Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 82868 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82868 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
“A package just arrived.”
“Shit,” he says. “I thought she was sending it straight to Scotland.” He sighs into the phone. “Can you get it couriered to the address I gave you? I’m about to get on a plane.”
A plane? Where the hell is he going? He didn’t sound like he was off on holiday. I grab the yellow Post-it that he gave me this morning and take a proper look at the address. Scotland.
“Of course,” I say.
“I need it as soon as possible. Today. Or tomorrow at the latest.”
“Leave it to me,” I say. Arranging a courier isn’t hard. And it’s not like he’s asking me to get it to a remote Polynesian island. It’s Scotland.
“I can scan it in and send it over if you want?” I suggest.
“I won’t have a printer up there and I need the original. I don’t want to miss anything.”
“No problem.”
We hang up and I Google couriers. I’m about to hand over credit card details to the woman on the phone when she says, “Hang on. We can’t guarantee tomorrow. It’s a three-day minimum to the address you’ve given me.”
“Are you sure?” I ask.
“Yep. That’s what the computer’s telling me.”
“But it’s Scotland.”
“Don’t know what to tell you. Three-day minimum.”
“Okay, I’m going to have to leave it.”
I hang up and phone another courier company. They tell me the same thing—it’s going to take three days. The next one is worse. It will take them five days. I bring up Google and put in the address. Where could Zach be going that will take a courier three days to get to? I could probably walk to most places in the UK in less than three days.
The map zooms in on a small island off the west coast of Scotland.
Yikes. It’s about as remote as it gets. What’s taken Zach there? Does he have family in the area? A girlfriend? Is he just trying to finish off his research project in peace?
I try a couple more courier companies and no one can help, so I text Zach. I just want to make sure this package is as urgent as he says it is.
Most couriers are saying it will take at least three days. Does that work?
If he turns around and says no, I’m not sure what our options are, but at least I’ll know what they aren’t.
As I wait for a reply, I explore his location a little more closely on the map. It’s just southwest of Skye, a small island called Rum. The only way to get there is by ferry. Why on earth would Zach want to go there of all places?
My phone beeps on my desk and I know it’s Zach even before I look. I sweep my thumb up to reveal his response.
No, that doesn’t work. I need that package tomorrow at the latest. Make it happen.
My heart sinks. This job isn’t anything like I expected, but it’s still the shortest route between where I am now and where I want to be, at Le Cordon Bleu. My course is clear: if I can’t get a courier to deliver this package on time, I’m going to have to take it there myself.
Eleven
Ellie
My body sags with relief at finally being on the ferry to Rum. We might still be in the UK, but I could have left my flat at the same time and made it to Mexico by now. I’m a step away from renaming myself Frodo, except I don’t have a ring, just a slightly battered brown envelope I managed to leave at the check-in desk of the Glasgow hotel I had to sleep in last night. Thankfully, they delivered it to the room, just in time to stop my minor heart attack when I realized I didn’t have it. Despite not having touched a drop of alcohol, I went to bed, head dizzy and body aching with the need to lie down. I’d woken up much the same way, and the four-hour drive from Glasgow to Mallaig hasn’t helped much. At least I made the ferry.
It's my first trip to Scotland, but there’s not much to see. We are floating in a blanket of grey cloud, a fog that hampers sights and sounds. What I can see of the sea crashing against the boat looks cold, dark, and uninviting. Not that I was planning a dip. There are no soft sounds of bagpipes. No rugged views of the mountains. No sexy men in kilts with legs that look like they could kill a man. I wish I was at home.
It’s worth it, I tell myself. He’s really going to appreciate what you’ve done for him.
It’s an odd mix of quiet and loud on the boat. I can’t hear voices or traffic or other familiar noises, but at the same time, it’s anything but silent. The wind whistles and howls like a petulant teenager, and the waves boom and crash like the snores of a sleeping giant.