by Alam, Donna
‘A pot o’ tea and two full Scottish,’ she says, the dishes rattling on the tray as she sets it down.
‘Oh, actually, could I have a coffee, please?’
‘Aye,’ she says, almost dropping my plate in front of me, though from her expression, you’d think I’d asked if she had on clean underwear. She produces a pencil from the nest of a steel coloured perm. ‘Will ye be wantin’ one cup or two?’
A quick glance to Rory confirms. ‘One. An espresso, please.’
‘You’ll be havin’ a Nescafé or you’ll be doin’ wi’out.’
‘Oh, okay. Thank you,’ I reply, a little stunned.
Folding the tray under her arm, she tromps away. It’s then I realise Rory’s shoulders are shaking.
‘That was pure brilliance. Jesus, you’re enough to keep around just for the sheer entertainment value.’
‘I say again . . . dickwad.’ I duck my reddening cheeks, peering at the contents of my plate. Bacon, a square sausage patty, fried egg, mushrooms, baked beans—I’ll never understand why these are an acceptable breakfast side—the dreaded black or blood pudding, and a very Scottish potato scone.
Oh, and a rack of thickly buttered of toast.
‘Am I supposed to eat or climb it?’ I mumble, picking up my fork and purposely ignoring the large Viking opposite as he sandwiches a slice of bacon between two triangles of toast before proceeding to inhale it. ‘I’ll never finish this—and I might have been a vegetarian.’ He didn’t ask, just ordered. Good job I was digging the alpha male this morning.
Still munching, Rory’s gaze passes over me contemplatively. ‘But you’re not.’
‘No, but I might’ve wanted something else.’
‘Does this look like the sort of place you’d get eggs and thrice smoked Scottish salmon, drizzled with a Benedictine emulsion and sprinkled with organic dill?’
‘I’m not even sure that’s a thing.’
‘It was this or porridge. Be a good girl and eat your carbs. You’ll need them after last night.’ I shoot him a glare, scornful words and egg yolk on the tip of my tongue, when he adds, ‘After all that running.’
‘I have nothing against carbs. It’s the heart attack I fear.’ Picking up my fork again, I narrowly avoid a collision with my newly arrived two-pint mug of instant coffee, served with a side of suspicious glare.
‘ ‘Round here, they’ve hung women as witches for less.’
‘Not true,’ I counter. ‘There were never any witch trials in this part of Scotland.’
‘So you’re a history buff?’
I offer a flippant shrug in response, adding words when it becomes clear the gesture isn’t going to cut it. ‘I grew up here.’ I could literally bite off my tongue. ‘For a while.’
‘I remember,’ he says, eyes sparkling as he dusts toast crumbs from his fingertips. ‘The Scottish mum.’
I feel my expression twist before recalling snippets of conversation we’d had at the pub. ‘Well remembered.’
‘I’m good at that sort of shit.’
I’m not sure I’ve schooled my expression entirely appropriately—after all, he seems to not recall quite a bit about me. Say, oh, I don’t know . . . taking my virginity?
I also don’t manage to swallow my dismissive snort.
‘What did I say?’
I slide a forkful of mushrooms into my mouth, managing to mumble. ‘Nothing.’
‘So . . .’ Rory reaches for the silver coloured tea pot sitting between us, the kind of vessel you don’t see anywhere else these days. He gestures to the spare mug once his own is filled, though I shake my head. ‘Hmm. Not very Scottish then.’
‘I think we established some time ago I’ve a little Scots in me.’
‘And sometimes a little bit more.’ I feel myself blush under his attention, rather than his juvenile and teasing tone. Yeah, he’s demolishing his breakfast at a pretty swift rate, but while he does so, he looks at me as though he’s contemplating pushing away the plate and eating me instead. ‘What else?’
‘I’m not really comfortable talking about myself.’
‘Let the minutes duly reflect that. And?’
‘And . . . and I don’t want to.’
‘Eat some toast,’ he says, pushing the silver rack in front of me. I take a piece of the cooling bread, picking off the corner. ‘How long since you’ve been . . .’ He pauses as though searching for a kinder address.
‘Alone?’ I ask hastily. ‘About four months.’
‘Hmm. Makes sense.’
