I can only see half of his face, reflected in the mirror at the front of the bus, and part of that is obscured by the peak of the black company-branded cap he's wearing. But I can see enough to glean that there's a strong jaw covered in scruff. A wi...
The sun is setting, turning the clouds above me a beautiful shade of coral, as I sit alone outside tonight's accommodation, cradling a glass of wine and gazing into space.
It's nearly ten pm, but sunset is insanely late in summer in Scotland; the same way sunrise is crazy early. I've always loved the longer days; far preferable to the winter when it starts getting dark around three o'clock in the afternoon. I'm definitely not one of those folk who look forward to autumn: some find it cosy, I find it imposing and oppressive. And you can stuff your pumpkin spiced lattes up your arse because I'm all about sunshine and frozen drinks.
Yeah, I definitely was born in the wrong country.
Dinner was a relatively subdued affair tonight; and Owen declined to join us, saying he was just going to get room service and then go to bed. The food was amazing once again - I had smoked salmon pate with oatcakes to start, followed by haggis, neeps, and tatties, just in case you're curious - but we all seemed a bit knackered. I guess it was a combination of our big walk this morning, along with the remnants of the previous day's hangover still lingering on.
The others went back to their rooms as soon as dinner was over, but the urge to sit outside and watch the sunset was too strong for me to resist, so here I am. Alone on a picnic bench in a deserted beer garden, a little bit tipsy, and wondering what the hell I'm going to do about my newly reawakened feelings.
Idly scrolling through my phone, I suddenly remember I'd promised I would send the photos from Fyrish to our group chat. I pull up my gallery and nod in approval - Owen certainly knows what he's doing with a camera phone. No blur or terrible angles on his watch. I guess that's something you perfect early on in your tour guide career.
I zoom in on the first photo, now shaking my head as I realise I hadn't yet assumed my relaxed-but-not-really pose in this one; I clearly hadn't been aware the photo was actually being taken. Instead, I have my arms folded across my chest and a slightly appraising stare, and - oh god - this must have been when I was eyeing Owen up. Did he notice? I decide to not include that particular photo when I'm sending the others on to my friends.
Somehow, I find myself on TripAdvisor next, looking up Owen's company. It's flooded with five-star reviews, praising the various different tours and guides.
The clientele largely tends to be tourists from outside the UK, usually older, but I notice some younger groups pop up too . . . And a couple of the females are very forthright in their reviews about a certain guide's attractiveness. He even makes an appearance in a few photos with them, smiling and handsome, and the perfect advert for his own business.
I find myself wondering if he gets romantically involved with anyone on his tours. He is single, after all. And there must be a fair bit of temptation. The thought makes my stomach churn and my mouth dry, and I take a massive gulp of wine in an attempt to remedy this. Which I promptly start choking on.
And, of course, the man himself appears as I'm midway through my choking fit. Apparently, he seems to have some sort of sensor fitted to alert him to my stupidity.
"Are you okay?" His tawny coloured eyebrows rise briefly in alarm, and I wave my arm around, trying to catch my breath.
"I'm fine," I say finally. My face must be crimson by now. "Thought you were having an early night?" I flip my phone facedown on the bench as I realise my browser is still open on a photo of him.
He shakes his head. "I can't really do early nights; I generally don't sleep that well."
That makes two of us. If I can manage four or five hours of uninterrupted sleep, I consider that a victory. Back when we were Facebook friends, many of our chats happened in the middle of the night. It always made me feel like we were in our own little bubble while everyone else slept around us. I loved it.
"Why did you say that then?" I find myself blurting out. He shrugs.
"I didn't want you all to feel obligated to hang out with me again," he says simply.
"My friends love you, Owen," I tell him grudgingly. "And they don't suffer fools gladly - especially those of the male variety. If they're asking you to dinner or whatever, it means they like your company."
He hesitates. "But I don't want you to be uncomfortable."
I can see how much he means this, and my heart softens slightly. "I'm not," I lie, and pat the bench beside me. "Do you want to sit for a minute?" He nods, looking relieved, and sinks down onto it.
"Look, Mirren, I just want you to know . . . When Kieran asked me for this favour, I initially had no idea you would be part of the group. He said it was his girlfriend and three friends, and somehow didn't think it was relevant to mention you were one of the friends."
"Classic Kieran," I snigger, taking a more delicate sip of my wine this time. My brother always forgets that I even exist when Nessa is around. I'm also fairly certain he has no idea that Owen and I were ever close.
"When I got the details through and spotted your name, I did consider trying to swap with one of my other guides . . . But it was all very last minute and I couldn't make it work."
Hurt takes a dagger and twists it directly into my heart. So he'd been trying to avoid me?
"I wanted to see you, don't get me wrong," he adds, sending my emotions topsy-turvy. "But I didn't want to make your holiday awkward."
"It's fine. It is what it is." I don't really know what else to say in this moment. And somehow, it's not been so bad so far. I'm not ready to admit that out loud, though.
Owen sighs. "So . . . What can I do to make this more fun for you?" He asks, turning towards me, whisky gold eyes inebriating me further. I could easily tumble into them and swim in their depths.
You can take me back to your room, throw me on thebed, and do dirty, dirty things to me? My brain is such a dick sometimes.
He looks briefly horrified, and for a moment, I'm scared he's read my thoughts. "Sorry, I worded that so badly," he mutters. "What I meant was, is there anywhere you might like to visit to make this tour more fun for you?"
"Glasgow Airport departures?" I suggest. I'm only half joking.
He rolls those beautiful eyes at me. "Not helpful. Let's see . . ." He closes his eyes briefly, deep in thought, and it gives me yet another chance to drink him in. "Got it! You wanted a nice holiday abroad with a pool and presumably a beach, right?" I nod. "We'll be over in the west coast in just a couple of days, and the weather has been picking up. I can take you to plenty of amazing beaches."
I can feel myself perk up. Maybe the beach towel and swimsuits I over-optimistically packed will come in handy after all.
"Is that a smile I see?" He asks teasingly, clearly noticing my lips starting to twitch upwards at the corners. "Would suggesting a distillery tour or two help even more?"
"It couldn't hurt," I say, trying to keep a straight face. I wish his grin wasn't so addictive. I'm pretty sure there's no rehab in the world that could treat me for being this hooked on a smile.
"Beaches and whisky, duly noted." He stands. "I'll get right on this. See you in the morning, Mirren."
And he heads towards the hotel without a backwards glance . . . While I find myself wishing he could have stayed out here with me a while longer.
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Argh, I just love Owen so much! 💜
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