June, Reimagined (8)
Hamish patted her knee and stood. “Let me give you a ride back to where you’re staying.”
But where was June staying exactly? She had left the hostel in Inverness thinking Knockmoral would be her new home. It was pitch black outside. June had literally no idea where in the world she was.
She couldn’t get up from her seat. She grabbed Hamish’s arm and yanked him back down next to her. “Look, I know you can’t technically hire me because of the work visa and all. And I know I must seem totally irresponsible for not having my EpiPen on me, but I promise, I’ll be the best damn café assistant you’ve ever hired.”
“You’d be the only assistant I’ve ever hired.” Hamish chuckled.
“I’ll be on time. I won’t drop plates or spill coffee on the customers. I’ll clean the bathrooms. Whatever it takes.”
“I know you’d be just grand. Hell, at this point, I’d hire my six-year-old if she could make coffee, but I’m just not sure how we can make it work.”
“Maybe we can come up with a compromise,” June offered. Her thoughts raced as she put the impromptu plan together. “Maybe we can work out . . . an exchange? You need help at the café, and I need a place to stay for a little while. I could stay with you, and in exchange, I’ll volunteer at the café. You won’t be paying me, so technically I won’t be working for you.”
“One small problem,” Hamish said. “My house is madness as is.”
“I could sleep at the café,” June suggested. “Or in a tent in your backyard? Or a closet! I could be like Harry Potter! I’ll stay in the cupboard under the stairs. You won’t even know I’m there.”
“A tent in the dead of winter in the Highlands. You’re more of a masochist than I thought.”
June thought of her house in Sunningdale, of Matt’s house next door, the thin strip of lawn separating the two. Some spring and summer mornings, with the windows open, June could smell Matt—a stack of old books next to a cup of hot black coffee—from her bedroom. Vintage and alive. She couldn’t go back to that. Not yet.
They sat in silence in the waiting room. A doctor was paged over the intercom. Hamish chewed his lower lip, his brow furrowed in thought. June had put him out so much already. Could she really ask a practical stranger such a favor?
“It’s alright.” June patted Hamish’s leg. “You saved my life tonight, and here I am asking for more favors. You don’t owe me anything.”
“Me save you? Lennox did that.”
June may have been out of it, but she remembered the man with the EpiPen. His arrogance had cut through her stupor like a knife. She snorted. “Clearly one of the town’s misanthropes.”
Hamish chuckled so hard his shoulders shook. “You have no idea, lass.”
June liked Hamish’s barrel laugh, and being called “lass.” Was it possible to miss someone you’d just met?
Hamish smacked June’s thigh. “I need to ring someone. Mind if I step out for a wee moment?” He stood and left.
Alone in the waiting room, June tapped her foot on the metal leg of her chair, counting seconds, just as she had at the airport.
Hamish returned a few minutes later with a bright smile. “Stand up, lass. It’s time to go. I found you a place to stay.”
“You did?” June stood.
Hamish grabbed her roller bag and started dragging it toward the exit, June close behind him. “I’ll warn you. Your neighbor . . . he can be a wee bit of a bawbag, but I have a feeling you’re not a lass who backs down from a fight.”
June didn’t know what a bawbag was, but she could handle a grouchy neighbor. Hell, she’d put up with an entire neighborhood of curmudgeons if it meant she didn’t have to leave. “I can handle him.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
They walked out into a misty rain, but June barely noticed. She had a place to stay, and that’s all that mattered. She beamed. “I’ll just make sure to stay off his lawn.”
FOUR
June stood at the door of the Nestled Inn, a stately property situated just blocks off the high street in Knockmoral. Is it considered a house or a manor? June wondered. The stone exterior, large windows, and medieval-looking architecture made the place appear more like a small castle than a home. Hamish lifted the grand brass knocker and let it fall against the wooden door, three times.
June couldn’t believe her luck. She had gone from a cold, damp hostel to being homeless to living in a mansion. Or manor. Or estate. She could smell the fire inside and grinned, imagining herself curled up next to it under a wool blanket with a hot cup of tea. Now, this was finally Scotland.
The large front door opened, light pouring onto the stoop where Hamish and June stood.
“Told you you’d survive.” Lennox leaned against the doorjamb, casually.
June gaped at him. “You live here?”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but no.”
“Oh, thank God,” she said, relieved.
“I live next door.”
June turned to Hamish. “He’s the bawbag?”
“Is that how you Yanks thank people who save your life?” Lennox enquired. “By calling them a scrotum?”