Page 22 of A Memory Not Mine (Sanguis Amantium #1)

Chapter twenty-one

Mira

I was so distracted on the drive back from the Isle of Arran that I nearly had a head-on collision in the first roundabout I entered, and I scolded myself for not paying attention. What is wrong with me?

But it was so hard not to think about Baird Campbell.

I kept telling myself it was just a coincidence that he had green eyes—after all, Ireland, Scotland, and the Scandinavian countries have some of the highest percentages of green-eyed people in the world.

Still, he stirred something deeper in me, something I couldn’t explain.

I was drawn to him in a way I’d never been drawn to any other man.

Maybe Granny Margaret had seen a love match for me after all.

As soon as I got back to my hotel, I sent Baird a text, as promised.

(Me) This is Mira. Just wanted to let you know I got back to my hotel in Edinburgh.

He wasted no time responding.

(Baird) Glad to hear, I was worried .

Why was he so concerned? I’d managed just fine for nearly thirty years before Baird Campbell appeared in my life two nights ago. Maybe he was still shaken by finding me unconscious. That had to be it.

(Me) My workshop at the Goldsmiths’ Guild starts Tuesday, so I’m basically free until then. If your dinner offer is still on the table, let me know.

The only plans I had before class was to hit some flea markets on Saturday.

(Baird) Tonight?

I hadn’t expected it to be this soon—I didn’t even realize he was coming to Edinburgh today—but I didn’t have any other plans.

(Me) Okay. Meet me in the hotel lobby? 7 p.m.?

(Baird) Perfect. See you then.

I sent him the address of the hotel, and to my own surprise, I was more excited about it than I probably had any right to be. And that excitement raised some nagging questions. I wanted to know more about the man I was getting involved with.

I did a quick search on Baird Campbell and found several hits—including a historian—but the photos confirmed they were the wrong man.

I narrowed it down: Baird Campbell, Isle of Arran .

Nothing.

Baird Campbell, Edinburgh .

A few obituaries came up, some with photos. Not him.

This guy was…completely off the grid.

Strange .

I texted Anne to let her know I’d met someone, a hot farmer I met on the Isle of Arran, who also happened to be here in Edinburgh this week, and that I was meeting him for dinner—just in case I didn’t come back.

I took a leisurely shower, letting the warm water flow over my body.

The hotel’s grapefruit and bergamot body wash—one of my favorite scent combinations—filled the steamy air with its crisp, citrusy aroma.

After toweling off, I smoothed on the matching lotion, layering the familiar fragrance on my skin.

After my shower, I tamed my hair with the blow-dryer. The unruly curls I’d battled all week were gone, replaced by smooth, glossy waves—a small personal victory. Not knowing what to expect from the restaurant, I settled on a silk blouse, black pants, and ballet flats. Casual, but still polished.

Was this a date? I wasn’t exactly sure. I guess I’d find out soon enough. I clasped the gold chain necklace with opal pendant I’d made around my neck and checked my watch. It was 7 p.m. on the dot, so I grabbed my jacket and purse and left my room to meet Baird.

I considered texting him to ask for his ETA, but as the elevator doors slid open to the grand marble-floored lobby, my eyes immediately found him—Baird’s tall frame, facing away from me, standing out like a familiar landmark.

He turned toward me before I even said a word, as if he were somehow attuned to my presence.

He wore jeans again, this time darker and more refined, paired with a navy linen dress shirt and a wool peacoat in matching tones.

Dark leather boots completed the monochromatic look.

Every piece was impeccably tailored, skimming the contours of his muscular frame with effortless precision. God, he looked good.

“I wasn’t sure what to wear—hope this is okay?” I said as I walked up to him, but the look in his eyes gave me my answer. For the first time, he was looking at me the way a man looked at a woman—or at least, the first time he’d let me see it. The realization sent a quiet thrill through me.

“You look lovely, Mira Garvie,” he said with a reverence in his voice, and I thought again how much I loved to hear him say my name like that.

“You look great too,” I said, a little awkwardly—because I meant it, and because I honestly didn’t know what else to say. He really did.

Yes—this was a date.

“So…what did you have in mind?” I asked, referring to our dinner plans.

And there it was—that smirk. He leaned in slightly, holding my gaze, his eyes lit with humor.

“I’m afraid ye’ll have to be more specific, lass,” he replied, his voice laced with the tiniest bit of innuendo.

“Dinner?” I asked, letting a smirk of my own show that I wasn’t going to pretend I didn’t notice this new side of him.

“Ah, yes. I got us reservations at a nice place a few blocks away. It looks up toward Edinburgh Castle—it’s spectacular all lit up at night. And then maybe a walk around town after, if ye’re up for it.”

“That sounds perfect,” I said, slipping my hand into the crook of his elbow as we stepped out the door and headed toward the restaurant.