‘That would be you, paying attention to stuff?’ My response is heavy on sarcasm.
‘You’re prickly this morning. Like a wee hedgehog.’
‘I am not.’
‘Suit yourself. Are you staying with your mum?’
‘You tell me,’ I reply, folding my arms.
His own fork mid-air, Rory pauses, eyes roaming over my face as though he’d be able to discern the answer from my expression. ‘It’d explain why you’re hiding out in a tiny house with no heating.’
‘It has heating, just not much,’ I answer, adding a shrug.
‘But?’
‘You’re not big on social clues, huh?’
‘Tatty bit o’ string,’ he says, smiling widely.
‘What?’
‘ ‘Frayed knot. You know, afraid not.’
‘Oh my God, that was so bad,’ I say, dropping the toast to my plate. ‘Pun fail, Rory. And I’m staying with a friend. You’re like a dog with a hard-on, you know that?’ As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I realise I’ve turned into a less eloquent version of Ivy.
‘While I’m certainly enjoying my breakfast, I wouldn’t say I’m that enthusiastic.’
‘I meant a dog with a bone!’
‘Sure you did, but I still don’t know where you’re staying.’
‘With a friend.’ Mostly. Picking up my fork, I slice off the corner of potato scone, popping it into my mouth.
‘The blonde wi’ the rack or the drunk one?’ The corner of his mouth turns up, his expression turning a touch cynical. ‘Tell me it’s not the meat headed one.’
‘Meat headed?’
‘Aye, the one from the gym that has issues getting his hands in his trouser pockets because of the size of his biceps. He needs to knock off the juice.’
‘Juice? Oh, you mean steroids. Doubtful, Mac has always been big.’ Big, but nowhere as imposing as the man sitting across the table. Not satisfied with my answer, Rory raises one sardonic brow. ‘That’s like the kettle calling the pot—’
‘Grimy arse?’
‘Something like that.’
‘I like to stay in shape,’ he says. ‘I also like my dick to be accessible.’
‘What?’ I ask laughingly.
‘He looks like a cartoon. Is it him?’
‘Him? Oh, who I’m staying with?’ Rory doesn’t answer, though his expression is less than calm. ‘You know, if the wind changes, you’ll stay looking like that.’
‘You’d still be hot for me.’
‘Wow. You are so full of yourself.’ I grasp my napkin, hiding my smile while ostensibly dabbing my mouth.
‘Aye.’ The way he watches me borders on carnivorous. ‘And you’re full of me, too, after last night. I like it.’
Sensation blooms and bursts between my legs. I drop my gaze back to my plate, murmuring, ‘I’m not sure how to answer that.’
‘You say Rory, the blonde or Rory, the wee drunken brunette.’
Spinning. My head is spinning, his determination tying my tongue in knots. He likes me likes me. Oh, God, and I like him. More than I ought to, I know.
‘The brunette. Ivy.’ The words just spill. Like verbal soup. ‘Sister of the meathead. I mean Mac. She’s Mac’s sister. And my best friend.’
‘Got it,’ he says with a satisfied smirk.
‘Good.’ I exhale a massive breath, then picking up my fork, chase a couple bright orange beans around my plate.
‘Well, I think so.’
> ‘You do?’ My head snaps up, my gaze square on his.
‘Aye. You seemed awful pally back there in the gym.’
‘That’s because we are. Friends, I mean.’
‘I didn’t like it. Didn’t like him.’ His tone is gruff, like he’s reluctant to say the words.
‘And yet you left.’
‘That was before. If you tell me you feel the same, I’m pulling out all the stops.’
My fork clatters against the plate. I can feel myself blinking. Heavily.
‘You’re doing that blinking thing again, titch.’ His voice is so low and rough.
‘Can’t help it,’ I whisper. ‘This is all so much.’ So soon. Too much.
‘Tell me about it.’ With an almost rueful tilt of his head, he stabs the sausage patty with his fork. ‘One minute I’m screwing some hot piece of ass.’ I think my jaw just hit the table as he asks, ‘Like the vernacular? Thought you might appreciate it.’ He slices off a chunk. ‘I was meaning you, by the way. And the next minute I’m falling in love. You again.’
