Shopping for a Highlander by Julia Kent

Author:Julia Kent [Kent, Julia]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781638800729
Publisher: Julia Kent

10

Amy

* * *

What the hell am I doing?

“Oh, no,” I mutter the second we get out of the car. The ride over here was dominated entirely by the driver from Ghana who not only knew Hamish by sight, but who also regaled us with tales of every play Hamish has mastered, plus a few he definitely has not.

The shine wore off after ten minutes, and Hamish went from a friendly idol to a disgruntled star.

“I really need that pint,” he says crisply as we get out of Afi's very clean Toyota Corolla. Hamish gives him a wave before muttering a string of expletives under his breath, half of them words I've never heard.

I don't really need to know the definitions.

The pub is about as English as you can get in California, but within a few seconds of being guided in by Hamish, I realize the accents are, to a person, Scottish.

“Did we teleport?” I call out loudly, above the cheering crowd. They’re all clustered at the bar, looking up at one of the three television screens, and it’s a sea of red, one of AFC Dunsdill's colors.

Except they're not watching football.

“Are they watching darts on television?” I ask.

“Shhhh,” someone calls out.

Hamish leans down, hand on my shoulder, his lips perilously close to my ear. “Aye. And if ye know what's guid fer ye, keep yer voice down. These people don't play around, and they like to fondle razor-sharp objects.”

I can't help but laugh, but our conversation is cut off by a rousing shout of “STRIKER!”

One of the bartenders, a guy with a broad forehead, dark eyes, and sandy blond hair, comes around from behind the counter and gives Hamish a crushing hug. Given the guy is about my height, that means he puts Hamish's lower ribs in a vice grip.

“BAWBAG!” Hamish shouts back, the slang insult meaning scrotum apparently reserved, with affection, for good buddies.

I am trying to imagine screaming, “PISSFLAPS!” at one of my sisters, or Amanda, but the image just makes me really, really need a beer.

“How ye doin', Ian?” Hamish asks the guy. Then it clicks. This is his actor friend, the one from back home.

“Guid. Got a commercial fer orange juice. I lick ma lips and say, 'So fresh. So true.' They pay me hundreds of dollars to drink juice on camera, Hamish. Almost as ridiculous as someone paying ye to be a footie player.”

“Hey, now. I work hard.”

They laugh, the kind of familiar chuckle with layers of years underneath. I know that laugh.

My sisters and I have it.

“Who's this?” Ian asks, eyes jumping to me. What he's really asking is, Who's the jersey chaser? But I don't mind. The longer I'm involved in Hamish's football world, the more I understand.

Sort of.

“Amy. Amy Jacoby. She's ma... well, she works fer a company that has an interest in keepin’ me from doin’ stupid shite.”

“Then she has the hardest job on the planet,” Ian says, extending a hand, eyes filled with sympathy. “Impossible task.”

I shake it and smile. “You really do know him well.

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