1
Addie Macrae’s internal compass was irreparably damaged. For all the traveling she did, and the relative ease of navigating a city with English street signs, Edinburgh’s jigsaw puzzle of gray-toned buildings and twisting streets left her head spinning.
Under different circumstances she might’ve been swept away by the city’s lantern-topped streetlights and cobblestone roads, but not while the architecture and charm conspired against her. She’d missed a full thirty minutes of her newest client’s city tour, the last one before their meeting tomorrow.
If she was going to turn The Heart of the Highlands around, revamp their tours, and pull them from the brink of financial ruin, she needed to know what she was walking into. The thrumming in her chest slipped into the realm of heart palpitations, one tier below racing for a connecting flight.
Which she’d already done today.
Striding along another street lined with red and teal storefronts, she tugged at her collar, letting the chilled air slice through the humidity inside her plasticky yellow raincoat. Nothing in sight resembled a staircase at the bottom of Calton Hill—the starting point mentioned on the website.
Gigi, the irritatingly sunny voice of Google Maps, shouted, “Turn left.” She was hopelessly laggy, sending Addie in one direction, then two minutes later changing her mind.
Addie followed another skinny tunnel between buildings constructed long before the invention of motor vehicles. It deposited her into an unmarked courtyard, paths fanning out in all directions.
“Rerouting.”
Grinding her teeth, Addie restarted Gigi, tripped over a cobblestone, and cursed.
Side-eyeing the red battery icon on her phone, she checked the time again. Dammit. At this rate, she’d miss the entire itinerary.
Cars rumbled by on the wrong side of the road as she wound through the bustling downtown and crossed the construction zone that was the North Bridge. A light drizzle began to fall, dripping from her hood and curling the end of her blond braid. Great.
A low brick wall to her left did nothing to contain the old-growth trees threatening to hop the street. She walked right past a staircase tucked between the disheveled, leafless forest before backing up.
Begging to be missed, a miniature blue sign attached to a lamppost pointed up the stairs to Calton Hill. Addie shook her head. How were tourists expected to find this?
Her annoyance drowned out any relief at finding the tour.
As she headed toward the steps, her phone rang. Boss Babe lit up the screen. Devika filled all the roles in Addie’s life: best friend, coworker, mother hen.
They were kindred spirits—always stayed late, snuck champagne and slippers into the office to work through the holidays, and sent each other postcards from airports around the world. Every time one of them got to a new destination, they checked in. Like the lone-women-travelers’ buddy system.
In the haze of lost luggage and misdirection, Addie had forgotten. She answered, “Sorry. I’m here safely, although sans suitcase.” Her green hardside—scuffed, covered in stickers, and affectionately referred to as Frank—had taken an impromptu side trip without her permission.
“That blows. Do they know when it’ll be back?”
Addie started up the stairs, dragging her fingers over the sculpted lion’s head at the base of the shiny black handrail. A tower in the shape of an old-fashioned spyglass rose out of the knotted trees above her. “Hopefully tonight, or I’ll be wearing my airport-acquired rain gear to my meeting.”
Devika laughed. “What’s on the books for today?”
The answer to their running joke was, of course, always, work. Six months ago, her mentor, Marc, started a new agency—Dawsey Travel Consulting—and took Devika and Addie with him. It could hardly be called poaching when she would follow them to the ends of the earth. Addie wanted to be them when she grew up.
Devika was a powerhouse karaoke song. She brought people to their feet with her magnetic presence and got shit done like a boss.
Marc was quieter, more serious, but in an industry full of power-hungry men, he always listened, remembered vegetarian and gluten-free options, and cut off interrupters with a stern “Addie wasn’t done talking.” He was the one person who’d taken a chance on her when she’d been at her lowest, who’d taught her how to keep moving when she wanted to give up.
They were in a million different time zones right now, hustling to build a name for themselves in the competitive world of travel consulting. With ironclad non-competes from their old firm, their client roster currently consisted of Marc’s friends and whatever referrals their favorite clients could muster.
Every project had to go perfectly to make their new business turn a profit. The future of their venture depended on it. And as the junior partner—the first one to be cut if things went sideways—Addie’s job did, too.
She scanned the spiderweb of paths at the top of the hill. A random cannon sat in the median. This had to be the right spot. “Research,” Addie said. “I’m already docking them three points for starting the tour in an obscure location.”
There. A group of ten or so people carrying colorful umbrellas huddled around a man in a kilt. Bingo.
“Are you spying?”
Her stomach clenched at the censure in Devika’s voice. “I’ve got this.” Maybe it was the jet lag making her a bit desperate, or the fear of what would happen if she failed, but she’d take whatever edge she could get. “Besides, gathering intel isn’t illegal,” Addie defended, even though Devika was right to worry.
