Doon

Bob stopped nuzzling Janet’s neck as his full attention shifted to me. His low whistle sent goose bumps skittering over my skin. “Well, well. Little Veronica, you’ve grown up rather nicely.”

Gross!

“Veronica! I told you to go put some clothes on!” She shoved against Bob and stood in front of him.

“No problem,” I threw over my shoulder as I clutched the blanket and stomped down the hall. Shouldn’t I be able to walk around my own home without some perv eyeballing me? Last time I checked, this was my house too.

But apparently this was my day for incorrect assumptions, because just as I reached my bedroom door I overheard Mom say, “That girl’s a selfish little leech, just like her father. I can’t wait until we have this place all to ourselves.”

Blindly, I pushed into my room, slammed the door, and threw myself down on my narrow bed. The sobs I’d been holding back since that afternoon crashed over me in waves, leaving me breathless. I cried until my head felt stuffed full of cotton, and my tightly held control lay shattered in jagged pieces around me. How had everything gone so wrong?

Maybe Eric was right about me. Since Dad left, Mom and I had lived in the same house, existing day by day, barely speaking. And with Kenna gone, there wasn’t a single person in Bainbridge I considered a friend. Freezing people out seemed to be my special power.

A sudden chill racked my body. Rolling onto my side, I pulled the covers up to my chin, shaking with a cold that radiated from deep inside me. I squeezed my eyes closed, and a vivid image of golden-boy flooded me with warmth. “Don’t cry, lass.”

Clinging to the gorgeous figment of my imagination like a security blanket, I fell asleep to the lullaby of imaginary bagpipes.

CHAPTER 2 Veronica

Kenna and I strolled down the cobbled streets and crested a hill, me gawking like a tourist, which, technically, I was. Despite my weeks of research, nothing could’ve prepared me for the experience of actually being in this foreign land. From our elevated vantage point, Alloway appeared to be a cluster of whitewashed cottages and medieval stone structures nestled into an emerald landscape so vibrant it dazzled the eyes. Rooftops of every earth-tone variation and angle rose against an impossibly bright blue sky. It was like falling into an oil painting.

The softly rumbling Doon River flowed along the left side of the village. And just off the riverbank, the marble pillars and curved dome of a Grecian monument—dedicated to the poet Robert Burns—created a proud pinnacle that reached toward the heavens.

As we entered the village proper, the sidewalks teemed with people. Store owners propped open doors to let in the fresh breeze. Residents hurried down the crooked lanes, focused on their destinations but smiling. The torrential rains that had been present since we’d first arrived in Glasgow had finally stopped, leaving behind an iridescent coating that reflected the sun like beveled glass. Every light pole, glossy leaf, and brick storefront sparkled, reminding me of something from Narnia.

We followed a curve in the road, and a hint of fresh-brewed coffee wafted through the air to settle on my taste buds.

“Poet’s Corner should be just ahead.” Kenna tucked a strand of crimson hair behind her ear and pointed down the street. She’d wanted to stop in town before heading to the cottage so we could visit her favorite coffee shop. She claimed they had the best cinnamon hot chocolate on the planet.

Walking down this beautiful street with my BFF by my side, an entire summer in Scotland stretching before us, I had to suppress the urge to dance. And, as if to make the moment even more perfect, a tall, well-built boy wearing a kilt strode toward me. I noted the dark-blond waves of his hair, broad cheekbones, and strong nose. He radiated restless power. Wow. He was beyond gorgeous.

He drew closer, his gaze never leaving my face, and his mouth slid into a slow smile.

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 Cafe. 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?”

A tiny smile lifted one side of her mouth. “I already do.” The waves of her vibrant hair caught glints of light