit disappointed, but not the least bit heartbroken.”

      “Strange,” he said, giving her a good once over. She felt that perusal slither over her like a caress and had to squelch a shiver. Something hot and achy curled in her womb and she found herself lessening the distance between, curiously longing for any contact, even that of the casual variety. “You don’t seem the least bit drunk to me.”

      She felt her eyes widen. “Drunk? I’m not drunk.”

      “But you said—” He sighed and shook his head, his beautiful lips curling into an endearing smile. “Sorry. When you said pissed I—”

      Understanding dawned and she thanked public television for the many Britcoms she’d watched on Saturday evening TV. She chuckled. “Pissed as in angry,” she explained. “And don’t get me wrong, my feelings are hurt.” She kicked an errant rock out of her path. “Jeffrey and I have been best friends since the fourth grade. He knew how important this trip was to me—” she shot him a glance “—both my mother and grandmother have made the walk,” she explained, “and the fact that he abandoned me in a foreign country for a potential hook-up is a bit disturbing, but—”

      His eyes rounded and he gave his head a little shake. “He’s your best friend? A hook-up? You aren’t—?”

      “Together?” she finished for him. Gemma grinned. “No, not the romantic sense of the word. I’m not Jeffrey’s type.”

      She couldn’t be sure in the failing light, but she thought she saw a little bit of smugness light his smile. “Well, if he’s left you for a hook-up, then he’s obviously not altogether right in the upper-story.”

      She laughed. “He’s not right on any level,” she said, releasing a small sigh. “But he is dear and at some point I might even forgive him.” Her eyes narrowed. “But I will make him suffer a bit first, I think.”

      A bark of laughter erupted from his throat. “You sound like you look forward to that.”

      “Of course. He deserves it.”

      “So beautiful women aren’t his type?” he asked, once again treating her to one of those all-over glances that made her middle go all warm and gooey.

      “No,” she said, chewing the inside of her cheek. “In fact, women aren’t his type at all.”

      A beat slid to three, then “Oh,” he said, shooting her a significant look. “He’s—”

      “—gay,” she finished. Coming out hadn’t been a particularly easy experience for him, but he’d had the support of his friends and family and was determined not to live a lie. She admired her friend for that. It took a tremendous amount of courage to be different.

      Ewan merely shrugged. “To each his own,” he said, earning golden brownie points for his attitude. Any guy who’d ever been uncomfortable being around her friend went immediately on her Do Not Date list.

      They walked in silence for a few moments and she simply enjoyed the kiss of the breeze on her face, the sound of music ebbing in and out of a pub farther up the street. The shop fronts were smaller here—she hadn’t seen a single big box store—as were the cars and streets. Odd when one considered the vastness of the land, the sheer size of the mountains, burns and lochs. Stone houses with roses climbing their faces and spilling over the fences marched in cozy rows along the street, reminding her of Thomas Kincaid paintings. She was hammeringly aware of Ewan—he towered over her, making her feel quite dainty as he walked beside her, adjusting his longer stride to accommodate her shorter one, and a smooth woodsy fragrance accompanied his heat.

      Because she’d taken every opportunity to covertly observe him for the past several days, she knew his hair was more brown than red, naturally curly and his ruddy complexion complemented his striking hazel eyes. Those eyes… They simply made her melt when she looked into them—and his smile? Mercy. He had a noble brow and a bold nose and a mouth that was unrepentantly sexy. Beneath it was an auburn soul patch and something about that little bit of groomed hair made him look strangely aristocratic and rebellious. She rather liked it and found herself struck with the urge to rub her thumb over it, to see if it was as soft as it looked.

      Furthermore, because she was innately curious, she couldn’t help but wonder what it felt like when he kissed a woman. Gemma had never cared for a mustache or a beard—too abrasive—but she suspected the soul patch would feel different…particularly against the more sensitive parts of her body. Like her nipples. They instantly pearled behind her bra and she smothered a whimper.

      She’d bypassed ogling and moved directly into lust.

      Not good. Particularly when one considered the way he made her feel, breathless and shaky and expectant.

      “I’m Ewan MacKinnon, by the way,” he told her extending his hand in a courtly gesture. “I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced.”

      They hadn’t, but she’d known his name because she’d overheard him say it to someone else. His hand engulfed hers and the combination of warmth, size and electricity made her fingers tingle and a tangle of sensation snake low in her belly. She felt the reaction to his touch spread through her, setting off a bizarre warning she knew she wasn’t going to heed. He made her ache, made her want, made her need in a way more powerful than she’d ever experienced, as though something stronger than sexual attraction was pulling them together.

      “Gemma Wentworth,” she said breathlessly.

      “From the States,” he remarked. “The South, I would assume.”

      She laughed. She was used to getting the you’re-not-from-around-here speech when she was visiting other areas of her own country, but having people an ocean away remark upon it was a bit surreal. “Mississippi,” she confirmed. “Jackson, specifically. What about you? You’re a native, right?”

      “I am.”

      When