Rebuilding trust with the client took time she didn’t have, but this was a calculated risk. As a rule, executives didn’t take kindly to corporate espionage in any form. However, executives were also rarely objective about their own tours. They chalked lagging sales up to uninspired marketing or internet algorithms, never to generic itineraries, up-charging for headphones on an audio tour, or rambling guides.
Metrics on destination costs and ticket prices were important, but the way people responded to their guides told an indisputable story. One day trip could show her more about a company’s weak spots than five board meetings combined.
“You better hope you blend in.”
Addie bit her lip as she looked down at her attire. Between the yellow raincoat and poppy-splashed wellies, she looked about as unobtrusive as a knockoff Paddington Bear waving a sign that read I’m crashing your tour. But it was fine, she could totally pass as a tourist. “You’re not helping at all. I have to go be sneaky.”
Devika laughed and made the word bye last for three syllables.
Addie moved to the back
of the group where two people speaking Japanese, having clearly forgotten their raincoats, wore see-through Heart of the Highlands–branded ponchos.
Practical and effective swag, 1 point.
Gigi shouted, “Keep right at the fork!”
All eyes swung to Addie and heat flooded her cheeks as she struggled to turn off the speaker. “Is this the Hidden Gems tour?” she asked the approaching guide. “I got lost...” Addie looked up into crinkling gray eyes.
Whoa.
Curls fell over his forehead, a wavy sea of honey and bronze. On anyone else, she’d have said he was in dire need of a haircut, but it worked for him—matched the close-trimmed beard and the power of his shoulders.
He would be intimidatingly rugged if he wasn’t draped in clear plastic.
“Aye. Welcome. Are you Heather Munro?”
Her gaze slipped down to his navy blue and forest green kilt... Damn.
She’d never considered herself one to swoon over a kilt, but his work boots and rounded calves were doing something to her stomach she couldn’t feasibly attribute to her bumpy flight. The navy cable-knit sweater, too—much better than the frilly pirate shirt that usually accompanied this getup.
Although, it did little to set their guides apart.
Gimmicky uniform, minus 2 points...on anyone else.
The last words he said filtered back to her, and heat crept up her neck. Shit.
“Oh, yes. Hi. That’s me.” Addie was more accustomed to sleeping on planes than in her own bed, but she was clearly more jet-lagged than she’d realized if she couldn’t remember her own fake name.
The guide’s lips curved into an amused smile. “I’m Logan.”
She could tell a lot from a handshake.
Crushing: domineering and a pain in the ass to work with.
Limp: kind but required vast emotional resources to make decisions.
Wet-fish: well...that was never a good sign.
But Logan’s firm handshake was warm. It said: I know what I want. I’m not afraid to ask for help or entertain new ideas.
Not that it mattered. She’d be working with the owner and his son, not the guides.
His grin sent tingles whispering over her skin as he dropped her hand and turned back to the group. “This way to the National Monument of Scotland, built to commemorate those who fought in the Napoleonic Wars.” Logan gestured to the Parthenon-style structure missing two and a half sides of pillars. “Or, as it’s affectionately called, Scotland’s Shame. As you can see, funding ran out rather quickly.” A few snickers and an abundance of smiles followed his remarks.
“Edinburgh is nicknamed the Athens of the North, and these buildings celebrate our architectural feats and enlightenment. But long before the monuments were constructed, Calton Hill was a site for many pagan rituals. My favorite is Beltane, the Celtic festival hailing the reappearance of summer and the fertility of the land. Fire represents the return of the light, and revelers celebrate in its glow.”
Logan could have described the architecture, the historical figures, or
the politics at the time of construction. Addie had been on that kind of tour in the real Athens and knew firsthand how hard it was to keep guests’ interest with dry facts. Instead, Logan’s tales of rejoicing and fire, spirits and drums, enthralled the tourists. The group huddled around him, his voice low and soothing like it’d wrapped around everyone and pulled them in.
If all the guides were this good, Addie wouldn’t need to bring in a story-crafting coach; Logan would make a dishwasher manual sound interesting.
Engaging the guests, 3 points.
“If you fancy a more strenuous walk, you can try Arthur’s Seat.” Logan gestured to the hill in the distance rising as if the earth had pushed it up in three slanted tiers. “Holyrood Palace is down below.”
“Is that where the Queen used to stay?” a pink-haired, twentysomething asked.
“Aye, it’s the royal Scottish residence.”
“Is it on the tour?”
