by Donna Alam
Ivy huffs, folding her arms. ‘I think you’re right. You’ve spent too much time in your pyjamas these last few months, overdosing on Twilight and now your imagination is working overtime. Anyway,’ she adds with an audible huff. ‘The lion can eat the flippin’ lamb for all I care.’
‘Exactly my point.’ My hands grip the steering wheel tighter. ‘Mrs Vegetarian.’
‘Your skin is pale and ice cold and . . . and your eyes glow red.’ Hands clasped at her chest, she lays it on pretty thick. ‘You don’t sleep. You rarely go outside. I know who you are—Fin!’ Her loud cackle echoes in the tiny Fiat, sounding ridiculously false.
‘Real funny. I didn’t mean to imply you look like Disco Vampire Barbie. It’s more like you shimmer like you’re suppressing . . . I don’t know, words, maybe?’ I slide my gaze her way. ‘Rage?’
She shoots me a withering look, her responding tone flat. ‘There’s nothing going on, so you can stop with the conspiracy theories.’
‘Theories,’ I repeat. ‘How’s this? I theorize there’s a guy at the bottom of this flight.’
She huffs again, her following words more than a touch brusque. ‘Please keep your eyes on the road. I need to get to Glasgow, not Inverness.’
‘Fine, have it your way.’
‘If I had my way he’d be at the bottom of the ocean.’ This she mutters almost under her breath.
I spend the rest of the car journey worrying about her. And then on my way back, worrying about seeing Rory. I didn’t call him Saturday, not after Ivy opened the damn letter. There was no way I could’ve left her alone, especially as she’d taken a vow of temporary silence while erecting a shelf of concern over her eyebrows. We’d gone upstairs after Natasha and June left for the day and she’d immediately logged onto her laptop to book a flight, point-blank refusing to discuss any of the reasons beyond what she’d already said. A contractual thing. She had to go back.
I thought about calling Rory to explain—maybe take a raincheck?—but it just seemed a little too much. Too familiar. Too easy. Too much like I was looking forward to seeing him again. In not calling, I’d decided, I was sending a message. A signal high into the sky, sort of like the one Batman has, only mine says, Not that interested .
Obviously, I didn’t think it through properly. Didn’t project the possible outcomes beyond the evening itself, because I’m now on my way to work and I’m pretty sure he’ll be there. And I am interested. Interested, that is, in what he has to offer. Namely some awesome sex . I know I oughtn’t, that I should keep on sending those uninterested signals, but it’s easier to ignore someone you don’t have to see.
And I have a really bad poker face.
Not to mention I’m currently dressed for ease of access. I’m wearing a dress to a building site, for fuck’s sake. And long, black boots. God, I’m such a cliché.
Awkward doesn’t even cover it. I’m going to spend my days drooling over him, aren’t I? Why did it have to be him contracted to design the gardens, anyway? I can only hope the universe is looking out for me and he’ll have been called away to other jobs today. Though not permanently because . . . see above reference to sex.
I don’t think I’m through having sex with him . . . which is probably a sign of another kind. Maybe this one needs to be placed inside a red triangle and labelled dangerous .
Oh, but sex. He was really good. The best. And therefore, I’d like to do it—him—again.
There I go thinking with my recently installed metaphoric dick.
Or maybe I’m ovulating?
Or maybe he really just fucked my brains out.
Whatever the reason, my heart beats with an uneasy kind of anticipation as I pull on to the driveway.
At the back of the big house, I park at the stables just as Rory comes out of my house. Okay, so it’s not exactly my house. More like my little sanctuary, though perhaps not any more. He waves as he sees me, coming to open the driver’s door. Fuck. I turn off the engine; my hands tighten on the steering wheel as he pulls open the door.
‘No bike today?’ he asks, holding out his hand. So, he doesn’t appear to be annoyed that I blew him off this weekend.
‘Evidently not.’ So why is it that I sound so cross?
‘Well?’
‘What?’ I snap in response, while cursing him and his pale t-shirt and wondering if he knows how hot he looks.
