As he passed, his dark eyes bored into mine, and I tripped over a bump in the sidewalk. Recognition clicked into place and my heart cartwheeled into my throat. It was him—the boy who stood outside my car the day Eric and I broke up! What was he doing here?
I regained my balance, spun around, and almost slammed into an old lady. Apologizing, I stepped around her and searched the people on the sidewalk—a tall man in a knit cap, a young mother with two small children, a short middle-aged man grinning at me, but no beautiful boy in a kilt … anywhere.
“Veronica?”
Kenna walked up beside me and touched my arm, but I couldn’t speak. What were the chances of him being in Bainbridge, Indiana, and now in Alloway, Scotland? And what was with the vanishing act?
“Ken, did you see where that hot guy in the kilt went?” I searched the other side of the street.
“Um … what?” I met Kenna’s wide gray eyes, her brows arched in surprise.
“Come on, you couldn’t miss him. Tall, blond, gorgeous—”
She was shaking her head in denial before I even finished. “I haven’t seen anyone in a kilt, let alone a hot boy. And believe me, I’ve been looking.”
I blinked several times as if recalibrating my eyes. I was totally losing it. Pain throbbed through my head and I paused to massage my temples.
“Are you okay?” Kenna waited patiently for me to finish.
Had I imagined him? Again? Maybe it was jetlag—or a brain tumor. Or maybe he had followed me from Bainbridge. Then why did he keep evaporating into thin air? Just like the handkerchief in the parking lot. I kept my eyes closed for several seconds, struggling to gain control, before opening them and focusing on my friend’s concerned face. “Just tired. I could really use some caffeine right now.”
“Then you’re in luck.”
She looped her arm through mine and led me down the walk to an adorable whitewashed building, a tiny oval sign announcing Poet’s Corner Café. We squeezed past two round tables with sun-bleached umbrellas and entered the shop, a tinkling bell announcing our presence. The sharp scents of spices, rich coffee, and fresh baked goods swirled around us.
After getting drinks and scones, we camped out at a table by the front windows. I watched the street, letting the hot, rich liquid soothe my frazzled nerves. Kenna was right—best cocoa ever. But it didn’t stop me from staring at every person who passed, searching for him.
Something in my gut told me my kilt-boy sightings weren’t tumor related. Maybe I just needed a fantasy—to believe a better world existed for me than the one waiting back in Bainbridge. To have someone special in my life who wouldn’t cheat with my rival or leave me … so I was conjuring up the perfect boy.
Wait. Escaping into fantasy was a symptom of schizophrenia, wasn’t it?
Kenna tapped her foot impatiently. “Are you going to tell me what’s eating you?”
“Nothing.”
“Reeaally?”
I pulled my gaze away from the window long enough to see her prop her chin in her hand to stare at me. “My Veronica would’ve already wolfed down that strawberry scone and gone back for seconds.”
I glanced down at the calorific pastry on my plate and then back out the window. “I—”
A tall blond figure rounded the corner across the street. I shot out of my chair, hot chocolate sloshing onto my fingers as I pressed my face to the window. The man turned toward us and … he was old enough to be my dad.
I sunk back into my seat and pressed a napkin to my stinging fingers. This was ridiculous. Chancing a glance across the table, I found my normally verbose BFF wide-eyed and speechless. I knew I had to start talking, but I couldn’t explain what I didn’t understand myself. “Would you still love me if I were crazy?”