From Addie’s research, The Heart of the Highlands tours didn’t stop at the palace, Edinburgh Castle, or the Royal Mile connecting the two. All missed opportunities.
The way their outdated website—the first thing getting an overhaul—boasted about hidden gems was almost haughty, like the major attractions were beneath them. Logan appeared to be of the same mind as he brushed off the bid. “It’s a fifteen-minute walk if you’re interested,” he said, releasing the group to climb on the National Monument.
Skipping major attractions, minus 5 points.
There was definitely a market for off-the-beaten-path tours...but it wasn’t usually profitable.
Highlights of every country had the broadest market appeal, which meant the highest chance of success for their clients and Addie’s company. She needed a portfolio project to win new business. Itineraries with easily recognizable destinations to show the value Dawsey Travel Consulting brought to the table.
She’d recommend scrapping this tour in favor of the city-center hot spots. Who came to Edinburgh and didn’t want to visit the castle?
Addie wandered to the gravel path at the edge of the site, rubbing her frozen hands together. The smell of autumn’s leftover leaves hung heavy in the chilled, December air.
Below her, the hill tumbled down to sandstone buildings pressed together all the way to the silver coast as the last rays of light settled on slate-peaked roofs.
Logan stopped beside her, his hands clasped behind his back. Their eyes met, but instead of the reflex smile that accompanied accidental eye contact with strangers, a tiny jolt of electricity zipped from him to her, supercharging her nervous system. Logan’s eyebrows lifted as if he felt it, too.
Addie scuffed her boot over a clump of grass. “You can see all the way to the ocean,” she said, blaming the panoramic view for stealing all her insightful commentary.
“The Firth of Forth. It’s an estuary that meets the North Sea,” he said, like he truly cared that she understood the difference.
Her lips twitched to hold
back a smile. “Is that like a fjord?”
“Similar...” He turned and narrowed his eyes. “You’re taking the piss, aren’t you?”
Addie grinned, and the reappearance of Logan’s dimple stirred up some fluttery nonsense in her chest.
Small talk came easily to her—a helpful by-product of traveling so frequently for her job—but Logan’s intense eye contact and stubbled jawline knocked her off-kilter. She rolled the nylon strap of her shoulder bag between her fingers and kept her attention resolutely on the estuary.
Logan collected the group, walking backward on the path. As they passed the newly renovated observatory, Logan chronicled its two-hundred-year history.
Detailed commentary on historical buildings no one really cares about, minus 2 points.
“The proper, professional photos from Calton Hill are taken from right over here. Now, I want you to watch your shoes as we walk this way. Don’t spoil the big reveal.”
Logan’s face held the suppressed excitement of someone leading a friend into a surprise party. “Throughout our history, Calton Hill has been the location of our most important festivals. This place ties us to our past, to the mystical beauty our land is known for, to the medieval city that has changed over time but still bears marks of our history and achievements. It’s a reminder of our roots, of where we come from.”
Addie swallowed past the dryness in her throat. She couldn’t remember having roots. They grew shallow in the desert.
When Logan talked about community and history, though, she could almost remember the allure, that longing she’d doused years ago.
“A bit farther.” Logan stepped back with wide arms as if hosting his own HGTV show. “Okay, now look.”
Gasps erupted from the group like drunk people watching fireworks. They scrambled to grab phones and cameras.
Addie gazed out at the view. The Dugald Stewart Monument dominated the foreground, like a tall and skinny stone carousel. Nestled between hills and water, the city spread out below them. A pink-lit Ferris wheel spun at the base of a blackened spire, and a clock tower’s pearl face glowed in the distance.
“We call this the gloaming, where time is suspended between day and night.”
Addie closed her eyes and breathed in, a hint of salt lingering in the humid air. An undercurrent buzzed lightly in the breeze, a glimmer of mysticism, like the leftover magic of standing stones and faeries.
Edinburgh Castle ruled the skyline—a silhouette against the golden light hanging on the horizon, balancing the purple sky above. The blush of the waning light echoed those early mornings in the desert, so far away, and so long ago.
Once every fall, Addie’s mom had climbed into her bed before dawn and whispered, “Rise
and shine, baby.”
Her dad made hot chocolate in the light of the range hood, while Addie dressed in layers of winter coats. They squished into the front seat of their beat-up pickup truck and drove into the desert. The headlights shone on worn-down center lines, the stars a twinkling map, as they searched for wonder, their wheels kicking up red dirt in billowing shadows behind them.
They stepped into the cold morning air, and Addie’s mom wrapped a black-and-white plaid blanket around her shoulders as her dad handed her a thermos. They made their way past boulders and scrubby bushes, only the sound of their footsteps filling the air, as if the dawn held too much power and they’d wreck it with words.