‘Well . . . are you getting out of the car? Maybe planning on doing some work today?’ The corner of his mouth hooks into a half-assed smirk, igniting the simmering flicker of anger inside my chest. Especially as he turns his wrist, looking pointedly down at his watch. He’s got good hands. Strong wrists. Great forearms. A subtle tan and—brain, shut the hell up!
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Well, it is nearly lunch time.’
‘What? Now you’re the talking clock?’ I climb out of the car without taking his hand. ‘It’s not even ten—’ I grab his wrist with the intention of seeing the exact time, the next words propelled from my mouth in a seriously high pitch ‘—is this a Patek Phillipe? ’
I know it is as I bring my face closer, peering down at it. I know because Marcus wore the same brand, though this one has a masculine leather strap rather than the gaudy gold one I’m more familiar with. I wonder what happened to it. Whatever, you could still buy a house in most places with the cost of one. And how in the heck is Rory wearing one? To garden?
‘It’s a knock off,’ he says, pulling back his hand. ‘I got it in Ibiza last year. I’m surprised it’s still working, to be honest.’
‘Oh.’ My hands fall to my sides, the flame of anger turning to relief.
‘So, work?’ he says fully smirking now as he slides both hands into the pockets of his jeans.
‘Yeah. I suppose.’ I fold my arms across my chest as I look away, something—and I’m certain it’s not just his watch—bothering me.
‘Come on, darlin’,’ he almost growls. ‘I know you can do enthused. I’ve seen it.’
And if his words aren’t suggestive enough, the look he gives me leaves me in no doubt as to what he’s referring. His eyes then move from my lips and linger over my breasts, my nipples stiffening, almost feeling the brush of his gaze. His lips twitch, his eyes purposely unmoving from my chest, clearly enjoying the reaction he’s causing. He’s pushing my buttons—yes, those and my metaphoric ones—and he knows it. And this just burns my ass. He might be good and he might know it, but that doesn’t give him the right to . . . to make me feel so pissed!
Buddy, there’s a time and a place, and right now is neither of those things.
In other words, I bite. Badly.
‘What is your deal? Because what I do is no concern of yours.’ That damned smile breaks free, and despite imagining pushing my hands into his hair and dragging his mouth to mine, my blood pressure is totally about to erupt, and not in the fun, sexual way. ‘For your information, I’m contracted to twenty hours a week and last week I spent over triple that amount here. I don’t have to answer to you, but if I did, I’d tell you I didn’t need to be here until this afternoon when the gym equipment arrives and that I don’t need to come back until Wednesday when I’m meeting with new builders, okay?’
‘Builders?’ he repeats, his eyebrows drawing in above those stormy blue eyes of his.
‘That’s right.’ I find I’ve planted a hand on my hip—a cocked hip—and quickly change my stance by folding my arms across my chest before I’ve even realised. ‘I see there’s nothing wrong with your hearing.’
‘I thought the site was mothballed or something.’
‘Maybe.’ My tone is so nasty I expect him to back off, maybe walk away, not stand staring at me . . . waiting for a response. A beat later it becomes clear I’m not going to win this standoff, so I turn back, opening the car door and pulling out my purse. ‘As I understand it, the site is at a standstill due to some kind of contractual dispute, but it seems ridiculous that in the meantime, at least some of the work ca
n’t be carried.’ Purse in hand, I turn back to him, slamming the driver’s door shut with a bang. ‘I’d asked a friend who they’d recommend locally to complete one or two jobs.’
‘What jobs?’
‘Well . . .’ I push the bangs from my forehead. ‘There’s a restoration carpenter coming to look at the second floor staircase because it’s kind of dangerous as it stands. The other guy is some kind of shopfitter that I’ve asked to supply a price for finishing the reception and downstairs bar.’
‘Did anyone ask you to do this?’
‘No. I’m just investigating. I was just going to forward the information on.’ I inhale a deep breath, though I’m not exactly sure why. ‘It’s called initiative, if you didn’t know.’
He looks taken aback, though a second later his expression changes again. ‘Yeah,’ he almost purrs. ‘I know all about initiative.’
