Trouble By Numbers Series

by Alam, Donna

  ‘Have you seen the bedrooms?’ Ivy asks, shuddering at the heads adorning the walls.

  ‘Not since they’ve been finished.’

  We’d arrived a couple hours ago and Rory had taken our bags straight to our room, via the rather grand staircase, while Kit suggested we order coffee for the three of us. It’s been a stressful time for them both, especially as they have another hotel opening next month. But it’s so great to see the finished place and I’m so happy I’d been able to help plan today’s opening. I’m still employed by the same company, though it’s taken Savannah a couple months to stop glaring green daggers at me. But I suppose if I was going home to Pierce and his Viagra stash, I’d be envious of me, too.

  Rory. What can I say? That it’s gotten better with each passing day? Not absolutely true. We still have our ups and downs, like all relationships, but we’re having fun. And we’re in love. And we’re actually dating, as in Rory picks me up at least twice a week like our relationship is brand new. I’d mentioned I’d never really done the whole dating thing, and my man is as accommodating as he is hot.

  Oh, and as of last month, I’m unmarried again. Well, divorced. Same thing.

  ‘When did you see the bedrooms?’ I ask, Natasha’s words belatedly sinking in.

  ‘When we arrived. I just popped up for a wee keek. Did you know,’ she says, her eyes suddenly sparkling, ‘there’s a room up there called the Master’s Suite.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s the hotel’s main bedroom.’

  ‘Well, the name’s pretty apt.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I ask, turning to her. ‘Specifically, because that’s the suite Rory and I are staying in tonight.’

  ‘I’m saying nothin’,’ she says, sniggering. ‘Except maybe it gives off vibes of the red room of pain. I’d say someone’s in for a skelped arse tonight.’

  ‘Give over,’ scoffs Ivy. ‘It’s not that kind of hotel.’ Her gaze glides to mine. ‘Is it?’

  I start to answer, but my attention is drawn by the sudden sound of applause as Kit introduces Rory. Dammit; I missed what he had to say. And this must be an impromptu addition as Rory had said earlier he didn’t want to be involved.

  ‘Thank you,’ Rory begins. ‘But if I could just ask my lovely partner in crime to come forward. Fin?’ As his eyes scan the crowd I feel myself shrinking into the neck of my dress. ‘That is, if she’s not too busy yammering to her friends back there.’

  Warm laughter ripples through the crowd, the modest but select sea of people parting.

  ‘Go on, then,’ says Ivy, her hand at my back. ‘Go see your man.’

  ‘Did you know anything about this?’ I whisper through a painted on smile.

  She doesn’t answer beyond giving me a sharp push.

  Crowds make me nervous these days, but I can focus on Rory . . . while wondering what he’s up to, though it can’t be. Surely not. He’s not going to ask the question he’s asked me at least once a month since we got back together.

  He wouldn’t . . . would he? Not in front of all these people.

  As I approach the front of the room I can’t help but marvel at what an attractive figure he cuts. He’s hot in jeans and a tee, or what I like to think of as his Mellor’s get-up, but in black Armani he’s absolutely breathtaking. It’s not his fault. It’s just the way he’s made: the sharpness of his cheekbones; his height; the graceful lines of his body; the permanent gleam in his eye.

  His slate coloured button-down brings another dimension to his steely gaze; it’s a gaze that means business, along with a whole host of other stuff we won’t get to until the bedroom. The Master’s Suite. Hells bells . . .

  As I draw closer, he holds out his hand and brings me to his chest for a brief hug. In his arms, I feel his chest expand in a deep inhale, silent but for the movement of his body against mine.

  ‘I hate to do this, blue.’

  And then it’s my turn to inhale a quick breath, because that term of endearment is strictly for use inside the bedroom.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I ask as he steps back, without letting go of my hand.

  I can feel my mouth gaping back at his smirk as he . . .

  . . . begins to lower his body

  . . . a hand feeding into the inside pocket of his jacket

  . . . goes down onto one knee.

