Scot Appeal

by Melissa Blue

  Yeah. That was the one to lead with. 'Cause starting with she'd made a promise to wait for marriage...Ugh. When her twentieth birthday passed with her hymen still very much intact, it slowly dawned on Ivy she didn't really want to be married. Or rather, all the men she'd met and dated made her want to run screaming from the idea of spending the rest of her life with just him. The whole thing of waiting for the one took on epic status. She needed fireworks, that gut punch, her world tilting, Rhett Butler kind of sweeping off her feet.

  Never happened. Then the second revelation hit her—maybe she just needed a decent guy who made her blood heat.

  From what she'd seen of Marcus so far decent was probably not the right word. He'd helped her twice without asking for anything in return. The third time though...yeah, decent didn't quite fit.

  But when they kissed...she groaned. She'd never been kissed like that. He probably wasn't the one, one, but almost thirty years and the one, one hadn't showed up. Ivy was so tired of life passing her by. Bone tired of waiting for a man who probably didn't even exist outside her imagination. How many wedding bouquets had she made and wondered what she was missing overlooking every man who had a fault, i.e. every man?

  Marcus Robert Baird seemed to be a man who liked his boundaries, enjoyed women—immensely—and was cocky as hell. He was also thoughtful. She could do worse. Waiting for some imaginary “better” had put her here in the first place—a virgin who lived a boring, apple-pie perfect life.

  Sighing, she turned away from his house. The only thing she was sure about was that if she gave Marcus her virginity, she'd enjoy the shit out of the experience. What more could she ask for?

  4

  Fifteen minutes before Marcus had to go back and face Ivy, he still stood under the shower head, letting cold water rain down on him. Maybe if he shriveled his balls he could behave, try being a gentleman for once in his life. Maybe then he wouldn't be so conflicted about wanting to fuck his neighbor. His virgin neighbor.

  Should have known the kiss was too good to be true. He'd stood there afterward surprised his hair wasn't standing on end from the crackle of sexual tension buzzing in the air. While she'd looked shell-shocked. Oh, aye, she covered it well enough with sarcasm. Then he'd thrown out a joke that practically made her pale.

  A virgin. What the fuck was he supposed to do with that? She'd want romance and soft kisses and whatever the fuck else he didn't do. The only solution was to never touch her again and stand in a cold shower until his balls were the size of shriveled grapes.

  His phone buzzed on the counter. He shut the water off and checked the screen. Tavin. His back teeth clacked together on their own accord. Aye. That name was better than any amount of cold water. That name was why he wasn't soft, didn't romance, and didn't let any woman in. That man was a mirror and unfortunately it was his father. Marcus stepped out of the shower, ignoring his phone, and got dressed. He had a job to do. He'd given his word.

  Ivy wasn't outside when he dragged over the materials he'd need. Fine. Better than fine. So he focused on the work. He still had plenty of sunlight to finish the job in one day.

  Thirty minutes in he hit a zone. The simmer of anger beating against his rib cage had an outlet. Not all of it was directed at Tavin. Marcus was economical enough to reserve some of that emotion for Ivy.

  Why did she have to go and complicate a simple act? Two consenting adults could flirt, do more than flirt and end up sweat and come soaked. Not could, but should and often, just to keep one's sanity. Aye, they'd only had two real conversations but she should warn a man in the first meeting. The thought wasn't fair, but he wasn't a fucking fair man and that was the problem.

  He used that irritation to dig two large holes in her yard. Sweat dripped from his every pore for close to three hours. And it wasn't enough. Probably never would be, because if he were honest, a portion of that anger was reserved for his mother. She'd died and left a hole in all of them. Her passing had showed his father's true colors. If she had lived, he'd know—Marcus would want a family to make her proud. She'd needle him about bairns of his own if he had any doubts or objections. He wouldn't have had to make the choice between raising his brother, being a good example for both of his brothers and being a fucking shark. She'd chastise him for being blunt, for having all his sharp and rough edges. She'd cup his cheek and remind him there was more to life than power and he'd take in her warmth. There would never be cold—a heart of stone his father had helped him carve. But she was cold in a grave, no warmth to be found.

