“Gala? Interesting. It’s such a small town. Most travelers stay in Edinburgh. What’s in Gala for you?”
“A good friend of mine,” I tell him. “He’s supposed to be here tonight actually. Declan McKinnon, have you seen him?”
“That wee bastard?” he belts out.
He must see my confused expression when he explains, “Scottish humor, dear. It’s a friendly boast.”
“Oh.”
I take a sip of my champagne while he adds, “We both attended university here,” and then is cut off by a gentleman at the microphone announcing that dinner will be served shortly and to enjoy the band and some dancing.
I scan the room again, which is filled with a mass of people, chatting, drinking, and mingling. Voices are quiet, aside from the random, boisterous comments from the men. Rich with their accents, I must stand out to them as Lachlan introduces me to a few people while everyone makes their way around.
My attention is half-hearted as the time passes. Lachlan accompanies me through the dinner service, and while he’s visiting with a few other people seated at our table, I finally spot Declan. He’s in the back of the room, at the bar, with a woman on his arm as he converses with a couple men.
I stare.
I can’t take my eyes off of him as he stands there in a kilt. Good God, he’s perfection. I’m used to seeing him in a dressed down tuxedo at black tie events, but there is nothing dressed down about him right now. Proper in a black jacket, red and black kilt with a matching red and black tartan fly plaid that’s slung over his shoulder, and a black leather sporran that hangs low from his hips. Down to his flashes, this man is obscenely beautiful, and I want to rip that wench right off his arm.
I notice he isn’t paying much attention to the woman as he drinks from his old-fashioned and continues to talk to the men. I want to jump up and go to him—eager to be in his presence, but I know the reaction I’ll get. It’s the one I fear, but expect. The one I hate, but deserve.
“Something got your eye?” Lachlan says.
I turn and smile, telling him, “I found my friend.”
“Ahh,” he sighs as he spots Declan at the bar.
But before I can make a move, a man steps to the podium on the stage and begins talking, starting off with gratitude for the attendance this evening. I watch as Declan makes his way over to the stage while the gentleman continues to address all the attendees.
He’s so close, but he’s further away than he’s ever been, even before we ever met, because his hatred cleaves wounds deeply. And my betrayal spears even deeper.
Declan’s name is announced as the quintessential donor to the foundation. His name is praised for his time and devotion to the charity, and the round of applause is loud as the podium is handed over to him and he steps behind it. There’s no arguing his humility; I see it in his expression. He feels the attention is undeserved.
He thanks the audience, and I melt into the sound of his voice. His accent, lighter than most others in this room, seduces me as I sit here. I feel exposed, as if people can see how my body is responding to his voice. My stomach trills and my heart quickens in luring excitement. I miss that voice. Miss it whispering softly in my ear, barking his possessive words to me, claiming that I’m his property, growling when he would come. Every sound of his enraptured me the way it’s doing right now.
Giving his speech about the importance of proper education for all children, regardless of social and economic stature, I continue to admire the great things he is doing to his outfit. I take in every piece of the man I have been mourning for the past couple months. I can finally look at him without him spitting his enmity at me. So for now, I worship this moment in time where I see my old, confident Declan, speaking gracefully, loving his smile when he chuckles at his small banter.
When his speech comes to an end and he presents his substantial donation to the foundation president and encourages everyone to take out their checkbooks to do the same. He’s showered with admiration for his time and efforts with grand applause, which he humbly accepts.
Stepping down from the podium, he shakes hands with the many committee members, and with all eyes on him, I know this is my moment. As conniving as it is, it’s the only way I can get his attention without him lashing out.
“Excuse me,” I say softly to Lachlan as I stand and set my napkin on my seat.
Keeping my eyes on Declan, I make my way through the people who are now leaving the tables behind to socialize and dance. As I approach, the woman I saw him with earlier is back at his side. She’s tall—much taller than my petite stature—with raven hair that’s pulled in a sophisticated bun at the nape of her neck. I quickly remind myself of what Declan and I shared not too long ago, and right my posture as I step next to the both of them. When the man in front of me shakes Declan’s hand and steps away, green eyes widen in surprise.