What Lies Between by Charlena Miller

lay a key to this gorgeous secret in my hand. The chance to make this place my home was a life-altering gift from my father to me.
    Locking my gaze on the view, I refused to turn and meet Ben’s eyes, unwilling to break the enchantment of the moment or interrupt the gratitude coursing through my heart.
    A few minutes later he broke the quiet. “Do you fancy some lunch? The wee bit of food you had earlier wasn’t much.”
    What was his thing with pushing food on me all the time? He acted about food the way I imagined a granny would. Yet my stomach rumbled its agreement at his suggestion. “Lunch sounds perfect.”
    I followed him back down to the broch’s grassy floor and chose a large rock for my perch.
    “Which wine would you like?” He held up tiny bottles of merlot and pinot.
    “You definitely do know how to picnic.” I pointed at the pinot grigio.
    He unscrewed the cap of the single serve bottle and poured it into a clear plastic cup.
    I picked up an egg salad sandwich and a bag of chips. “Not high maintenance, just saying.” I took a huge bite of the sandwich to emphasize my point.
    “Don’t get me wrong; I think it’s fine to know what you want.” His tone hinted he wasn’t only talking about food.
    I stuck a potato chip in my mouth.
    “Those crisps are made here in Scotland,” he said, a swell of pride brightening his face.
    “Crisps. I have to get used to the lingo.” I popped a couple more. “Prawn cocktail flavor honestly sounds horrible, but these aren’t half bad.”
    “I also brought haggis flavored crisps.”
    I wrinkled my nose in disgust. “It’s one thing to think about sheep parts cooked and served in the sheep’s own stomach for dinner, but why would anyone make a chip— crisp —in a haggis flavor?”
    “You have to try it,” Ben prodded.
    I licked the crisp, not willing to bite into it. Not bad. Still, the idea of haggis—even the sound of the word—pretty much ruined any chance I had of liking it.
    “We need to get some proper haggis into you. You can’t have a disgusted look on your face when guests come to Glenbroch looking for their idea of Scottish food.”
    “Good point.” Just like Kami had warned me. “I’ll give it a try—once.”
    “Everything deserves at least one go, eh?”
    I searched his face for another meaning in his words, but he was rummaging in his pack. He pulled out a tub filled with a spread resembling finely blended figs and a container filled with a white substance. He handed me the fig-looking spread.
    “This you will like—it’s quince. And this other is crowdie, a soft cheese,” he explained, removing the white substance’s lid.
    He spread the quince on an oatcake, pulled a grape off the bunch he’d brought, and held the trio out for me to taste. I reached to take it, but he popped the lot in his mouth, flashing me an impish smile.
    Rolling my eyes and affecting a flat, bored tone, I said, “Really? I’ll manage my lunch on my own, thank you very much.” It was a solid effort at disapproval, but amusement crept onto my face, ruining my bluff. Having fun with him made me not care how cold I was tucked into the floor of the broch, out of the sun’s reach.
    He handed me a spoon loaded with crowdie and put the oatcakes, tub of quince, and a sprig of grapes within my reach.
    “I am sure you can manage on your own quite well in pretty much any situation. But it never hurts to have some help now and then.” Leaning over, he gave me a soft nudge with his elbow.
    Ignoring him, I placed a smidge of quince on one thick, crunchy oatcake, the crowdie on another then bit off a piece of each.
    “I’m impressed! I thought you’d pull out haggis and fried candy bars.”
    “Och, we’re not all sheep stomachs and deep-fried heart attacks.”
    Kami may have been right about the accent and kilts—although I hadn’t seen any men in kilts yet—but she was wrong about the food. I had the idea America had everything, but I was wrong, and I had