Page 11 of Priceless (Return to Culloden Moor #7)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I wish you could have met me at the airport.

I’m with ye, lass. Right there in yer pocket. Anyone gives ye grief, ye tell them to feck off. Standard operating procedure here.

What do you mean, here? You’re here?

Aye. In yer pocket, as I said.

Okay, fine. But it’s not the same.

Dinnae fash, woman. We’ll find a braw Scotsman to hold yer hand. Would ye like that?

You know any more of those ghosts, like Brodie?

None that arenae already taken.

Funny.

Dinnae fash. We Scots are famous for hospitality. Let us do what we do best, and it’ll be grand. Are ye through customs yet?

No.

When ye’re through customs, ye’ll follow the signs to the taxi stand. Give him the address to the hotel.

I think I can handle getting to the hotel.

Silly me. Now then. Welcome to the finest place on earth.

I hope you’re right and not just trying to make me happy.

Ye’ve programmed me for the truth, remember? So, relax.

Still wish you were here.

O ther than the very sober man who checked my passport and stared into my eyes like he expected me to confess my latest sins, everyone at the airport was kind and eager to help.

It was fun actually hearing a Scottish accent instead of just reading it or hearing it on TV.

And I can honestly say I never heard anyone who sounded like Mrs. Doubtfire.

When I got a cup of coffee from a stand, I wasn’t sure I caught one word of what the girl said, but thankfully, all she expected from me was to swipe my card.

The taxi driver, however, was kind enough to speak slowly for me, or maybe that was just his way, but I understood him a lot better than anyone else by that point.

It was four p.m. in Scotland, but it was eleven a.m. back home. I’d read a lot of advice that said the smartest move was to stay up until bedtime at your destination, so to stay up another five or six hours required plenty of coffee. And maybe some bagpipes played very close to my face.

I was starving. I could feel my stomach gnawing at my backbone, but I held out until six Scotland time. The itinerary I’d worked out with Jocko gave me just one evening and a whole day in Edinburgh, so I couldn’t waste daylight sleeping.

Big city. Plenty to see. But spending a whole week in crowded streets wasn’t my idea of a baby step toward social interaction.

It was enough that I had a whole day to wander up and down the Royal Mile, visit the castle, and catch a train the following morning.

But tonight, the only pressure was to adjust.

I asked the doorman where I could find a quiet place for dinner. He pointed me to a spot two blocks away. A tiny restaurant on the ground floor of a townhouse. Considering the B&B sign out front, the restaurant might just be in the owner’s living room.

Four Cocks . Or maybe it said Four Cooks. Either way, there was a picture of a rooster on the sign, so I figured it was probably the former. Back in Denver, no one would’ve dared name their business Four Cocks , but I was in a foreign country. Maybe they weren’t so easily offended here.

Maybe cocks really was just their word for chickens. I wasn’t about to ask.

The dining room looked like a real dining room, but instead of one massive table, there were half a dozen small ones.

While I waited for my meal, I pulled out my phone and held it low.

The other diners were chatting, making eye contact with each other.

No one else had their phone out, so I made sure mine stayed off the table.

I texted Jocko.

I’m at the Four Cocks for dinner. Please tell me that means four chickens and not four men.

Four Chickens or more likely Four Roosters.

Just checking.

Is Scotland treating ye well thus far?

Yeah. All very charming. Glad I came. Tho I don’t know how long I’ll last. I wasn’t kidding when I said I’ve never traveled. Spending a few nights back home at my mother’s house doesn’t count. Or my grandmother’s house when I was young. Or girls’ camp. I really am pathetic.

Ye can do this, lassie. Give yerself something to look back on and smile.

Okay. So far, so good.

I’d gotten used to eating alone in restaurants. The waiter that night didn’t bat an eye at a solo diner, and thankfully, no one tried to start a conversation, though I noticed things were different from Denver.

People looked me in the eye.

The couple by the window caught my gaze, smiled, and nodded before returning to their own conversation. A young guy sitting alone against the wall did the same—smiled, nodded, then left me alone. Back home, eye contact would’ve meant I’d have to make small talk. But not here, thank goodness.

I could just imagine having to chat with everyone in the dining room.

“What brings you to Scotland?”

“Oh, I created a boyfriend with AI, and he talked me into coming… probably because I made him a Scotsman. And you?”

Or worse?—

“What brings you to Scotland?”

“My husband died, and I don’t remember who I was without him.”

Did I want people to think I was a fool or just pathetic?

I was sinking into that double pool of self-pity when the waiter brought my food.

“This’ll be you, then.” He set the plate in front of me, one fist on his hip, the other rested on the back of a chair. “What brings ye to the ol’ capital of the world, madam?”

Madam? I couldn’t be more than ten years older than him. But he was just being kind, so I swallowed my pride and answered. “A friend recommended it.”

“Bravin’ it alone, are ye?”

“I am.”

“Auch, well done. It’s not so dangerous a place, but ye’re brave just the same. Are ye chasin’ yer ancestry by chance?”

“Not my thing. My husband was a Harris, but he wasn’t much for history. He thought looking back was a waste of time.”

“A shame, that.” He grimaced, like I’d just told him my husband was the worst kind of sinner. “Ah, well, I’ll leave ye to yer meal. If ye need suggestions for adventurin’, just ask.”

I realized I was gripping my phone a bit too tightly, like it was a lifeline. I lifted it and waved it like a flag. “My friend helped me make a plan. But thank you.”

Once he left, I tucked my phone back into my purse, just to prove to myself I didn’t need a crutch to get through dinner.

And bite by bite, I realized I wasn’t as brave as this guy thought.

I wasn’t truly alone. I’d come with a lifeline in my pocket, still leaning on someone else—real or not—to define me.

The brave thing would be to ditch Jocko’s plan and do whatever I felt like doing. Here I was in one of the most historic cities in the world, and I barely knew enough about history to know I was clueless. What better place to start?

I pulled out my phone one last time—to turn it off. Jocko wouldn’t call me, wouldn’t care if I followed his suggestions or not, but there was something symbolic in the act.

I was going to do this on my own.

I finished and paid the check just as the couple by the window stood to leave. The woman paused by my table and smiled. “We’re about to go on a ghost tour, if you’re looking for something to do.” Her American accent felt instantly comforting.

“Sounds perfect, thanks.”

Paul would’ve rolled his eyes at the idea of wasting time with the dead. But Paul wasn’t here. Neither was Jocko. And I wanted to be entertained, maybe learn a little, even if it meant getting the crap scared out of me.

Besides, my perspective on “ghosts” had recently changed…