Writing Mr. Right (22 page)

Garrett eyed her a moment. “Do ye now?”

“Mhmm,” she said, glancing into a small kebab shop, pointing excitedly at the sign on the window – Deep Fried Mars Bar. He laughed and followed her in. She ordered her desert as her phone went off in her pocket. She checked it quickly before continuing, laughing softly to herself.

“Who’s textin ye? I’ll kill im.”

She smiled at him. “Samantha. She found a photo album from our trip to Scotland when we were little. Says she’s going to post it on my Author Page on Facebook and embarrass the shit out of me.”

“I wannae see.”

Georgia laughed, turning away. She fumbled with her phone a moment. “It won’t open for some reason.”

“What rubbish! Lemme see!”

He grabbed at her phone, but all that appeared on the screen was a text from her sister.
How many blow jobs have you performed today?

Which was responded to with,
Not half as many as I intend to.

He grinned from ear to ear as she blushed, yanking her phone away.

“I cannae see it,” he said.

Georgia looked at her phone, then muttered something about texting the picture to him as she hustled up to the shop counter and out of reach of Garrett’s ass grabs.

“Well, who have ye met, like? Go on, then.”

She shot him a side look, pondering. “Well, Cassie, for one. She’s very similar to Heidi.”

Heidi was a blonde German girl held captive on Captain Douglas MacCready’s ship in
The Seafarer
. She was bubbly and forward, and the written description matched her almost perfectly, he realized.

“So Heidi wasn’t based on Cassie?”

Georgia shook her head. “No. I met Cassie after I finished
The Seafarer
.”

“Well, seems like an interesting coincidence, ae?”

“Maybe.”

She shot a bright smile at the man behind the counter as he handed her the bundle of deep fried, chocolatey goodness. Georgia waited until they were outside to take her first bite. Then she moaned. He couldn’t help but smile as he watched her.

She offered him a bite, but he refused, letting her savor the precious thing. “Anyone else, then?”

“Yes. Many.

“Anybody I’d know?”

She smiled, but turned away. “You.”

He stopped, turning to her. “Ye wrote me before ye met me, ye say?”

She took another bite of her Mars Bar, nodding as caramel curled onto her chin. “I think I might have, yes.”

“Well, who am I, then?”

“I don’t want to say.”

Garrett took a moment, remembering her books. There were sea captains, bootleggers, toothless vagrants and kilt wearing Lairds. He could only imagine which of these characters she likened him to. “Ye can’t tell me that and not elaborate, Georgie. I won’t have it.”

“I’m afraid you’ll make fun of me. And I don’t know. It’s kinda a big deal to me. I don’t want to admit it out loud.”

Garrett turned to stand before her as they headed up the Royal Mile. The road was busy with foot traffic at this hour, the festivals still in full swing even in late August. He stood in her way, shooting her a stern glare. “Tell me about this character, then, ae?”

She took the last bite of her Mars Bar, wiped her chin, and nodded, mid bite. “God, ok.”

Garrett waited, watching her face as she scanned the shops as though a window there might hold the answers. “He’s dark haired. Tall – 6’3” exactly.”

Garrett’s exact height. “Is he really? Interesting.”

She licked her lips, missing a spot of chocolate at the corner of her mouth. Without thinking, he reached to her face and wiped it away with his thumb.

She smiled at him. “He is Scottish, wears a kilt.”

“Of course he does, he’s in your books.”

She laughed. “He spanks during sex -”

“Careful, ye’ll get me all excited in the middle of downtown.”

He reached for her, wrapping his arms around her as he nuzzled into the crook of her neck, whispering inappropriate things. She giggled against him, her cheeks turning pink.

“He has green eyes. His middle name is James. He was born in Inverness.”

Garrett stopped a moment, appraising her. “Well, that is a bit uncanny, isn’t it?”

She took a deeper breath, biting her lip between her teeth.

“His Mum passed when he was twenty nine. He has a scar on his right hand from a fishing accident when he was eleven, and his birthday is August 13
^th
.”

Garrett stopped and stared at her, waiting. “How do ye know my birthday?”

She closed her eyes and blew air out through pursed lips. “I didn’t.”

Garrett rubbed his hand over his face, feeling the day’s stubble scratching at his fingers. “That’s all in your books?”

She nodded.

