Must Love Christmas (Glasgow Lads on Ice #2) - Avery Cockburn Page 0,2
keep his hair from blowing into his eyes, he crossed the narrow street into Kelvingrove Park, where the low rays of sunshine glowed against the autumn foliage. Within a few minutes he arrived at the grand old Stewart Memorial Fountain and its four soaring spires of water.
Garen nodded a greeting to the Lady of the Lake, whose statue stood atop the towering round fountain. Arranged below the Lady at various levels were statues of unicorns and lions, carvings of coats of arms, and bronze plaques representing each sign of the zodiac. The whole structure was a bit over-the-top, like a comic book in fountain form, but Garen rather fancied it.
As the wind blew harder, sprinkling him with cold drops of dancing water, Garen circled the fountain clockwise, touching each of the bronze cherub statues on its shiny wee head. Finally he stopped in front of the plaque featuring a centaur for Sagittarius, his own zodiacal sign.
Garen pulled the 1p coin from his pocket and closed his eyes. I wish for a good flatmate before the end of the month. He opened his eyes, then added, Preferably not a morning person.
He tossed the penny into the fountain so it would plop into the water beneath the centaur. But as he let go, a gust of wind blew the coin leftward. Drawing an imaginary line toward the fountain, he discovered the penny had landed in the section belonging to the goat of Capricorn.
Garen searched his pockets for another coin, but unsurprisingly there were none.
“Close enough,” he told the Lady of the Lake, then turned for home with hope in his heart.
Chapter 2
70 Days Until Christmas
Simon Andreou was on the wrong street.
Standing at the junction, he checked his phone again. The enthusiastic email from his prospective flatmate, Dr. McLaren, said the property was on Parkgrove Terrace. But Simon could have sworn the original ad had said it was on the adjoining Royal Terrace to his right.
He shrugged and turned left onto Parkgrove. There was little difference between the two streets, since both ran alongside Kelvingrove Park. As Simon made his way down the pavement, he saw people running along the park’s jogging path on the other side of the wrought-iron fence. His feet longed to join them.
Simon checked his watch as he arrived at the tan stone building’s front entrance: fifteen minutes early, he noted with satisfaction. He straightened his tie, smoothed the cuffs of his blue dress shirt, then pressed the 7 button next to the broad red entry door. While he waited, he carefully folded his new leather jacket over his arm, taking care not to crease it.
“Hello?” came a man’s singsong voice through the speaker.
“Yes, this is Simon Andreou. I’m here about the flat.”
“Fuck, already? I mean…great! Just a—shit, just a minute.”
The speaker went silent. Simon waited a few moments, then turned to survey the quiet street.
After visiting four Glasgow flats in six hours, it looked as though he’d saved the best for last. The location was ideal. It was reasonably close to his new job in City Centre—not to mention pubs, restaurants, and shops—but this park would provide a serene haven from the urban bustle. In fact, the area’s ambience called to mind his favorite parts of Liverpool. Maybe he could feel at home here.
After more than a minute had passed, he pressed the button again.
“Hiya,” came the voice from the speaker. “Sorry about that.”
“I’m a bit early.”
“Yes, you are. It’s fine. Just don’t expect…anyway, it’s the top floor.”
The door unlatched with a buzz. Simon pulled it open, then paused. Hadn’t the ad said the flat was on the middle floor?
At the top of the staircase, the door marked 7 was slightly ajar. Simon knocked anyway.
The thump of rapid footsteps approached. “Coming!” The door jerked open, revealing a twenty-something man wearing a Deadpool apron and holding a turquoise feather duster. His sandy hair was pulled into a messy bun atop his head, revealing a fair face, square jaw, and pale blue eyes.
“Well, hiya,” the man said, releasing a broad grin that lit up the dim entryway.
This was the strangest-looking physician Simon had ever seen. “Doctor McLaren?”
The man tilted his head, looking confused. “Call me Garen.” He shook Simon’s hand. “Come through, come through. Care for a cup of tea or a fizzy drink or anything? I’ve also got beer if you’re in that sort of mood.”
“No, thank you.” Simon followed him into a long hallway with rooms on either side, the design typical of most flats he’d seen.