  ‘Fin,’ he says, a playful smile tugging at his lips. A smile I suddenly want to smack. Then kiss. My hand comes up to my own mouth to prevent my heart from falling from my throat to the ground.

  ‘Oh, Rory. You’re not—’ Please don’t say he’s doing this—not in public. We’ve already spoken about this—I told him I wasn’t ready. Sort of.

  ‘I’m afraid I am,’ he replies, his eyes sparkling with glee. I begin to shake. ‘I’m honoured to be yours,’ he announces, loud enough for more than those nearby to hear. ‘And I know you value your independence. I want you to know that I’ll never take that away from you, but darlin’, I’m tired of traipsing between Waterloo and my place. Put me out of my misery, Fin.’ He begins to pull his hand from his pocket. ‘I was daft enough to let you go the first time. I’m not risking it again.’

  There, balanced on his index finger is a keychain; silver and sparkly. ‘I’m going to ask you again. And if you say no, that’s fine. I’ll just ask you another time, and another, until you tell me the words I want to hear. Fin, will you move in with me?’

  As a mixture of sniggers and more heartfelt aww’s break out around us, I take the keychain from his proffered finger, folding it into my own.

  ‘I could murder you right now,’ I say disparagingly. Undeterred, Rory opens his mouth to speak again, but I beat him to it. ‘Yes, Rory. I will.’

  ‘You will?’ He stands abruptly, hands now on my shoulders as he stares down at me. ‘You make me the happiest—’

  ‘What’s this hanging from it?’ I lay the keyring flat against my palm, something bright and sparkling catching my eye. It’s beautiful—oh my God, it is, isn’t it?

  ‘Don’t worry about that,’ he says laughing softly. ‘All at your own pace.’

  Oh my God, it is!

  How many carats is this thing?

  It’s so beautiful . . . and huge!

  While my brain tries to process, working on some kind of happiness induced delay, something catches the corner of my vision: a small, dark head weaving through the crowd at such a brisk pace that people are staggering out of her way.

  ‘Excuse me—excuse me. Would you just ever move!’ It’s not like Ivy to be so rude as she all but explodes from the room.

  Rory takes the opportunity created by my distraction to thread his arms around my waist. ‘You don’t have to wear it,’ he whispers. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘I know,’ I answer, smiling distractedly up at him. ‘All at my own pace.’ But I do want to wear it, I find. ‘It’s beautiful, Rory, and I am ready—give me the works!’

  ‘Really, you want—’

  ‘Forever.’ I reach up to touch his face, laughing softly at his stunned expression. ‘I really, really do, but can we keep it to ourselves? At least for a few hours?’

  ‘Come on,’ he says, grabbing my hand. ‘Let’s get out of here and go celebrate.’

  ‘We can’t leave! What about the opening?’

  Tugging my hand, he responds, ‘We’ll carry on the festivities. Naked, in our room.’ A-hell-yes.

  Unfortunately, before we’ve taken more than a couple steps, Nat and her granny find us.

  ‘Have you seen?’ Nat asks, tipping her head.

  ‘Seen who?’

  ‘Some random,’ giggles a clearly squiffy June.

  ‘It’s rando, June. Random is so twenty-fifteen.’

  ‘Sorry.’ She hiccups, then takes a sip from her sherry glass. ‘It’s a full time job keeping up with—I mean—being down, with the kids.’ With her free hand she makes a strange kind of granny-gang sign. Bemused, I turn back to Nat.

  ‘Seen?’

  ‘Tequila tits out there, running away from
Dylan Murray.’

  ‘Dylan Murray,’ I repeat doubtfully. ‘You mean the actor?’

  ‘I mean the film star,’ she replies with a touch of asperity. ‘In case you missed it, he’s just chased Ivy out of the room.’

  ‘Did you arrange for him to be here? For the opening, I mean?’ I tilt my head to Rory’s handsome, yet impatient face, but he shakes his head.

  ‘She’s keeping up a fair old pace,’ he says. I follow the line of his vision wondering why everyone’s acting crazy today. Through the expanse of windows, Ivy seems to be doing some sort of jog-walk-race along the side of the house. See? Crazy. ‘I’ve never heard of him,’ Rory adds flatly. ‘But if that’s him chasing Ivy, I’d say she knows him very well.’

