He turned to Hamish. “Weel, now that’s settled, mebbe we can get a little godDAMNED WORK DONE AROUN’ HERE?”
I blew Hamish a kiss and fled.
I didn’t have a chance to see my favorite mechanic before work the next day, but when things slowed down after the lunch rush, I followed Ash outside to ask him where Dores was, exactly.
“It’s a wee place, doon the south shore of the Loch,” he said, shielding his cigarette from the rain. “Bou’ forty minutes drive, give or take. Plenty o’ time fer a booty-call, afterwards.”
“Never mind about that,” I said, hastily.
“Wha—ye think I don’t know what’s goin’ on wi’ you two?”
“Well, it’s none of your concern,” I said, primly folding my arms across my chest.
An incredulous look spread across his face. “Fer fook’s sake, Emma—don’t tell me ye haven’t done the nasty, yet? What’s the matter wi’ yeh?”
I punched him in the arm. “Shut up,” I hissed. “I have no intention of discussing this with you. You’re—you’re just a child!”
I stomped back into the kitchen.
“A child who’s plainly gettin’ more than you,” he yelled after me.
I refused to speak to him for the rest of the day, but his stupid remarks—in chorus with Genesie’s—kept replaying in my mind. By the time I needed to leave, I had myself worked up into quite a mental frenzy.
What was the matter with me? Hamish was gorgeous, especially without the baseball cap, and I wanted to see more of him. But whenever we were together, something always seemed to get in the way.
Ash was right. He probably was getting more than me. For God’s sake, Morag was probably getting more than me, since what I was getting was a big, fat zero. But I was convinced all I needed was less talk and more getting-to-know you time with Hamish. He was everything I was looking for in my Jamie—tall, strong, handsome. And, if you thought about it, having come all the way from America, I was even more of a Sassenach than Claire, right?
Right?
Sadly, driving a truck down what was little more than a country lane turned out to be less than ideal for a bonding-without-chatting time. As I climbed into the passenger seat, Bob Seeger implored me to take my old records off a shelf. I leaned forward to turn the volume down a little, and nestled into the seat beside Hamish. He grinned at me, and cranked the volume again.
“I love that old time rock n’ roll,” he crooned, using both hands to push me back into my own seat.
“Um …” I began, but he patted my hand reassuringly.
“Need yer belt, pet,” he said, buckling me in place. “It’s not such a winding road, but safety first, aye?”
Aye.
Once I was fully buckled and Bob had finished his song, Hamish ground the gears, and we were off.
“Ah love that man,” he said fervently, as he flipped the volume down. “He represents everything that’s right about America. Hard work, success—believin’ in yer dreams …”
“I’m pretty sure he’s a grandfather by now,” I said. “You don’t actually hear his music that much any more.”
Hamish waved his hand dismissively. “Yeah, I know he’s mostly on the oldies stations, but—good music like tha’ will never die.”
He shifted gears—literally—and then launched into a dissertation about how he’d saved his money for years, waiting for an opportunity to move to America. This opportunity had finally presented itself in the form of, apparently, me.
“Don’t you need a work permit …” I began, but he waved my concern aside.
Or maybe he was just conducting the Silver Bullet band.
“Jes’ a formality,” he said, grinning. “They’re always looking for good mechanics in California.” He shifted gears and looked over at me. “When is it ye have to return?”
“I’m not actually sure,” I said, glumly. “I guess I’d better look it up. Sometime pretty soon, I expect.”
Hamish’s face took on an anxious expression. “Will it still be summer in California by then?” he asked.
I nodded. “And in Chicago, too. ’Cause that’s where I live, y’know. I need to save enough for my ticket home.”
He smiled happily, and flipped on his signal. “Ach, maybe Sandeep’ll give yeh double-shifts. By then, ye’ll have enough cash to get rid o’ those glasses and move to LA!”
I was still feeling a little burned by the glasses remark by the time we pulled into Dores. I mean, I hated my glasses, too, though I’d gotten pretty used to them since Susan had made off with my contacts. Still. I didn’t think they looked that bad. And according to all the fashion magazines, four-eyed nerds were finally in.