The quaint Italian bistro sat directly across from Princes Street Gardens, offering a perfect view of the imposing twelfth-century fortress perched on a basalt outcrop in the heart of the city.

At night, spotlights bathed the castle in a ghostly glow, breathing eerie life into its dark stone walls and making it easy to imagine the once-bustling community that had thrived there.

When we walked in, the ma?tre d’ and the bartender both greeted Baird by name—clearly, this wasn’t his first time here.

We were seated at an intimate table for two, set apart in a bay window a few steps above the main floor, where flickering candlelight cast a warm glow over us both, and I wondered how much effort he’d gone to in order to secure this particular table—the most romantic one in the place.

What spell had come over Baird, transforming him from the gruff farmer I’d met just days ago into someone seemingly intent on impressing me?

Maybe I was reading too much into this.

“Do you like red wine?” Baird asked as he looked over the wine list.

“I do. I’ve never had much of a taste for white wines. I’m a rule breaker; I even prefer a red with fish,” I confessed.

I caught a glimmer in his green eyes when I called myself a rule breaker—almost as if he liked that about me.

“Bottle, then? Any particular varietal ye like?”

“Um…not sure how sophisticated my palate is. But I like cabernet sauvignon, cab franc, pinot noir—I’m sure whatever you pick will be great.”

He leaned in just a fraction of an inch closer. “We’re at an Italian restaurant, let’s do a Barolo, if that’s okay with ye.”

“I’ve never had one, but I’m sure I’ll like it.” A lesson in Italian viniculture hadn’t been on my bingo card tonight, but when he leaned in—close enough that his voice curled low and warm around me—I wondered if he had more than wine on his mind.

The waiter brought the bottle Baird had ordered, quietly confirming the name and vintage to Baird, which may as well have been Greek to me with my limited understanding of fine wines.

He cut the foil cleanly just below the lip of the bottle, removing it with practiced precision, and then wiped the rim with a clean cloth.

He extracted the cork in one smooth motion, then poured a small amount in Baird’s glass.

Instead of taking a sip, he leaned across the table and handed it to me.

“Ye be the judge. If ye don’t like it, we can get something else.”

I felt a surprising amount of pressure with him deferring to me on this—especially given my limited wine knowledge.

Most of what I drank came from the grocery store and rarely cost more than twenty bucks a bottle.

I wasn’t sure I was the best judge, but I took a sip anyway.

The wine was silky on my tongue, with flavors of dried cherry and plum dancing across my palate.

It was bold yet nuanced, with a quiet complexity—something elusive and intriguing that lingered just beyond recognition.

It was, without question, the most delicious glass of wine I’d ever had.

I was officially ruined for the cheap stuff—there was no going back now.

With glasses of wine in hand, we both settled in.

He leaned back in his chair, studying me with a look that suggested he had a thousand things to say—and all the time in the world to say them.

I, on the other hand, had a laundry list of questions for Baird Campbell and far less patience.

I wasn’t about to wait for him to make the first move.

“So, Baird…I suppose I should have asked this before now. Are you married, divorced, engaged, long-term girlfriend?” I asked without beating around the bush.

“No, Mira, none of the above.” He chuckled. “But what about ye? I find it hard to believe ye’d be unattached.” His eyes convinced me he meant it.

“I’m completely unattached,” I assured him. “No husband, no boyfriend—or girlfriend , for that matter—waiting back home. I haven’t exactly had the best luck with relationships. ”

“Why is that, do ye think?” he asked, his voice low, laced with genuine curiosity.

I’d only meant to get the practical questions out of the way—were we really free to explore whatever this was between us?

But instead, he’d gone straight for something deeper.

Who was I, really? At my core. He had a way of asking the hardest questions—the ones that left me feeling disarmed, exposed… vulnerable.

“Well, I know my therapist has a few theories. I might be too independent?” I shrugged.

“I’m an introvert—I don’t like chitchat.

That part of dating is exhausting; I’d honestly rather have a tooth pulled than suffer through it.

One blind date recently told me I’m ‘too direct…almost abrasive.’ So there’s that. ”

He just stared at me, and more words tumbled out before I could stop them. I’d never found it so easy—and yet so hard—to talk to someone. He challenged me on a cellular level.

“My mom and dad were like one soul split in two—they spent every day together. My dad used to say that meeting my mom was like finding the part of himself he hadn’t even known was missing. Maybe that kind of love is just too much to hope for.”

His smirk was back, the one that reached his eyes and tugged at my heart, and I found myself thinking about doing more than just kissing him.

“Ye don’t strike me as someone who gives up easily. Plus…isn’t that what we are doing right now? ‘Chitchatting,’ as ye call it?” Baird teased, his green eyes alight with humor.

“I find you unusually easy to talk to,” I replied with a smile that wasn’t in the least bit forced.