There was a large jukebox beside the stage that was currently playing AC/DC’s “You Shook Me All Night Long.”
Appropriate.
Nate and I shared a look and I knew we were thinking the exact same thing, which only made us grin at each other.
“What?” Bailey asked, smiling curiously.
“Nothing,” I assured her, still laughing.
“Ah, private joke, I get it.” Still grinning, she led us to the bar where an attractive blonde turned in her stool to greet Bailey with a wide smile. Behind the bar, making a couple of drinks, was an extremely rugged and handsome guy in his mid-to-late thirties. He grinned at Bailey, too. “Coop, Jess, I want you to meet two of my guests. They flew in for their ten-year anniversary vacation from Scotland.” Our inn owner turned to us. “Nate, Olivia, this is Cooper, he owns the bar.” She gestured to rugged, hot guy. “And this is Cooper’s wife, Jessica.”
“Nice to meet you.” Jessica held out her hand and Nate and I took turns shaking it.
Cooper gave us a manly nod of his chin. “You enjoying Hartwell so far?”
“It’s beautiful.” I nodded.
“Even more beautiful with a drink in your hand?”
“Aye, that would be good,” Nate said. “Two beers, please. Draft.”
“There’s the accent.” Jess grinned at my husband before turning to me. “You don’t have one?”
Bailey explained for me. “Olivia is American. Her dad is Scottish, they moved back to Scotland, she met Nate, also Scottish.”
I nodded with a grin to confirm.
“Have a seat.” Cooper gestured to two empty bar stools. There was another bartender, I noted, but he was busy at the other end of the bar, laughing and joking with a group of women waiting at the bar for their drinks.
Nate pulled a stool out for me and I hopped on it while he took the one next to me. Jessica moved down so Bailey could take the one on my other side. “Where’s Tremaine?” the doctor asked.
“He should be here any minute. I think today has been a trying day for our hotelier.” She winced sympathetically, and turned to us. “What do you guys do back in Scotland?”
Nate answered as he handed Cooper money for our beers. “I’m a photographer.”
“And I’m a librarian.”
“Not just any librarian,” Nate said, settling back on his stool. “Liv runs the library at the University of Edinburgh.”
I shot him a smirk. “You like telling people that, huh.”
“Proud of you.” He shrugged.
“That’s very cool,” Jessica said, and I wasn’t sure if she was talking about my job or my sweet husband.
Before I could say anything, Bailey’s head whipped around to the door and her whole face softened. She hopped down off her stool and Jess moved down one more stool. I followed Bailey’s movements as she crossed the bar toward the door. Waiting for her was a guy almost as beautiful as my husband. As soon as Bailey neared him, she put her hands on his chest and he bent his head to press a soft kiss to her lips. She smiled up at him, and although he didn’t return it, he didn’t need to. This guy looked at Bailey Hartwell like the sun rose and fell with her and her alone.
Taking his hand, Bailey strolled back to the bar with him.
Up close, the guy was even more beautiful.
“Olivia, Nate, this is my fiancé, Vaughn.”
Vaughn held out his hand to shake ours, which we did, and I took him in. He wore a suit that was so perfectly cut to his body, it had to be custom tailored and possibly designer. If I wasn’t mistaken, those polished shoes on his feet were Prada. He had striking gray eyes, made all the more stunning by the long dark lashes framing them and the thick dark hair on his head.
There was something cool and cultured and perhaps a little aloof about him, and if I’d met him solo I wouldn’t have been that comfortable around him. I liked my men like Nate—open and social and funny.
However, I could forgive Vaughn Tremaine his aloofness because every time Bailey opened her mouth to speak, that man watched her like a hawk, like he couldn’t get enough of her.
She made him smile and his smile transformed his whole face.
Yes, there was no way Bailey Hartwell would look elsewhere for a guy when she had one at her side who looked at her like that.
As the evening wore on and we talked with the people of this beautiful little town, it became clear that Jess and Cooper were just as in love. They were recently married and clearly still in the first bloom of marital bliss.
Why I felt an edge of envy, I did not know. It was ridiculous. I had never envied anyone their relationship when I had Nate. But sitting there, watching two couples so close and in love, I started to feel like I couldn’t breathe.
I noted the pool tables at the back of the bar, and one was free. “Let’s play pool.” I turned to my husband.
Nate quirked an eyebrow at my random suggestion. “Do you know how to play pool?”
“Do you?”
“Aye.”
“Then you can show me.” I climbed off the stool, feeling mischievous, and the feeling helped evaporate my negative emotions.
You see . . . I knew how to play pool.
I hadn’t played in years but I was guessing it wasn’t something you forgot how to do. My dad was a master at this game and he’d taught me well. However, Nate didn’t need to know that. Bailey grinned at us as we got up. “Enjoy.”
Nate led me across the bar with his hand on my lower back, and up the steps to the pool table that was free. He racked the balls and handed me a cue stick. “Object of the game is to pocket all of your balls, plus the eight ball.” He gestured to the black numbered ball in the triangle. “I’ll break, show you how it’s done, and when it comes to your turn, I’ll guide you. Sound good?”