  ‘Hey.’ I grab Natasha’s arm as she turns. ‘Why tequila tits?’

  ‘That’s him who drank the stuff out of her cleavage. And here I thought I was the wild one. Whatcha got there?’ Her eyes flick down to the multiple twinkling carats in my palm. ‘Is that—it is, isn’t it?’

  ‘No, Nat—’

  ‘Ah, that’s amazing, babe! Hey, everyone,’ she yells. ‘Listen up, they just got engaged!’

  Authors Note

  You made it! What did you think?

  My heartfelt thanks to you for giving One Hot Scot a go. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed telling Fin and Rory’s tale. I also hope you’ll take a few moments to write a quick review on Amazon.

  Reviews are so helpful. I can’t adequately express what a difference they make to an author like me. I don’t have a massive publisher backing me or a large advertising budget, but what I do have are lovely readers. Honest reviews of my books help bring them to the attention of others, and what better way to gain new a new reader than by recommendation?

  If you’ve enjoyed Fin and Rory’s story, I’d be so grateful if you could take two minutes to write me a quick review. Thanks so much.

  Review link

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to my family for driving me potty while I attempted to get words to paper. Or fingers to keyboard. Honestly, I have no life between this keyboard and my offspring. And thanks to M for keeping us afloat in these changeable waters. I hope to repay the favour one day.

  Thanks to Natasha Harvey for being the voice of reason. And the voice of inanity. And also everything in between. You’re a gem, lady. And also a little bit nuts, but you know that, right?

  Thanks to Kelsey Burns for the coffee and catch up time, bouncing ideas, frightening old ladies, and the occasional glass of wine.

  Thanks to Kathie Spitz for her big red editing pen by way of ‘track changes’, because we certainly did.

  Thanks to those of you who’ve left lovely reviews, notes on my FB, and emails full of lovely words. I really can’t adequately say how much this means to me.

  Finally, thanks for reading, lovely reader, whoever you may be. Without you, I’d be talking to these voices in my head in some looney bin, probably.

  Two Wrongs

  Book 2 of the Hot Scots Series

  By Donna Alam

  Copyright © 2017 Donna Alam

  Published By: Donna Alam

  Copyright and Disclaimer

  The moral right of this author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the express permission of the author

  This book is a work of fiction. Any reference to historical events, real people or real places are used fictitiously. All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 Donna Alam

  Chapter 1

  Ivy

  ‘Oh, my God! Look at that sausage!’

  Typical. Friday night book club and, as usual, Natasha has her eyes glued to her phone. I bet she hasn’t even read this week’s book; she probably spent most of her free time drooling over one of the many cooking videos from her Facebook feed. Feed being the operative word. She does love her food, and particularly, anything meaty. I shiver at the notion of the fleshy substance, placing a bowl of dip and crudités on the low table in the centre of my tiny living room.

  ‘I’m going to instigate a no-phone rule before next Friday’s meetup. And before you ask, no, you can’t bring a sausage dish next week.’ She really is enough to drive a vegan to drown in soy latte. ‘Not chorizo, salami, bratwurst, or any of that stuff.’

  ‘Oh-ho-oh.’ Less word than a dirty snigger, Nat keeps her blond head lowered, and her gaze glued to the screen of her phone. ‘It’s not a recipe I’m looking at, but more of a sausage fest. I wouldn’t mind a taste of this particular bit of meat, if you know what I mean.’

  I close my eyes and sigh, realising exactly what she’s looking at, because it’s a fact her love of food porn is only surpassed by her love of actual porn. Honestly, does no one use their phone for calling these days? Not Nat, at least. If you were unlucky enough to get a look at her browsing history, you’d probably only see three things:

  Food. Food Network. Tasty. Those how-to-cook-amazing-things videos. It’s definitely a voyeuristic interest on her part as I’m sure her culinary skills don’t exceed much more than burning toast.