Again with the small sentences weighty with meaning.
‘Hmph.’ Because there really isn’t a lot else I can say to that, not without occupying his mouth otherwise. Like pulling it against mine. ‘H—how come you’re not finished here?’ I wave my hand in the vague direction of the garden lying beyond the house. ‘I thought you were only going to be here a couple days.’
‘Why, Fin, are you trying to get rid of me?’
Heaven protect me against a man who can roll his r’s, because I know what that particular vibration feels like—what it elicits—somewhere sensitive.
Rory steps closer and I take a step back, my heart absolutely skipping a beat as my butt comes up solidly against the car door. The whole scene runs in slow motion as he slides his hands from his pockets, placing his palms flat against the roof of the car, boxing me in.
‘I’m gonna be here a while longer.’ He’s so close that his sensual threat fans against my warm cheeks. His gaze slides the length of my body; my skin coming to life under the attention. His intentions . ‘Think you can deal with that?’ His eyes slip to my lips as I inhale, trying to find a reply, though unable to summon words. ‘You see, I had plans for Saturday. Big plans. Unfortunately, they didn’t go as I’d liked them to have . . .’ As he hesitates, I hold my breath, almost positive I’ll hear him whisper titch , because it’s just that kind of tone. When he doesn’t, the disappointment almost stings.
‘Oh?’ I imagine my eyebrows are comically high as I attempt to school my expression.
‘Yeah.’ One word expelled in barely a breath; it could mean anything. But as he leans closer, I think it means he’s going to kiss me. And that despite my posturing, I’ll let him. And that I’ll probably also let him bend me over the hood about five minutes following that.
My heart beats staccato and I actually squeak when he leans closer, his lips narrowly avoiding mine, gliding past my ear as he does a sort of mini push-up against the car . . . propelling himself upright. And further out of my dance space than I’d currently like .
‘But like you say, I’ve got work to do. I suppose I’d better get my arse into gear.’
I don’t have any words, certainly not intelligent ones, my mind slipping to just that. His ass. Getting into gear. Preferably over me.
‘Have you got something in your eye?’ A smile tugs at the corner of his lips as he asks.
‘What? N—no. Why do you ask?’
‘You’re just doin’ an awful lot of blinking.’
‘I was just thinking,’ I reply with a dash of asperity, hopefully directing him in the opposite direction to where my mind had wandered.
‘Of something good, I hope.’ Again with the sexy-as-fuck gravelly tone.
‘Just about work,’ I snap.
‘I think that was my cue,’ he says, now through a smile. Hands back in his pockets, he makes to turn away.
‘Wait—’ I hold out my hand, dropping it just as quick. ‘What were you doing in there?’ I gesture to the stable block behind him, in particular, the little house where I’ve been camping out.
‘Now there’s a question,’ he says with a smirk I want to kiss—I mean kick—right off his face.
‘Yes, I’m aware it was a question. I’d posed it as such.’ I fold my arms like armour against that smirk. ‘Social convention dictates that an answer usually follows.’
Rory inhales deeply, his shoulders rising and falling as though he’s considering the merits of just this as he tips his head, his gaze falling to the ground. But I’m not paying much attention to any of these things; actions that barely register as my consciousness is consumed by other things.
Like how, as he inhales, the t-shirt he’s wearing under his plaid shirt draws tight across his chest, defining those full and hard pecs beneath. Like how, right now, I want to slide my hands under those garments and over his flesh. Like how I’d slide myself, and my tongue, further down. I already know his flesh to be tan, warm and firm, and I know his shirt will smell heavenly as I bury my nose in the worn fabric. Laundry detergent. Sandalwood and man.
His laugh, husky and low, settles between my thighs, bringing my head up from the general vicinity of his nipples at the same time. My synapses must be dawdling as I take in his dark, lustrous gaze, eventually noticing his smile.
I’ve known men who were handsome. Men whose good looks provided them with a substantial living strutting the catwalks of New York to Milan. Men with the physiques to rival Greek gods, with smiles said to be devastating. But none of these men had anything on Rory, because right now, the way he looks at me is almost annihilating.
