In my younger and more financially vulnerable years—aka my 20s—I always had to travel in groups: with family, friends, or some discounted traveling troop or another. But when I hit my early 30s, I finally landed a job that paid well enough for me to explore Europe all by my lonesome. I wanted to go at my own pace and meet people I’d never meet if I were following some tour guide holding a cheesy flag in a crowd. So as soon as my bank account would allow it, I bought myself a round-trip ticket to the UK with my soul set on finally seeing the Scottish Highlands.
My zippy little rental careened through staggering mountains snatched right out of Middle Earth, the lush foothills dotted with stark white cottages as I pulled into my destination, a mighty Scottish castle. Looming over a cliff with a mishmash of architectural styles and a formal garden below, it was exactly what I had dreamed of.
I thought I’d make the most of the sunshine and headed down to the gardens, structured yet lush with blooms of blue, red, and yellow flowing between beautiful hedges. As the waves of the lake crashed nearby in the early afternoon sun, I lapped up some free history lessons eavesdropping on a nearby tourist group.
Then, turning a casual corner, I saw him—a young groundskeeper who looked like the Scottish version of Paul Mescal with a mop of dusty brown hair and stubble. He was on his knees, glittering green eyes totally focused on clipping away at some weeds with sculpted arms that made me catch my breath.
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“Goddamn,” I whispered.
He looked up and spotted me staring right at him. Busted.
He flashed me a boyish smile. “Lovely gardens, aren’t they?” And then he winked. Christ on a cracker, he winked at me.
“Breathtaking,” I returned.
What? Since when did I say shit like “breathtaking?” Did I Outlander myself into Bridgerton or something?
But that was all I had a chance to say before the sky suddenly opened up and I retreated back toward the castle. The last I saw of Mr. Breathtaking Garden Man, he was standing up with shears in his hand, his outline growing murky in the pouring rain.
A few hours later, I had finished up my tour of the castle interior and made my way over to the nearby inn, where I checked in, dried off, and popped down to the combination restaurant/tavern for a much-needed bite.
After paying the check, I was about to head back up to my room when a Celtic folk music circle started up in the tavern. I was more than happy to stick around for some fiddle and local tunes, so I bellied up to the bar and asked for a “wee dram” of whiskey. I was so busy letting the rich scotch dance across my tongue that I almost didn’t notice a tap on my shoulder.
I turned around to see the handsome groundskeeper—or rather his chest, which met me at eye level. He grinned down at me cheekily.
“Oh! Hi there!” I called up to him.
“Ah! An American.” His smile broadened at my accent. “You’re on holiday, then?”
“I am.” I took another sip of liquid courage. “Fancy seeing you here.”
“It’s the only pub in the village,” he explained. “But I’m glad to see you again. I didn’t get a chance to introduce myself. I’m Callum*.”
Ooh, that accent. I could wrap it around me like a blanket. I gave him my name and shook his hand, warm and worn with calluses.
“Are you enjoying your time so far?” He ordered some scotch himself.
“Oh yes. Scotland is magnificent. And your gardens are spectacular.”
“Ah. Well, thank you. They’re not my gardens though. I’m just a junior groundskeeper. But I do love working with the earth and watching things grow.”
“I do, too, but I’m not very good at it.” I thought about my money plant back home, probably withering to dust as we spoke. “I’m not patient enough. It’s really my mother who’s the green thumb in the family, but I don’t seem to have inherited that.”
“Ah, well if she’s as gorgeous as you, then you’ve inherited some of her other charms, to be sure.”
I blushed hard into my drink. Was this really happening?
We kept on like that, bantering back and forth for a few minutes, ignoring the rest of the rustic inn and finding ourselves drawn closer and closer to each other.
Callum set down his empty glass. “Well, it’s getting late. You’re probably jet-lagged, I’m guessing. Needing to head back up to your room and meet up with your boyfriend?”
I smiled. “No partner to speak of.”
He let out a happy sigh and I could smell a touch of the whiskey on his breath. “I was hoping you’d say that. Erm, since you seem to be a woman who appreciates horticulture, there was something I was hoping I could show you—a bit of a personal project back at the castle. That is, if you could slip away for a moment?”
Sure, it felt like a line, but I was intrigued. Plus, I’d had enough self-defense training that I figured I could take him down if necessary. And sometimes, when in Rome—or in this case, Scotland—you just have to be willing to go off the beaten path.
“Lead the way.”
Moments later, we were back at the castle, sidestepping certain parts of the dirt road so as not to set off any motion sensor lights. The clouds had broken up by then and a half moon peeked out, tossing dappled shadows across the grounds.
Callum turned left on one of the paths, gesturing for me to follow. He rounded a corner and, tucked away behind a massive tree, was a little greenhouse.