  Porn. The Hub. The Hamster. The Tube. Though she draws the line at any of those pay-per-wank subscription sites. Her words, not mine.

  Celebrity stalking. And this is probably what takes the lion’s share of her data plan. Can she name three world leaders or a UNESCO World Heritage Site? Probably not, but I bet she can tell you exactly where the Kardooshians dined last night.

  ‘Nat,’ I reply wearily. So wearily. ‘You know how I feel about you watching porn.’

  ‘I know how you feel about me watching porn at work,’ she corrects. ‘But, Boss Lady, I’m not on the clock now.’

  Natasha is the Beauty Treatment Manager at my newly opened hair and beauty salon downstairs. At twenty-one, she’s five years younger than I am and on the surface, a wee bit brash. But I’ve known her all her life. Well, at least since June, my grandmother’s best friend, took her in. There’s a side to her people don’t take the time to see. Or maybe it’s more a side that’s hard to see beyond her voluptuous frame and tiny clothing. That and her peroxide blond mane. But beyond the dolly-bird exterior, she’s incredibly kind and warm-hearted. So maybe her outsides don’t exactly match her insides, but she often has an emotional understanding beyond her years.

  And then there are the other times. Times like this, when it seems like she’s just come off Ritalin.

  ‘Your granny will be here in a minute.’ I’m not sure this is much of a deterrent beyond my warning tone. As a semi-permanent fixture in the salon and a member of our smutty book club, Nat’s grandmother, June, has a fairly liberal attitude.

  Cock is such a braw word, don’t you think? Wonderful, virile and . . . hard. I wished Mills and Boone had used it in their stories back in my day. It’s my favourite word!

  ‘Well, I hope she remembered her reading glasses ‘cause she’ll not want to miss this.’ Nat’s gaze moves momentarily from the screen, one eyebrow raised in a taunt. ‘I imagine you’ll want a keek, too. I don’t know whether you’re familiar with the business end of this sausage, but I know you’ve met who it’s attached to.’

  I think my heart stops—misses a beat or something—as my mind begins to whirr. Since returning to the village after years of living in London and then the States, I haven’t been involved with anyone. Well, not that anyone would know. So is it any wonder my mind jumps to the last person I want to think about while simultaneously questioning how the flip could she know? It’s a reflex reaction, and a panic I quickly discard because there’s no way Natasha could know. Because no one does. It’s just my guilty conscience talking, which could only mean she has some dirty pictures of . . .

  ‘Is it Bradley Cooper’
s sausage—I mean—is it Bradley Cooper?’ So I might be a little excited, even if I do have to rub my chest to ease a pinch of guilt, because celebrities ought to be entitled to keep their lives private. As well as their privates off the internet. Yep, even your celebrity crush.

  ‘Have you met Bradley Cooper?’ she asks a little incredulously.

  I shake my head. While I have styled some of most well-known heads in Hollywood, I haven’t had my hands on that beauty. ‘I did once stare at him for a whole half hour from the other side of the salon floor.’ Because, up until a few months ago, I worked in one of L.A.’s top salons—a flagship store—where I held the lofty title of Art Director.

  ‘I’ll never understand why you came back to Scotland,’ Nat adds, not attempting to hide her disgust.

  ‘I just wanted to come home.’ I offer a quick shrug along with my lie; I’m getting pretty good at lying and all kind of evasion. And if this crappy village is my home, I may as well be homeless.

  In front of me, Natasha purses her lips in disbelief before holding out her hands to mimic a set of weighing scales. ‘Auchkeld or L.A.? Old lady perms or Lady Gaga’s head?’

  ‘Who’s giving Lady Gaga head?’ June, Nat’s granny, pulls a mint-green cardigan over her thin shoulders, shivering as she enters my living room. ‘Deary-me. It’s raining cats and dogs out there.’

  ‘And we’ve got someone hung like a horse in here.’ Nat presses something on her phone, turning the screen to face us, and though neither of us can see exactly what’s playing on the tiny screen, the unmistakable sounds of sex fill the small room.

  ‘Is that one of those sex videotape things?’ asks a pink-cheeked June.