My heart bangs against my ribcage as I close my eyes and swallow over a few silent truths. Like the fact that he’s goading and annoying, and that for those reasons alone, I shouldn’t want to lie down and open my legs.
And there’s the small matter of my being at work today.
Holy hell, I’ll probably be in need of a chastity belt while we’re both working within a square mile range.
‘You want to know what I was doing back there.’ His tone is all good whisky and warm honey as he gestures to the building in question. I answer with a nod. Twice. ‘In the name of social convention?’ Definitely. ‘And societal norms?’
‘Yes.’ My answer hits the air with anger and anticipation. Eager much?
‘Why don’t you come back there and I’ll show you.’
‘Show me,’ I repeat, though I’m not asking. I’m imagining. Imagining the last time we were together there.
‘Because some things are better experienced, rather than explained.’
I lick my lips and I can see in his eyes the bastard knows that he has me. That I know that he knows means nothing to me. I can’t think of anything beyond the riot of intensity this man causes in me. I want to smack him and kiss him. Pull his hair and . . . nothing. We both freeze, as somewhere upon his person, his phone begins to ring.
Slipping it quickly from his back pocket, he appears to be switching it off before glancing at it with a frown. It’s then he answers it, stepping a few paces and turning away, all without saying a word.
I’m slightly mollified to see his body heaving in the confines of his t-shirt. It’s an abstract notion that barely registers, mainly because I’m now majorly pissed, as behind his back, I cover my mouth with my hand. I’m not angry that he’s answered his phone. No, that was probably a good call. A safe out. I’m angry at myself. Angry that, despite him annoying me to the point of aneurysm, I was about to spend the day with him getting my brains fucked out.
I try to regulate my breath while trying not to listen to his call, not that I can tell who he’s talking to, though it’s totally obvious he’s guarding his words. He slides his hand into his pocket, then quickly out again, dropping a bundle of what appears to be twenty pound notes to the ground. As he bends forward to pick up the cash, his jeans hug the back of his thighs and ass. I can’t blame them, the jeans I mean. I’d hug his ass in a heartbeat. Yes, still. As he stands, I study the breadth of his strong back, of how his shirt hugs one strong bicep as he lifts his arm to rake his fingers through his hair.
/> It’s so unfair.
And it shouldn’t be allowed.
He shouldn’t be here, not with his level of perfection.
Like porn in the office, the man is not safe for work.
I swing my bag over my shoulder, and even though my eyes seem glued to his ass, I force myself to turn and stomp away.
Twenty-Eight
Rory
‘Kit.’ My address is sharp, my blood having drained from one head to the other.
‘I expected to see you in the office this morning.’
‘Something came up.’ Please don’t ask what, because the current answer is my dick .
‘So you didn’t fly down this weekend?’
I really didn’t think he’d notice this quick. He’s usually too busy sitting at the helm.
‘I was going to, but you know how it is.’ I keep my answers vague, sure of one thing: Kit doesn’t know his site manager is a woman, because if he did, he’d put two and two together. Then he’d fly up here to remove my balls. He’d totally blame me—claim he could see a pattern forming—but it’s not like I go out of my way to screw our employees. Anna’s contract was already up and Fin wasn’t working for us . . . first time, at least. Besides, given the chance I’d like to rewind and unscrew Anna. With Fin I wouldn’t change a thing.
‘I’m guessing you found someone to fuck over the weekend and you’re holed up in some tiny flat somewhere.’
‘Then you’d be guessing wrong.’ Mostly.
He makes a very Scottish noise from his throat; a sceptical sound, following it up with a very sardonic, ‘Is that so?’
‘Yep.’ Hearing Fin’s shoes begin to slam against the gravel, I realise I don’t have to be so vague. ‘I’m over at the house. I decided to have a look at the gardens. A proper look.’
‘You did?’
‘You asked me to, didn’t you?’
‘Yeah, but—’
‘Then don’t ask questions. I was gonna come back, but now I’ve been sucked into this.’ Sorry mum. Looking up, I address my thoughts to the sky, dumb fuck that I am.