My escort pulled out a ring of keys and opened the door for me to enter. I tiptoed in, startled at the sudden temperature change of bracing cold outside to warm, close air within the glass walls. Rows of plants stretched out, looking strangely romantic in the moonlight.
“Come,” Callum grabbed my hand. “They’re down this row.”
We crunched down the gravel path a few paces until we came across a table of little seedlings just emerging from their soil.
“This is a little project that’s close to my heart,” he uttered, gazing down at the plants.
“They’re bluebells. My boss let me have this little space to see if I could get them to take.”
He paused for a second, his fingers lightly touching a little sprout. “They used to grow out near where I grew up. They were my ma’s favorite. She’d find me out in that meadow all the time, reading books or gathering bouquets to bring her as a present. She’s been gone three years now, and I thought if they did all right in here, in the spring I could plant them on the far northern side of the cliff. Sort of as a tribute to her memory.” He moved a step closer to me, and I felt my body respond to his proximity. “See this one? It’s blooming far too early, but you can get an idea of the color of the flower.”
I reached out and touched the delicate petals, the blue tinged almost purple. “Their color…they remind me of jacaranda flowers,” I replied. “I used to play under those trees as a little girl. We’d thread them together on tiny branches, like a column of flowers, and pretend they were fairy wands and cast spells.”
I was staring at the flowers longer than necessary, nervously avoiding his gaze, but I swear I somehow heard him smile. His hand reached out and touched the petals, too, his fingers grazing mine. “You know, for some reason I had a feeling you’d understand.” I looked up at him then, his face streaked with moonlight, his eyes as green as the fresh seedlings. “How strange we share this color in our past, even though we grew up thousands of miles away from each other."
Clearly, I had somehow tumbled straight into some kind of Harlequin romance novel, and I was not about to waste this main character moment. I got up on my tiptoes and kissed Callum, his stubble rough against my face. He returned with a passion, arms wrapping around me and gently pushing me back against a palette holding bags of garden soil. The whiskey was off of his tongue now and his actual taste was even better. I felt all of him against me—his black wool sweater, his brown pants, and his arousal. I wrapped a leg around his thigh, pulling him in even closer. His hand roamed down the length of my frame as his mouth moved to my neck, his fingers coming back up my skirt to touch me between my legs. I moaned, reaching down and putting his hand down my tights so he could have better access. He reached into my panties and went to work on my clit—and let me tell you, the man had an excellent work ethic.
His mouth found its way over to my ear, his voice hoarse. “Oh fuck, I love how you moan,” he growled. “You feel so ready for me. Are you ready for me?”
“Fuck, I want you,” I panted.
He pulled away for a second, fishing into his back pocket. “Hold on, I have a rubber.”
Confusion coursed through my brain. “A what?”
Callum looked up at me, let out a soft chuckle, and pulled out a condom packet from his wallet.
I felt myself flush with embarrassment. “Oh. Um, carry on.”
He closed the distance between us again and kissed me. “You’re so cute.”
Within seconds, he had rolled it on, pulled down my tights, and entered me. He felt incredible—thicker than my last lovers. I was surprised and impressed—I’m a girl of generous size, so standing sex is rarely attempted, but Callum could clearly hoist me up and fuck with ease. Make no mistake, it turns out that gardeners are very fit.
I held on for dear life as he thrusted, our eye contact intense and deep, my moans climbing higher and higher until finally I couldn’t take it anymore and came so hard, I felt my toes curling in my boots. Callum looked pleased with this result—so pleased, in fact, that with a breathy gasp he shuddered and came just a moment later.
I don’t know how much time passed before we peeled apart from each other, sticky with sweat and satisfied, and went our separate ways. I thought about asking for his number, but something about whipping out our iPhones and exchanging contact info felt at odds with all the rustic romance that had just gone down. And so, like a true romantic heroine, I decided to leave our future up to fate.
Years later, I’ll admit I’m still waiting to see if fate will do its thing. I don’t know if I’ll ever see Callum again. But I do know two things for sure: (1) there’s more than one way to steam up a greenhouse—and you don’t have to have a green thumb to do it, and (2) maybe you won’t get railed by a hot Scotsman or trapped in an elevator with a handsome stranger, but I promise you this: There really are romance-novel-worthy moments in real life. What can I say? Sometimes truth actually is stranger (and much hotter) than fiction.
Jennie Roberson is a comedic actor and screenwriter currently living in Los Angeles. She also writes and conducts interviews for Bisexual.org. When she’s not busy writing the next Great Queer American Novel, you can find her bingeing Star Trek, kicking ass at her local axe-throwing league, or dreaming of her future cat army.