I smiled sweetly at my husband. “Great.”
Watching him bend over the table with his cue stick, I leaned back a little to get a look at his ass. Always a very nice view. I giggled to myself as my husband pocketed ball four while the others scattered against the rails with the power of his shot. Hmm. Nate might be good at this, I thought.
“Right.” He stood up and I lost my sneaky smirk, replacing it with what I hoped came off as a sincere eagerness to learn. “I pocketed a low ball, so my goal is to pocket all of them, balls one to seven. Your goal is to pocket the high balls, balls nine to fifteen. The object of the game is to do that and pocket the eight ball.” He gestured to the only black ball on the table.
“Okay.”
He then commenced pocketing three more balls before he missed the next shot.
My turn.
“So . . .” I held up my cue stick. “How do I do this?”
Nate gave me a cocky grin, those dimples of his flashing as he rounded the table to me. He got me in position, bent over the pool table, and leaned over me, his breath hot on my cheek. “Keep your shooting arm parallel to the line of shot and perpendicular to the table as you shoot.”
I nodded, and deliberately missed my shot.
“Too bad, babe.” Nate squeezed my arse. “But not gonna lie, I like that I’m going to have to show you how to do this some more.”
I grinned as I got up, my breasts brushing his chest. “I bet you are.”
He winked at me. “First, I’m going to kick your arse.”
I rolled my eyes and watched him take out the rest of his balls, easily.
Now it was my turn to take down his balls. Metaphorically speaking.
“Another game?” I pouted. “I barely got a chance to try.”
“Okay, babe. Do you want to try breaking?”
I nodded uncertainly as he racked the balls. And then I said, “Maybe we should make it more interesting.”
“How so?”
“A bet. Whoever loses has to strip naked and go into the ocean at
night. Before we leave for home.”
“You do realize how fucking freezing that ocean is at night,” Nate said, concerned. “Babe, you’re not going in that ocean at night. Naked.”
So cocky. “I might win,” I said, pretending to sound uncertain.
“Babe.”
“You chicken?”
He narrowed his eyes. “Fine. Loser freezes her naked arse off in the ocean.”
I held out my hand across the table. “Shake on it.”
He did, his grip firm, his gaze still a little worried.
In answer, I lifted the rack, handed it to him, bent over the table, positioned myself perfectly, and let my cue stick fly.
I pocketed two high balls.
“What the . . .” My husband stared in astonishment.
An astonishment that only grew to realization as I rounded the table, pocketing all of my balls. Finally, I pocketed the eight ball.
I did it under three minutes.
Straightening, I smiled at my husband.
He glowered at me. “You hustled me. You fucking hustled me.”
I threw my head back in laughter. By the time I got my laughter under control, Nate had rounded the table to pull me into his arms. I grinned at him, seeing his annoyed amusement.
“You’re lucky that was sexy as hell or I’d be pissed off right about now.”
“It was funny.” I dropped the cue stick and wrapped my arms around his neck. “And you thought you knew everything you possibly could about your wife.”
“No.” He shook his head, his eyes dropping to my mouth. “You never stop surprising me.” His hands tightened on my waist. “Who taught you to play pool?”
“My dad. He taught me well.”
Nate kissed me softly, and murmured against my lips, “If I have to get blue balls standing in a freezing cold ocean, don’t make me have blue balls lying next to my wife in bed tonight.”
I kissed him back. “It’ll be worth the wait. I promise.”
His eyes flashed in irritation and I wondered if maybe this game I was playing was the wrong game when our relationship felt so fragile.
“Are you mad?”
Instead of answering, he said, “You promise this is just about wanting great sex, and not about wanting to delay sex with me?”
Why did he still think that? “Of course not. Nate . . . All I can think about is sex with you.”
“Then I’m not mad,” he said promptly. “But maybe we should just head back to the inn. So I can take a cold shower.” He let go of my waist and stepped back, but still he took my hand. “Watching you whip that table’s arse was hot as hell.”
I laughed and he turned to smile wickedly at me.
We said good night to Jess, Coop, Bailey, and Vaughn, and as we were leaving I could have sworn I heard Bailey say, “That right there is what I call relationship goals.”
Was she talking about me and Nate? I wondered, as I strolled down the boardwalk with my husband who still wouldn’t confide in me about his pain. I had to ask myself then, if everyone else thought Nate and I had an amazing relationship, and Nate thought we had an amazing relationship, then what the hell was my goddamn problem?
Chapter Nine
I was strangely nervous when I walked into the bar. The girls had bought me a sexy little dress that told me (as the entire contents of my suitcase had) that my girls knew what I liked to wear and what suited me. It was pink because it was still summer, but a deep magenta because I didn’t do pastels. It had thick straps, a sweetheart neckline that showed off my impressive cleavage, and it nipped in at the waist and then flared out so it wasn’t clinging to me and showing all my problem areas. It was also short, sitting just above my knees, because my legs were one of my best features and I liked to get them out every now and then.