“But ye wrote them before ye met me.”

She opened her eyes and looked at him, giving him a sad smile. “I know.”

He swallowed. It felt as though someone had walked over his grave. “Well, that’s a mad coincidence, ae?”

She turned from him, heading further up the street. “I never used to believe in coincidence.”

Garrett made to go after her, but something pulled at his feet, holding him to that spot. He didn’t know what it was about Georgia’s confession that unsettled him so – was it the notion that she might only want him because he reminded her of a character in her books? Was it that he feared he couldn’t live up to her expectations? He wasn’t perfect. He couldn’t be further from perfect if he’d been shot out of trebuchet from it.

Christ, she’s gonna realize how far from perfect ye are one day, and suddenly you’ll be sleeping in separate bedrooms, wondering what went wrong, he thought.

He wasn’t a perfect man. He would never be a perfect man.

He watched her walking away slowly, a strange pressure in his chest.

A short bald man with a beer in his hand appeared just outside the nearby pub, brandishing two pieces of paper in his hand. “Ye two interested in the tattoo, then? Got two tickets. Dinnae want anything for em, cannae go.”

Before Garrett could answer, Georgia beamed at the man. “Is the tattoo still going on?”

“Aye, tonight is the last night. Ye want em, they’re yours.”

Georgia turned to Garrett, a look of hopeful expectation on her face. Her expression fell instantly.

“Nae, I’ve nae interest,” Garrett said, without pause.

The man pressed the tickets into Georgia’s hand and was gone, grumbling in a half inebriated stupor of displeasure and impatience. He was back in the pub before Georgia said a word.

She turned to Garrett, tentatively. “I’d really like to go. It’s starting in a little bit, we could just make our way up.”

“Ye can go if ye like. I meant it, I’ve nae interest.”

Georgia looked up at him. “What do you mean? Go without you?”

“Aye, if ye like.”

She frowned at him, her brow furrowed. “Well, I don’t like. I want to go with you.”

Garrett scoffed. “Good luck with that. Ye couldn’t pay me to go to that bloody event. I fuckin hate the whole notion.”

“How can you hate the ta -”

“Look, it doesn’t matter, Georgie. If ye want tae go, go. I’ll nae stop ye.”

She frowned with such intention, he feared she’d burn a whole in the sidewalk with her eyes.

“Come now, ye want tae go. Don’t be sour about it.”

Her expression changed, as though she meant to scold him.

She stood there a moment, fondling the tickets in her hand. She took a breath as if to speak, then paused. “I’ve only been here six hours and already you don’t want to spend time with me?”

“What? Christ no, woman. It’s no like that. Ye want to do anythin else – literally, any bloody thing else, and I’ll do it. I’d love tae. No that. I fuckin hate the bloody tattoo.”

“Why?”

“It disnae matter.”

“It does matter!”

Garrett threw up his hands, sighing. “Why?”

“Because if it was something you wanted to do and I didn’t want to, I would still go because I wanted to be with you.”

“Aye, and if it were the other way around and ye didnae want tae go, I wouldn’t ask ye to.”

The two of them stood in the middle of the Royal Mile, the sound of the crowds bustling up the hill as people filtered in to watch the grand display. Garrett watched her for response. She was angry, and he knew it, but he would not go to the bloody tattoo. Not for anyone, not even for her.

“Is this what the week is going to be like?”

Garrett furrowed his brow. “What’s that, now?”

“I’m good company in the bedroom, but once that wears off, you’ll leave me to my own devices? Pretend you have to work, or you’re too busy, or you just don’t fucking want to?”

“Georgia, you’re overreacting. This isnae some pattern or god awful shite like that. Christ, if ye wanted tae do anything else -”

“I’m going to the tattoo. I’ll see you later.”

With that, she turned up the Royal Mile and marched away.

See, Georgia, he thought. I’m no bloody perfect.

“Fine,” he said, watching her go. He thought to follow her, thought to try to explain himself, but his reasons were his, and he felt hurt that she would try to ignore that in favor of her own touristy desires. He turned in the opposite direction and sauntered away, making a point to look as unaffected as possible. He passed by his book shop, passed by the bridge and the tourist shop with its blaring bagpipes, closing up their doors for the evening. Garrett had no destination, he simply had to find something to do while Georgia crammed herself into a crowd of tourists and Scots to watch a bunch of kilted idiots play the bagpipes and prance around. Fuck that, he thought. He could live a happy life never hearing a single word about the bloody tattoo, again.