  So, aye, fuck fair.

  He continued to stab at the earth, slam nails into the wooden slats and use every muscle so they'd ache for the next few days. Maybe then his pish mood would end. When he finished the second enclosed garden box, he bent over and grabbed the knees of his jeans, his hands slippery from sweat in the gloves. He didn't ache enough though the heat blazing through him was probably skewing his perception of pain.

  But the job was done. He'd kept his word. Maybe the first time in a long while, but it seemed to matter.

  His stomach let out a soft growl in hunger. When was the last time he'd eaten? That morning before his meeting? Bain Corp. wanted to show him around town and that involved small dishes of food sitting there for the ambiance, not really for eating. The head hunter had talked a good game, but the stakes weren't high enough for them to really come after him in aggressive way. That, too, was fine.

  If the companies vying for his attention kept dicking around, he'd start talking about his life as a CEO turned handyman, loopholes, tax breaks and greedy markets that only cared about the bottom line. Bad PR on the private sector from an insider made mortals of men, or rather made big businesses nervous.

  That was the nuclear option; one Marcus doubted he'd have to resort to. The moment Bain found out Scotland International was actively trying to get him back, it would be a fight. Both companies were bleeding money and he had the track record to not only triage but cure the problem.

  He tugged off the cloth gloves and threw them near the shovel to give his skin some air. Sweat cooled against his skin, dropping his body's heat back to normal. Such a small change but even the tightness pulling at his scalp seemed to ease. He straightened.

  The hairs on the back of his neck prickled as though someone had their gazed fixed on him. With the dark thoughts cleared from his mind, he took in his surroundings.

  Ivy had laid out a blanket in the shade and sprawled on her stomach, a fist propping her chin. She'd corralled her hair into a high ponytail with a black bandanna. There was just an explosion of dense curls around her face. Squinting he could see she had a tablet and from the quick swipe of her finger she was likely reading.

  The wind caught the hem of the dress she wore and fluttered the edge along her thighs. Her legs were almost completely exposed since she'd gone barefoot. With the picnic basket at her elbow, she made the prettiest picture—a tantalizing one he wanted to step into and stay.

  He couldn't see himself in it. Was he wearing a suit? This kind of get up of a T-shirt and jeans? Was he sitting beside her, enjoying the quiet moment between them or looming over her, his face unreadable.

  Fuck, the only likely scenario was Marcus straddling her thighs and fucking her from behind as he balled his hands in her curls. His mind lingered long enough over that possibility he was back to square one. He needed another cold shower. Instead, Marcus grabbed the edge of his shirt to wipe the sweat from his face as he stalked over to her.

  Ivy's brows rose and she shifted her head slightly in his direction as she continued to read. “If you're done being pissed off at my yard, there's cold water in the basket, about four roast beef sandwiches and a bag of chips. A big bag. Cheese cubes, too. But those are really for me since I ate half of them already.”

  She flicked her finger across the screen, unfazed even though she had probably watched him the entire time he had abused her yard.

  Deciding to sit beside her was more than eating the food she'd made for him. He'd
sit and eat and they'd talk. Ivy wouldn't be the woman who complicated something simple. She'd be the ache in his groin. The woman who could laugh and make him want. He wouldn't have to imagine what he'd do in the pretty picture she made.

  No, thank you. Three words that could end them. If he put his mind to it, this would be the last conversation they ever had. Once again, he mopped at the sweat on his face while he tried to list the pros and cons in his head at saying those words and walking away. Marcus's stomach roared. The sound pierced the quiet with enough noise Ivy glanced at him.

  Worry filled her gaze. Not wariness or annoyance, but a concern for him. Kissing him or not, he was practically a stranger and she cared even in that small way.

  He tugged a hand through his hair and glared at her. “You've never...”

  She sucked in air, held it and something like vulnerability darkened her brown eyes. “Never what?” Ivy asked, her voice barely above a choked whisper.

