Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 109368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 547(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 547(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
The large barn might have been filled with half-finished work—a dining table Erin Mull from the island had commissioned; bookshelves that would slot perfectly into place in a home on Skye; a live-edge wood coffee table for Cammie’s client on the mainland. But my tools were meticulously organized—squares, table saw, saws, chisels, fastening tools, clamps, sanders, brushes. Other than Akiva, this workshop was my baby.
“What got you into carpentry?”
Living on a very small island had prepared me for people’s natural curiosity about their neighbors. Once the questions had made me uncomfortable, like I’d squeezed on too small boots. Now, I skirted the details of my history with ease. “Military put me through my engineering and construction degrees. Picked up some skills along the way. Woodwork became a bit of a hobby.”
“A hobby.” She strolled casually around my space, eyeing my equipment and the pieces of furniture lying around in different levels of repair and finish. She stopped at the coffee table with its live edge and tentatively ran her hands along it. “Beautiful. Pretty awesome hobby. I can barely put together something from Ikea.” Her tone went beyond self-deprecating to disparaging. She flicked me a look. “But I can shoot a target from two hundred yards. Maybe I should have gone into the military. Did something useful.”
Not many people surprised me. But this did. “How did you learn to shoot?”
“My dad.” Tierney turned, crossing her arms over her chest in a move I knew she didn’t realize was protective, defensive. “He used to take me to the outdoor rifle range at his club every second Saturday.”
“Do you like guns, then?”
“Nope. But I liked spending time with my dad. And I happened to be good at it. Do you like guns?”
I tried not to smile at the attitude in her question, like my enquiry had been judgmental. It was not. “They have their uses.”
Our eyes held for a second too long, that awareness raking over my skin. Her arms dropped from her chest as her attention dropped to my mouth. I wasn’t sure she even realized how much she gave away.
Damn it.
“How long were you in the military? Which division? Navy, army?”
“Royal Marines.” Subject change. “I actually really need to finish up some work. Are you all right to head back to the house? Keep yourself occupied for a bit?” It was rude, but I needed some space from the blond and her many questions.
Embarrassment tinged her cheeks and she nodded rapidly. “Of course.”
“I’ll be over in a wee while,” I said, trying to ignore the prickle of guilt.
“Take your time.” She waved those manicure-tipped fingers at me without looking back and disappeared out the barn door.
A few seconds later, I heard the front door of my home shut and Akiva give a welcoming bark inside. My dog, who barely liked anyone but me, liked Tierney Silver, of all people.
I blew out a breath, running a hand through a beard I kept meaning to cut. “Well … fuck.”
4. Tierney
Being a little sneaky, I’d had a quick, curious look around the rest of the house. I’d discovered two rooms down a hallway off the kitchen. One was a bedroom and had a book on the bedside table and a TV on a cabinet opposite it, so I guessed it was Ramsay’s. The other room was full of expensive gym equipment, which, gathering from his impressive physique, the man used daily.
I also noted a set of bagpipes propped up against the farthest wall and wondered if Ramsay played.
I’d always liked the bagpipes, but I had friends who couldn’t stand the sound. When I was a kid, my parents had taken me to Scotland every other summer to visit my grandmother. My mom was born in Edinburgh and raised in Scotland and had left to attend college in the US. She’d ended up getting a job after graduation and staying in the States.
One summer, Dad had gotten tickets to the Royal Edinburgh Military Tattoo, which was this event on Edinburgh Castle’s esplanade. Military bands played along with other performers from across the world. I remembered hearing the drums from the military pipe band and then the wail of the bagpipes before I even saw the musicians. The sound thrummed through my chest and caused goose bumps to spring to life along my arms and down my spine.
I’d been enthralled by it.
Mom had sat through it with a pained expression. She hated the bagpipes. I didn’t understand it. I didn’t understand why she couldn’t hear what I heard. There was something so mournful and haunting about them, and yet, triumphant and resilient. A strange dichotomy for a musical instrument.
If Ramsay played the pipes … one, it made him hotter than I already thought he was; and two, I wanted to hear him play.
He was such a mystery. A tall, muscular, talented, woodworking, book-reading, hot Scottish hermit of a mystery.