He turned the corner and pushed his way into a nearby pub, ignoring the small Celtic band playing in the corner. He headed straight for the bar. He settled in for a pint, and fumed.

Twenty minutes later, his phone chimed in his pocket.

Had she come to her bloody senses?

The text notification appeared and he tapped the button. The delayed message popped up in bright, unaffected language, thirty minutes late.

A baby me in Scotland when I was eight years old.

It was the picture from her sister. He pulled up the picture as he took a long swig on his beer. Baby Georgia appeared before him, long braids hanging down over her purple collared shirt. Garrett swallowed so hard, his throat burned.

Dear God, what had he done?

CHAPTER TWELVE

The fireworks blazed across the sky in purples and greens, and dozens upon dozens of proud Scots marched across the concrete outside Edinburgh Castle, piping until their lips were numb, she was sure. Yet, Georgia couldn’t rejoice in the spectacle. All she could think about was Garrett.

He hadn’t come to the tattoo – to the bloody tattoo. It was the first night they would spend together; their first day as willing companions, two people who claimed to want to spend time with each other, yet here she was watching the tattoo, alone.

Who doesn’t he want to go to the bloody tattoo? He’s Scottish, isn’t he?

Samantha texted back, quickly.
I think you’re getting yourself worked up over nothing, sweetheart.

It wasn’t nothing. Not wanting to spend time with her wasn’t nothing. Not wanting her as badly as she wanted him wasn’t nothing. It felt like Walter all over again. Drawn in by the promise of something more, only to be cast off the moment he wasn’t feeling ‘up for it.’

What kind of man asks someone to come across the world if he doesn’t want to spend time with her? It’s like I fell for it again.

Georgia, chill out for me, alright? Just talk to him after it’s over
, Sam texted back.

Georgia sat in her seat, the second ticketed seat empty beside her, and fought the urge to weep. She’d longed for him for so long only to arrive and be disappointed. She’d scolded herself for it over the months, working hard to forget him, pretend he didn’t exist, that he didn’t haunt her dreams. Every time he looked at her, she was battling with the urge to pour her heart out and declare herself. Because, if she did that, he would run away. She’d only met him once when she’d started dreaming about him – falling asleep with a smile on her face just thinking about him. What kind of person falls in love with someone after one night?

And she didn’t even want to think about his ‘just a coincidence’ comment.

Because talking about it only reminded her of Walter. Garrett wasn’t the first dark haired, green eyed man to cross her path and make her believe for the first time in her life, the words she wrote might bring her some joy. Not like writing her sister a quick note, declaring her the brightest star at her new law firm, nor like jotting down one line on a post-it for Cassie when she was stressing over a date. Both notes had come to be, exactly as she’d written them, but no matter how many times she wrote her own wishes on paper – for love, for a family, for a person, not a place to call home – none of them ever worked. Not for her. Not for this.

She could write books, sell millions of copies, travel the world on seemingly unending book tours – those dreams came true without a second glance. Yet, she give all that success up in a heartbeat to know what it felt like to be truly loved.

Why she’d thought for a second she could have something feel this good for more than a second, she’d never understand.

I am going to talk to him. I’ll get a room at the Hyatt again or something and just fly home tomorrow.

She knew she was upset, maybe even overreacting, but overreacting now felt like a far safer choice to waiting until he broke her heart a week, a month - a year from now.

A crescendo of fireworks exploded over head and the crowd cheered, madly. She couldn’t celebrate with the proud Scots. She had to get out of the crowd, back into the open air – she had to tell Garrett she was leaving.

Just the thought of saying those words made her eyes well with tears.

What?! Gigi, calm the fuck down.

She didn’t want to leave. She didn’t want to go anywhere, but home with him. She wanted to see his face, see his smile, hear his voice, and instantly forget how rotten it made her feel to go to the tattoo alone. And she would forget. She made a habit of forgetting all the hurts of the men she let close to her. If they put her down, if they overlooked her, if they disappointed her, criticized her, ignored her, and even abandoned her – none of it mattered, as long as they would apologize, as long as they showed her affection again.