  He should have softened his stance at her reaction. Should have. Marcus intensified his glare, using the one that had made even the toughest CEOs crumble.

  She sighed, the sound defeated. “If you start doing hand demonstrations I'm leaving.”

  God, he liked her more for her answer. No cowering or anymore evasions. Marcus ached with want for her. The yearning pumped with his every heart beat. He glanced up at the heavens. They had another hour of sunlight. He could keep his hands to himself for that long. If he were lucky, his tantrum had turned her off.

  Marcus decided to help that emotion along. “Temperance in a real sense, eh?”

  She snorted. “I bet the only time you're not a smart ass is when you're asleep.”

  Since that statement held truth, he settled down beside her, dug into the basket to grab a water and a sandwich. He unwrapped the sandwich first and found it wasn't just meat and bread. No store bought roast for her. She'd put on the real deal. Lettuce and tomato decorated the thinly sliced meat. She'd even toasted the bread to ensure the provolone melted perfectly.

  If he bit into the sandwich and it tasted as good as it looked and smelled he'd be fucked six ways 'til Sunday. “Why are you still a virgin?”

  She pushed a button on her tablet, turning her screen black and then gave him all of her attention. Her face showed no emotion. “Up until a month ago I was in a coma.”

  He barked out a laugh. “And how many people buy that story?”

  A smile crept out. “More than you would think.” Her brown eyes sparkled. “Why didn't you?”

  He slid his gaze down her body. Her calves and thighs were well-toned. The wind blew again and her skirt lifted another inch. Another good breeze and he could find out if she wore a thong. “Your arse is too firm.”

  Her mouth dropped. “What?”

  She'd heard him just fine. No need to repeat the words. “Thank you for the food.”

  Ivy closed her mouth. “But you're not eating it.” She narrowed her eyes. “And my ass is firm?”

  Despite his better judgment, he bit into the sandwich. She used a spicy mustard that gave the flavor an extra kick. The meat melted like dark chocolate. Jesus, Mary, Joseph. The sandwich was better than it looked.

  Annoyed at her and the situation, he muttered, “Don't ask me a direct question if you don't want the answer, lass. Though when I'm in a mood I'll give the option to take the lie or the truth.”

  She reached into the basket and pulled out a napkin for him. After he took it, she said, “I want the lie. Why didn't you buy my coma story?”

  He chewed and thought. “I didn't offer the lie because there's only the truth here.” He took another bite and soon was on his second sandwich.

  She looked out over her yard, her expression still creased with worry. “I'll answer your question if you tell me why you seemed frustrated.”

  He hadn't told her about his work. That truth he couldn't chance. If the people in his circle smelled blood in the water—his—they'd attack. Her belief in the lie ensured that wouldn't be a problem between them.

  He'd risk nothing if he told her about Tavin. “My father is a prick and he called me before I came out here.”

  Her brows rose, surprise flickering in her eyes. “Why is your father a prick?”

  He tore into the sandwich and then shook his head. “He wasn't one, not where it counted.”

  Two beats of silence and then Ivy said, “If I'm going to spill my entire story, I need more than vague pronouncements.”

  He shouldn't have been impressed or even mildly amused by her insistence, but that soft face and wide eyes hid a shark. And Ivy scented blood in the water.

  “I was nineteen or twenty. Quinton, my brother, was eighteen. I'd just taken on a job with a high-profile investment bank. Quinton was about to go on the road with his rugby team. That left my youngest brother Callan drifting. He was fifteen about to be sixteen, but still young.” He looked to her for understanding. “Do you know what I mean?”

  “Sixteen? That's a baby.”

  “Legal age in Scotland, lass.”

  She winced. “The dumb things I did at that age.”

  “Exactly and so my brother needed a keeper for a few months at least. My father was nowhere to be found. We left him with our Uncle Douglass. To be honest, my uncle was more of a father to Callan than our own. Tavin, the fucker didn't even show up to his wedding. Said he would. Didn't show. Haven't heard from him until now.”

