Page 42 of Highland Stars
“I can’t guarantee my request will be approved, but I’ll ask. I’d love to vacation with you as much as I can.”
“I’d like that too.” I can’t believe how well this solo vacation is turning out. Appendicitis aside.
I wake the next morning to the smell of coffee and bacon, with the sun bright in the sky. If I were at home I’d assume it was ten, but the sun rises so early here this time of year, it could be six for all I know.
I reach for my phone to check—it’s almost eight—and find a text from Malcolm.
MALCOLM
I’m stepping out to take something to my friend Rory before he goes on shift. I didny want you to wake and think I’d been kidnapped.
MALCOLM
I’m back, sleepyhead. Only joking. I’m sure the jetlag combined with surgery recovery has your sleep messed up.
Twenty minutes later he’d messaged again.
MALCOLM
It’s probably time for you to wake up.
Sorry, I know it’s still obnoxiously early. I’m just excited to see you.
And breakfast is almost ready.
That was five minutes ago.
He’s excited to see me? That’s … unexpected. He must really be in need of a friend. Growing up in a big family, maybe he doesn’t enjoy living alone. He’s used to noise and activity. Maybe me being here is making his house feel more like home. Or maybe I’m way off base, and growing up in a busy home makes him like the quiet of his own. But for some reason, he’s excited to see me. That’s nice.
MAKENNA
:) Smells good. Sleepyhead will be right down. And lol that you called me sleepyhead.
I throw on a bra under my pajamas because I really can’t not. I pull my hair on top of my head and walk downstairs. The sound of humming greets me as I round the corner and see Malcolm happily at work in the kitchen. The tune is unfamiliar, but I think it’s my new favorite song.
“Good morning,” he says when he spots me walking his way. “You look like you slept well.”
I laugh. “Do I?”
“Aye. You look well rested, and a little rumpled.” He pauses. “It’s a good look for you.”
I feel my face flame and look down as if I were inspecting my blue tank and cloud-covered shorts. Good grief, this guy is free with the compliments.
“I worked hard to achieve this look,” I joke, hoping to brush aside the compliment, and join Malcolm by the stove. “What do we have here?”
I recognize fried eggs and beans, of course, but I’m not sure about the other two things. One looks like oatmeal. Porridge? Probably. The other thing is black disks. No. Please no. Please tell me it’s not black pudding. Oh he really doesn’t realize what a picky eater I am.
“I thought it was time I cooked something Scottish for you. So I made porridge. That’s one reason I went out this morning. I needed gluten-free oats, and some rice for the blood sausage.”
“You made it, like homemade?” Please say he didn’t make it from scratch. If he did, I’ll have to try it. And there is almost nothing in the world I want less than that.
“Aye. I did.”
I stare down at the food, not moving. What am I going to do? He went to a lot of effort to give me this experience. I’ve got to put on my big girl pants and just do it. I can take one bite of anything, right? And then if—when—I don’t like it, he will accept it and move on.
“Makenna?”
“Hmm?” I turn my head from the scary food I’d been staring at and meet Malcolm's kind gaze.
