One Fond Kiss
C.C. Williams
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2012 C.C. Williams
One Fond Kiss is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Andrew MacMurray wrestled his luggage down the narrow corridor of the rail car, searching for his seat.
The travel department had booked him a semi-private sitting compartment. He had hoped for a sleeper because that was what everyone had in the movies. He'd always wanted to find out what one was like. However, his train ride was only a few hours. Since the cars appeared nearly deserted, he might end up having the small room to himself anyway.
Finding his compartment, Andrew fought his suitcase and backpack through the tight doorway. The cabin was quite small, but appeared comfortable enough. Two leather-padded bench seats faced one another across the confined space, each sufficient to hold only two adults. Overhead racks filled the upper space above the seats and the large window. Andrew heaved his two-suiter up on to the tubular shelf, set his backpack on the floor, and laid his jacket over an arm rest. He chose the side of the cabin that faced forward, wanting to look in the direction the train would be traveling on the way to Aberdeen.
Andrew sighed. We should have been here together. Corey had wanted to visit ‘the old country,’ as he’d jokingly called it. With the last name of MacMuro, Corey had been by his side since their first day of Naval Recruit Training at Great Lakes. Despite the military’s “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” policy, Andrew had enlisted in the Navy right out of college, wanting to honor his father and uncles who’d served. Corey’s motives had been more pragmatic: it had been either the military or a stint in jail, and NRT had been the shorter drive.
Andrew smirked to himself. My bad boy.
They’d talked for hours about a trip to Scotland, planning bike tours, arguing about Loch Ness; Corey had even gone so far as researching Highland clans. Even now, two years after the accident, Andrew could still hear Corey practicing his broad Scotch accent. Well, I’m here now. Thanks to Watkins, Baker and Howe.
One of the top advertising agencies in New York, WBH had swooped in and cherry-picked MacDonegal Spirits when the Aberdeen liquor exporter had drop kicked their old publicists after a failed Super Bowl campaign: The eight-million-dollar/thirty-second-long pile of pooch poop had made the Scottish firm a hot prospect. Tyler Howe had assigned Andrew the account. “MacMurray,” he’d said, “with a name like that you’re a shoe-in!” Apparently the twenty-something partner theorized Andrew's Scottish heritage would help clinch the deal. Andrew got the distinct impression Tyler thought the Scots still spoke Gaelic. Nonetheless, Andrew was glad for the opportunity and, at thirty-two, he realized he was a little old to be just getting an account representative position—but a paid-for trip to the United Kingdom, complete with an expense account, wasn’t a bad perk.
Andrew had arrived in Edinburgh the previous night and seen nothing but rain-haloed halogen streetlights on the way to his hotel; this morning he’d eaten a quick breakfast and caught a cab to Queens Street Station, so again no sight-seeing. The train trip to Aberdeen was to last most of the morning, which had dawned clear and sunny; he anticipated taking in a little of the countryside along the way. Hopefully I won't have to make small talk with some local.
He contemplated his likeness in the smudgy glass, laid over the bustling commuters on the platform. Reddish blond hair and freckles gave him a youthful air. He could almost imagine the scar above his left eye gone, it was so barely visible. The mark wasn’t the only thing fading; he struggled to picture Corey beside his reflection.
With another heavy sigh Andrew bent over and fumbled through his backpack for his e-reader. He’d downloaded the new George R. R. Martin novel and couldn’t wait to get back to the story. Pressing the power button, he settled into the corner; with a soft chime the train’s annunciator declared their departure from Edinburgh.
~~~
The train shuddered as it pulled into Stirling station, jarring Andrew out of his nap. The car’s motion, combined with his shortened rest from the night before, had lulled him to sleep. Wiping a trail of saliva off his cheek, Andrew bent over to retrieve his Kindle from the floor, glad he had been alone in the cabin.
No sooner had that thought crossed his mind than the door to the compartment slid open. Andrew continued to root around on the floor as he glanced toward the door. A pair of wing-tips with a military-grade obsidian shine and a set of hirsute calves and ankles entered the compartment. Andrew’s glance continued upward along muscular calves to a tartan skirt.
Then Andrew remembered where he was and realized it wasn't a skirt at all. It was a kilt, and the person wearing it was certainly not a lady. Andrew found his e-reader and sat up to get a better look at his traveling companion.
In Andrew’s opinion men wearing kilts was silly, and he was glad his father and uncles insisted on "kilting up" only for funerals and holidays. However, the man in this kilt wasn’t silly at all—he looked just plain hot. Tall, with broad shoulders, a wide chest and slim hips, his white shirt, black tie and suit coat over his arm marked him as all business. A briefcase completed the appearance of the well-groomed businessman. Extremely handsome, his face held strong, tanned planes with steely blue eyes. Short-trimmed black hair wore touches of distinguished gray. He seemed to Andrew to be about forty years old.
The Scotsman stuck out his free hand. "How do you do, lad? It appears we'll be traveling together today. I'm Brian." He pronounced it Bree-un. His voice was rich, a dark baritone, reminiscent of peat and aged whiskey. A shiver ran down Andrew’s spine.
The ad man strained to keep from losing his composure. It was funny to hear such a strong accent spoken outside of a movie. Maintaining his self-control, he grasped the proffered hand in return. "I'm Andrew." Impressed by the firm grip, he shook hands a little too fervently, a little too long. The man’s nearness flustered Andrew. "I'm from A . . . .America. Well, New York, really. I'm in Eng—er, I mean Scotland on business. Where are you headed?" I’m blathering like a tongue-tied school boy. He bit the inside of his cheek to shut himself up.
Retrieving his hand, Brian placed his coat and briefcase on the shelf with Andrew's gigantic case and took his seat across from Andrew. "I'm bound for Portlethen, just south of Aberdeen," he smiled. "I've been on business myself." The train lurched and began to move along the track.
"Oh, me, too. Uh . . . headed to Aberdeen I mean." Andrew smiled, still unsettled by his companion’s good looks, and returned to his reading. Having a companion in the compartment isn't going to be as rough as I expected. The train picked up speed and left the station.
~~~
Brian hated having to change trains.
His trip from Glasgow to Portlethen was supposed to be quiet and uneventful, but the closure of the Inverkeithing train bridge was wreaking havoc with his routine. He always looked forward to the uninterrupted ride after dealing with vendors. However, what had started out as a frustrating morning was now improving.
Andrew the American businessman was very attractive. He was in good shape, lean like a long-distance runner, all long muscle and sinew. Brian gauged his age as mid-twenties. And attracted as well, the Scot suspected, based on the over-long handshake and blush. This could be an enjoyable ride.
He opened his book and pretended to read.
~~~
Andrew had been totally engrossed in the action of his novel on the flight over the Atlantic, but now he was having trouble keeping his mind on the convoluted plot. He found himself stealing glances at Brian. Brian was reading—an actual paperback—and rarely looked up at the changing scenery; clearly he travelled this route regularly. The urban jungle changed to the lush green countryside of rural Scotland. Occasionally Andrew would catch a whiff of something sexy—a sharp woodsy scent—Brian’s aftershave.