‘No. You can’t be.’ He can’t be in love, especially using that tone.
‘I know,’ he agrees, waving the fork. His throat moves as he swallows; how is that even hot? ‘That’s what I keep telling myself, but it looks like you’re stuck with me. You’ll just have to play catch up in the meantime.’
‘Rory, you don’t even know me.’
‘True,’ he concedes. ‘But that seems to have little to do wi’ how I feel. One minute, exactly like you said, I’m trying to avoid you like the plague and the next, I feel like you’ve tattooed your name across my fucking heart.’
‘I didn’t do anything,’ I half wail, sort of plaintively. I’m a little stunned. Yes, there’s his admission—which is huge—but this is also the first time Rory has cursed in my company. Well, cursed in conversation, rather than during sex. Or the lead up to sex. Dirty words are part of his foreplay.
Oh, my. He’s a gentleman. Who’d have thought?
‘And truth be told,’ he continues, ‘you don’t know an awful lot about me. And the bits you do know aren’t entirely accurate.’
I imagine it’s not very gallant to lie.
‘What?’
‘I may have told you a couple of wee fibs, but I figure that’s okay.’
‘Why would you think that?’ I ask carefully.
‘ ‘Cos I figure you haven’t been entirely honest, either. Are you gonna eat that?’ I shake my head and Rory leans over, spearing the sausage on my plate. ‘Lorne sausage is ambrosia from the Gods. Pity they’re all heathens down south.’
Thirty-Five
Rory
‘Down south,’ she repeats, doing a fair impression of a small, blonde, blinking owl.
God, those eyes. Almost lapis when glazed with passion and green-blue the rest of the time.
Her gaze is steady, like she knows what I’m thinking. I wish she could, then there’d be no need for this conversation. ‘Aye, where I live. Mostly.’
‘Oh.’ Short and high, her reply resembles a hoot. ‘I assumed you lived in Scotland, given your accent and all.’
‘And I’d assumed you weren’t from around these parts at all until you put me right.’ Away an’ boil ye’ heid she’d said in a pretty convincing accent. I lean my elbow on the table, my other hand still holding my fork . . . which I seem to be using like a conductor’s baton. ‘So what does that tell you?’
‘Honestly? I’ve no idea.’
I laugh then. Heartily. If nothing else, this girl makes me laugh. She also sucks cock like a champ.
‘It tells me we’re both hiding things.’ Oh, fuck, that’s not good, I think, watching as the colour almost bleeds from her cheeks. ‘Don’t stress it. I’ll go first.’
‘With what?’
‘The first item on the agenda.’ I wave over the waitress and ask her to take away the plates when it becomes clear Fin won’t be eating any more than the few mouthfuls she’s managed so far. ‘I wish it was a wee bit later in the day. I could’ve taken you to the pub.’
‘That sounds ominous.’
‘Believe me, alcohol might’ve helped. Pay attention,’ I say, with gravitas. And then a laugh. ‘What I’m about to tell you sounds like it was lifted from a gothic novel.’
‘Cool, a story. Should I get comfortable?’ she asks, though she’s clearly at a loss.
‘Absolutely,’ I say, patting my knees. She frowns, so inhaling deeply, I begin. ‘So, me. I have the accent, but I didn’t grow up in Scotland, unless you count boarding school, and while I’m definitely a Scot, London is my home.’
‘That’s not so scary, though I’m surprised you haven’t had your passport revoked.’
‘Surprised?’
‘Well, your accent is certainly a little finer, even if you can lay it on.’
‘You’re angling for a skelped arse,’ I say all gravelly, though it’s not a tone I use for effect, but rather because the image of her hand-warmed arse flashed into my head. ‘When I’m angry, or excited, it just shows a little more.’ And skelping her arse definitely left me excited. ‘But you’d know that, yeah?’ I add, using the same tone, throwing in a knicker dropping smirk for good measure. I let my gaze slide over her body before starting again. Not that I particularly want to, but I sense the only way to get her to trust me is to be honest with her myself.
‘That aside, you could say my roots are here in this very village. More specifically, over at the big house, as you call it.’ I curl my fingers against the urge to smooth the crease from her brow. ‘It was sold just recently. I don’t know if you’re aware. It took an age to go through probate after the owner died and left it to a charity.’
