Scot of My Dreams Read Free

starved for attention.
    I was the only person getting off. No one seemed curious about my departure, perhaps because there were only a handful of passengers remaining. I hoisted my backpack onto my shoulder, picked up my suitcase, and exited the bus. As my transportation drove away into the mist, I took a deep breath and gave myself a pep talk.
    I couldn’t afford to stay a month at the Hilton, even if such an establishment existed in this part of the world. A hostel would be the ideal compromise. Clean bed. Safe surroundings. Two meals a day if I wanted them. Plus, the opportunity to meet new people.
    Everything was perfect.
    I had spent considerable time online before coming to Scotland, long enough to discover that the modern and fancy hostels were priced accordingly, especially the locations in walking distance of town. The one I had chosen was old, perhaps built in the mid-twentieth century. It offered no private lodging. The only sleeping arrangements were shared rooms for six with a communal bathroom down the hall, men and women on alternating floors.
    The hostel was in walking distance of Inverness if you considered four miles walking distance. I loved to walk, I told myself stoutly. The exercise would be good for me. Fresh air. Healthy activity. I would go home to Georgia at the end of the month a new woman.
    I opened the front door of the building and stepped inside. The smell of cooked cabbage permeated the beige lobby. At the front desk, a man who bore a striking resemblance to Rip Van Winkle greeted me with a gruff hello.
    “I’m Willow Ryman,” I said. “I have a reservation.”
    Without speaking, he looked me up and down, then shuffled through a stack of papers and grunted, “Need a credit card.”
    I fished it out and handed it over.
    Mr. Winkle ran it through a machine, slid a paper across the counter for me to sign, and offered me an old-fashioned room key attached to a diamond-shaped piece of faded purple plastic. “Dinner’s at six. Room’s on the top floor. Don’t be late.”
    I nodded, deciding that small talk wasn’t required.
    Either I was a very early check-in, or maybe occupancy was down since it was midweek. When I opened the door to 412, I found three sets of bunk beds, but only one of them appeared to be in use. Which was the prime real estate? Top or bottom bunk?
    I’m tall, five foot ten in my bare feet. So I decided I’d be better off with a little more headroom. I chose a bunk near the window with a nice view. After placing my suitcase in one of the six cubicles, I kicked off my shoes and climbed up the ladder, carrying my pack with me.
    Once again, jet lag threatened to pull me under, but I resisted. Instead, I sat cross-legged and stared out across the countryside. I could see a small body of water. Some sheep. What looked to be an old barn. But not much else. Perhaps in the morning if the sun was out I’d get a better sense of where I was.
    I found myself at a loss. In my attempt to be frugal, I had clearly underestimated the inconvenience of being some distance away from the heart of Inverness without a car. Maybe I could rent a bicycle.
    A sudden yawn took me by surprise. I needed to make a plan, but my brain was fuzzy. Though I had gently teased Hayley about all her maps and guidebooks, I realized ruefully that I was under prepared. I had worked at the salon right up until an hour before we left for the airport. I had clothes and a passport with me, but beyond that, I was stymied.
    What did one do in Scotland for a month without transportation or companions? I was supposed to be looking for a wild and wickedly handsome Scotsman like Jamie from Outlander . Someone who might romance me and introduce me the wonders of his homeland.
    So far, meeting Rip Van Winkle was the extent of my interaction with the opposite sex.
    Without fanfare, the door of my room opened and a petite blonde with a ponytail and an extremely fit body bounced into the room. She stopped short when she saw