With mittened hands curled around cocoa cups, they settled on rocky seats.
Off in the distance, in the bowl of the valley, hot-air balloons filled, glowing like rainbow bubbles expanding in the night.
Only when all the balloons hung in the sky, embracing the pink clouds of morning, did they speak.
Her dad wanted to explain the physics of flight, but her mom shushed him. Eyes shining, she said, “Watching them rise, one after another, it feels like magic. Like anything is possible.”
After Addie’s mom died, when her dad had shut himself away and that feeling was nowhere to be found, Addie would drive their white pickup into the desert. The patchwork of rough cracks on the leather seats scraped her bare legs, and she had to pound the radio to keep the static down, but anything was better than the crushing silence of the house. She drove those same back roads, the ones the desert might reclaim at any moment, the pavement rippling with summer heat, searching for the wonder she was terrified she’d never find again.
Addie pressed the heel of her hand hard against the twisting ache under her breastbone.
The brush of plastic against her arm startled her, and she took half a step back, blinking fast.
Logan tipped his head, a curl falling to the side. His eyes held a quiet earnestness, soft around the edges, like he could see the memories splashed all over her face. Like he was giving her permission, somehow, to give in to the pull.
She drew in a deep breath, the cold snagging deep in her lungs.
The woman next to Addie whispered to her partner, “Let’s go to the castle tomorrow.”
Addie cleared her throat and refocused on the tourists who’d started to mill about.
Edinburgh was full of stray reminders waiting to jump out and snatch her back into that old grief. But she wasn’t here searching for Scotland’s magic or the disarming beauty in her mom’s old stories.
She was here to work.
And while this was a nice photo op, these people would share a selfie at the castle with turrets and ramparts—or whatever they were called—in the background.
Ninety percent ranked the Royal Mile favorably on TripAdvisor. She couldn’t in good conscience give Logan full marks for a tour that barely broke Edinburgh’s Top 25 Attractions, while he dangled the top destination in front of them.
As they headed back down the hill, Addie compiled a mental report card.
Way off the beaten path, minus 5 points.
Appealing to a wide range of ages and nationalities, not only young Australian backpackers, 2 points.
No stops at a gift shop, minus 2 points.
“I hope you enjoyed our time together. If you have any more questions, you’re welcome to join me for a dram at my favorite pub down the road. Enjoy Scotland.”
Recommending local restaurants near the end of the trip, 1 point.
Addie had never heard of a guide socializing after the tour. He might be highly incentivized, but she got the distinct impression he simply appreciated the company.
Whatever the reason, it was a genius sales strategy. It might be difficult convincing other clients to pay guides for additional tour time, but there was no doubt about the effect on this group. They followed Logan down the hill like ducklings—six, seven, eight, yes, all nine of them. She’d bet her wellies they would recommend this company to everyone they knew.
Making guests feel like friends, 10 points.
She shifted her weight. She shouldn’t follow. Didn’t need to stand out to Logan in case he told his boss she’d been there.
But it was in her best interest to be curious about Logan—professionally, of course. The promise of whisky and a warm pub after a hectic travel day was simply a bonus. Besides, what was the harm in one drink?
She joined the end of the line in her rubber-duck raincoat.
Logan wouldn’t even notice her.
2
Logan ranked the success of his trips by the tourists’ faces. Glassy-eyed from Scotch whisky—at least a six. Smiling at their own Scottish-folklore jokes—a sure eight. He lived for the groups that came for immersion in his land and history.
The tour today was a solid ten, due to one woman in particular.
Heather sat on the far end of the community table, her blond hair curling around her temples and backlit by the hearth. She chatted with the mother and daughter from Spain, all big hand gestures and bright laughter that continued to snag his attention from Ling asking the most direct route to Skye.
As Logan detailed the complicated public transport to the remote island, he sank into the comforting bustle around him. Nothing about this pub had changed in the ten years since he and his brother Jack had known exactly how many drunken, shuffling steps it took from the brass-plated front door to the university residence halls. His old friend, Gavin, tended bar like always. The scent of stale beer greeted him at every visit, the shelf of books ringing the perimeter of the room remained undusted, and the same tweed-outfitted men congregated in front of the footie match.
Logan had brought thousands of tourists through this pub over the years—they’d end up at The White Hart if left to their own guidebook-influenced devices—but he’d never been quite so pleased to see someone settle in here as he was watching Heather unwind her scarf and roll her shoulders against the heat of the fire.
His favorite tourists were the ones who came here for an experience and a connection instead of rushing to cram in the sites. There was no greater joy than knowing someone carried a piece of his world in their hearts when they returned home. ...
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