  “And what did your father want?” she asked, her voice soft.

  “Don't know. Didn't answer.”

  She glanced away. “I see.”

  He reached over and gripped her chin so she'd have to look at him. “No pity for me.” Each word felt like a rumble in his chest.

  She didn't blink. “Why not? It sounds like you grew up without a father. The fact you didn't even mention a mother...” She frowned, looking to find the right words. “That's sad.”

  “I had one and then my mother died. My father is not worth mourning.”

  It wasn't pity that crossed her face but whatever the emotion stung him nonetheless. “It's your turn,” he said in a hard tone.

  She brushed her fingers over his knuckles and then dropped her hand back to the blanket. “I fell for the hype. The one. Fireworks. Angels singing. Wouldn't it be so special and poignant if I waited? If he was the only guy I ever slept with he'd be my first and last.” The way she sighed made it sound like she still wanted that fantasy.

  But that didn't answer the question. Why did she need to have that one slice of her life almost sacred? Put aside the mores on purity and a woman's worth, why did Ivy need to keep her virginity intact to feel special?

  “Huh.” He searched her expression for an answer. Nothing but dreaminess reflected back. “What changed your mind?

  She turned her face and broke the eye contact. “I could have sex with a lot a people, but wouldn't it be special, nonetheless, if it was the right person? Wouldn't there still be fireworks? Angels singing? And you know, despite my situation, I'm pretty open about sex or how I view it. Whatever floats your boat as long as it's legal.”

  “True,” he said slowly, waiting for the “but.”

  “And the problem is no one could live up to the hype. I was dismissing perfectly good men because they had one flaw. Okay, some of them more than one. I was waiting on the perfect man because I'd just know the moment I met him. Not a bullshit notion all together, but the way I was going about it was.”

  The lass had chased perfection and couldn't find it. Now he wanted to know who told her life had to be perfect. And if it wasn't perfect she wasn't enough. He wanted to punch them for making her believe that.

  She flashed him a smile. “Also, everyone I know has these inside sex jokes and I hate laughing while being completely lost. I've seen pictures and still I don't get the whole curved or uncurved debate.”

  Amused, he said, “I'd be happy to help in my own large, uncurved way.”

  Her laugh was big and honest. He loved the sound of it. Aye, she was s
upposed to have a home and family. Ivy said, “Your ego is what made you say large.”

  “Aye.”

  “But I would be a bad judge. You could be below average.”

  “Temperance,” he said for added emphasis, “if you believe that, you'll set yourself up for disappointment.”

  She rolled to her back, shaking her head but still chuckling. He polished off the sandwich and wiped his mouth.

  “No comeback?” he asked with a smiled.

  “You're smiling again so my work here is done.” She sat up and gestured to the basket. “You can take that with you. Just bring it back to me when you're finished.”

  Surprised at the abrupt end to their conversation, he raised a brow. “I'm dismissed?”

  She shifted, not looking at him. “What more is there?”

  Touching her, kissing her, fucking her. “Lie or the truth?”

  “Truth.” She didn't even hesitate.

  He cupped her cheek and then ran his thumb over her delicate chin. Her lids lowered. Aye. More of that. He wanted to jolt her, make her blush. It's why he'd decided to flirt with her explicitly. Marcus wanted to see how she'd react and she hadn't missed a step.

  Fuck me.

  “If you'd let me, I'd show you a world of pleasure. Teach you all the ways you like to be touched.”

  The sound of her gasp tightened his insides. He dragged his thumb down, over the slender column of her neck, her collar bone and stopped at the rise of her breasts. She didn't try to break the gentle contact.

  “I wouldn't just take your virginity. I'd do every filthy thing my imagination offered.” He drew a lazy sweeping circle over the swell of her breasts. “I'd make sure to ruin you for any other man. Makes me a dobber. I should feel bad about it.”

  Her nipples pressed against her dress. He scraped his nails over one and watched her gaze darken. “So you're right to be wary.”