I’d paired the dress with the high gold wedges they’d also bought for me, and let’s just say those shoes made my legs look pretty kick-ass. After sitting in the sun for two days, I was already a nice, light golden color because I had naturally olive-toned skin. Nate just had to look at the sun for his skin to quickly darken a shade or two.
As soon as I thought of my husband by name I threw him out of my head. Tonight, I wasn’t to think of him as Nate. Nate had taken a walk down the beach while I was primping so he’d be surprised by what I was wearing when we did eventually meet up.
He was going to be the stranger from the bar.
And I was Olivia, a lonely wife whose husband had grown emotionally distant from her, and although she wasn’t looking to make a connection, a stranger from the bar was going to be her escape from reality.
So okay, I should have given myself a back story that wasn’t so close to the bone, but hey, it was what I was feeling, and it was fueling the need and hurt and desire and longing swirling around within me.
After I got a drink at the bar, I saw a couple get up and leave one of the high round tables in the middle of the place. There were only two high stools at the table. Perfect. I grabbed the table before anyone else could and tried to get up onto the stool as elegantly as possible in my dress. I was five foot seven, just shy of six feet in my super high wedges. How anyone shorter than me was supposed to get up onto these things without assistance was beyond me.
Settling in, I stared around at the low-lit room. Purple strip lights had been placed behind the bar shelves so the ceilings glowed purple there, and the floor beneath the bar did, too. This effect was used throughout. The music was loud but not too loud, which was a relief, because a lot of places back home got that wrong. You could barely hear yourself think in a lot of the so-called trendy bars in Edinburgh. Not that I would know if that was still the case, since I didn’t go to bars much anymore.
There were plenty of couples here, plus groups of girlfriends, all guy friends, mixed groups, and singles eyeing each other up. The bar staff were young and attractive, flirty and fun. The music had a thrumming dance bass, electronics and no heart, making me long for the stunning, dark, ethereal storytelling of my favorite band.
As my gaze drifted through the crowds and back toward the bar, it stuck on a guy who looked an awful lot like my husband. He wore a dark shirt, either black or navy—it was hard to tell in the light—and dark suit pants. His shirt was rolled up at the cuffs, showing off his forearms. He had strong, sexy forearms. Forearms could be so sexy.
Seeming to sense my gaze, he turned his head as he took a sip of his beer, and our eyes met. He immediately lowered his drink, his gaze traveling down the length of me as I sat back in the stool, the table far enough away from me that it didn’t block his view of the dress.
When our eyes finally met again, I inhaled sharply at the hard look that crossed his features. It was like I pissed him off and turned him on all at the same time.
That look hit me right between the legs.
Trying not to squirm, I reached for my drink and calmly took a sip, but all the while I felt like the bar was just getting hotter and hotter, and the cold beer I was drinking wasn’t doing anything to cool me off.
This scene wasn’t me. If it had ever been me, it had been the me of yesteryear.
The trendy bar. The low lighting. The sexy dress.
The man across the bar who was currently eye-fucking me.
Yes, eye-fucking me.
I could be ladylike and come up with a far sweeter descriptor, but really no other word could describe the heat in the stranger’s eyes as he looked at me.
If my husband knew what I was thinking right now . . .
I felt more than a pang of guilt that this stranger was the one making me feel this way: like the dress I was wearing was too tight, too everything, and I couldn’t wait to be naked. Naked and slick with sweat as my body writhed with the man who was staring at me like I was the very embodiment of sex.
Staring at me in a way Nate hadn’t looked at me in so lo
ng.
At the reminder of the disconnect between me and my husband, I threw away my guilt and finally gave the stranger the small smile of encouragement he’d been waiting on.
He crossed the room with his drink in hand and gave me the sexiest smile as he settled on the stool next to me. Our fingers grazed as he put his glass on the little round table and I felt the hair at the nape of my neck stand on end.
Our eyes met and locked.
Suddenly it felt difficult to breathe, there was so much tension coiling around my body. The only man who had ever made me feel this needy was my husband, and this stranger had the same magnetic, sexual ability.
Of course he did.
“I haven’t seen you around here before,” the stranger said, his eyes dipping to my mouth and then to my chest, visible in my low-cut dress.
When his gaze came back to mine, I raised an eyebrow as if to say, Are you done?
The stranger laughed softly, and the husky sound shot tingles between my legs. Not to mention the dimples that popped in his cheeks were incredibly goddamn sexy.
“I’m not from around here,” I replied.
He cocked his head to study me. “Your accent . . . it’s hard to place. East coast, though, right?”
What he was hearing was the little Scottish inflection I’d picked up in my American accent over the years. I’d always had it what with my dad being Scottish, but living in Edinburgh for years had made the inflection more pronounced.
“Arizona, actually.”
“I would never have guessed that.”
I gave an insouciant little shrug and he grinned, his eyes roaming my face.
Years ago I would have squirmed under his perusal, geeking out and stumbling over my words. Nate had changed me.
Doubt stopped me from returning the man’s smile.
The One Real Thing Page 8