‘I’d heard,’ she replies softly.
‘The thing you won’t have heard, in fact, the thing that almost no one knows is, the dead guy? He was my dear old dad, or as I like to call him, the sperm donor.’
‘Oh, that’s . . . wow.’
Shooting her a tight smile—the best I can manage while speaking about the monumental prick—I carry on. ‘Yep. We used to come here for our summer holidays. Mum, me and Kit. We stayed at the cottage, you know, the cottage from our first night?’ Fuck me, blushing looks good on her. ‘Funnily enough, the auld bastard left us that house in his will.’
I sniff, turning my gaze to the café window. We weren’t worthy of the Tremaine House, just the cottage it seems, for his bastard sons. His only sons. Hidden away from the rest of his life until he saw fit. Fuck that. By the time he’d wanted us, neither Kit nor I were the least bit interested.
I realise, at that point, that I’m chewing the inside of my lip.
‘We used to visit him, but no one ever mentioned who he was. Just a family friend we were told. Then, his wife died—she was disabled and had been for a long time. They never had children. Kit and I were accidents and our mother, his slip from married grace.’ The sanctimonious shit. I can’t help my bitter tone; I thought I’d be fine—be able to wing it, though it now seems not. The whole situation is fucked up and something I’d prefer no one else to know, but I have to do this. I have to get her to open up. ‘So, after his wife’s death, he decided he could make room for us, presumably no longer weighed down by guilt. Kit and I were about twenty-three and not the least bit interested. It was too little too late and we told him so.’ The last time we came up for a holiday we basically told him to get fucked.
Stunned. She looks fucking stunned. Christ, why did I let my mouth run off so much? I should’ve stuck to the bare facts. I’m so fucking stressed, it takes me a moment to realise she’s reaching across the table for my hand.
‘Oh my. That’s just . . . terrible. What about your mom? How did she feel?’
‘I suppose we’ll never know. She was killed in a car accident the year before.’
‘Oh, Rory. I’m so sorry.’
‘Not your fault,’ I reply gruffly as, grasping her fingers tight, I press them between both my hands.
‘It’s just such a
shitty position to be in. Losing your mom and having to deal with your father, and then being sent to do work on the house that’s rightfully yours. It’s not fair. Couldn’t you have refused the job?’
For a split second I’m lost, still basking like a cat in her warm gaze. In her empathy. ‘Ah, well, that brings us to item number two,’ I reply, resisting the supreme urge to run a hand through my hair. ‘The big house. I don’t suppose I’ve told you my name—my surname?’ She shakes her head as I touch my chest and say, ‘Rory Tremaine.’
‘I don’t think I understand.’
‘And the house is rightfully mine now. At least, the mortgage is.’
‘The mortgage? You . . . bought it?’
‘We did. It went up for auction and Kit and I snapped it up. Two point four mil . . . and a few hundred grand to fix it up.’
‘I must be in the wrong business.’ She looks stunned, words simply falling from her mouth. ‘Do gardeners get paid that kind of money?’
‘Which brings me neatly to number three, is it?’ I haven’t been keeping count. ‘Aye, number three. A gardener, yes,’ I say, drawing the word out, attempting to restrain my expression. ‘Kit prefers the term landscape architect. This is my brother, the landscape architect.’ She doesn’t smile at my take on his pompous-ass tone. ‘But jointly, we also own a fair bit of property and a couple hotels. And that sounds more monopoly mogul than it actually is.’ My laughter seems hollow, especially as she tries to retract her hand.
Tries. Doesn’t succeed.
‘You lied—why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Well, I’m no’ in the habit of telling virtual strangers my net worth. And then there’s the wee matter of you saying you wouldn’t screw a rich bloke. I’m no Rockefeller, but I do all right. I wasn’t going to let that little fact put you off that night.’
‘Even though you thought I was a whore?’ Her lips quiver; I’m taking it as an embryonic smile—counting it as a win.
‘I did not. But in my defence, that first night, you weren’t making a lot of sense.’ Who brings up the topic of money when talking about fucking, other than a hooker, maybe?
‘So you lied.’
‘Basically.’ I accompany this with a brief shrug. ‘More like stretched the truth.’