Hot Scots Christmas

by Alam, Donna

  ‘You said you didn’t want to work on them.’

  ‘And I don’t.’

  ‘Okay—calm down.’

  ‘I am calm. Perfectly so.’

  ‘You’re a perfect arsehole.’

  ‘And you’d know because . . . you’re the arsehole expert?’

  ‘Ah, for fuck’s sake,’ he says, half growl, half laugh. ‘I don’t want to get into this with you.’

  ‘Harsh,’ I reply, full of faux hurt. ‘I thought brothers were meant to share.’

  ‘While we’re on the subject of sharing . . .’ The sudden tension in his tone clues me in to where this is headed.

  ‘Beth,’ I answer. ‘What’s going?’

  ‘I think I might be making progress. She’s talking about letting the crews return to the jobs.’

  I huff out a laugh, but don’t elaborate. She hasn’t had a change of heart because she hasn’t got one. She just thinks she’s getting what she wants.

  The line call drops out for a second, Kit’s voice beginning to drift in and out just as he’d said something of note.

  ‘Fucking perfect,’ I grumble. ‘Why couldn’t the call have been like this from the off?’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘Nothing. What were you saying about Beth?’

  ‘What was that? Have you met the site manager yet?’

  Ah, fuck.

  Not wanting to answer, I rub my fingernail over the tiny microphone, almost deafening Kit.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’

  ‘What? I can’nae hear. Listen, the line is shite. I’ll give you a call from the mainland tomorrow and we’ll talk then.’

  I hang up before Kit has time to protest, stabbing the off button and shoving the thing into my back pocket.

  Why am I still here? The fuck only knows. I’d cancelled my flight in the hopes of seeing more of Fin again. Lots more. But what I was actually doing in her wee hideaway is a question a bit easier to answer. Easier, though maybe not totally sane. There’s something decidedly un-masculine about admitting you’ve slept with your head on someone’s pillow just to enjoy the scent of them.

  So the weekend hadn’t gone exactly as planned. At a loose end, I’d ventured into the gardens, somewhere I’d sworn not to go. I’d told myself I’d just have a wee keek, seeing as how I was at a loose end, and by sunset, I’d drawn up restoration plans. I’d barely had time for a quick shower before heading over to the mainland to meet the woman who’d just stomped away.

  By her mood this morning, she mustn’t be the only one that had a shite weekend.

  The best laid plans often turned to fuck, so I hadn’t spent the weekend being holed up in Fin’s wee house, balls deep inside the woman herself. Furthermore, she’d left me sitting alone in the revamped pool hall Saturday night. The first time I’d ever been stood up. It was a novel experience, though one I’m not keen to repeat.

  And I’d expected to be angry seeing her getting out of her car. I wasn’t. It might have something to do with what I’ve been up to in her little house. I may or may not have had a wee rake through her drawers, not that she can complain. If she’d turned up, I’d’ve been better occupied. Better fulfilled. So I had a nosey. Slept with my head on her pillow, which is just a bit daft, and makes me feel soft to admit. But it’s not all bad. I did discover Fin owns some seriously sexy underwear.

  And that little fact made me rock hard.

  Hard enough to add to my list of misdemeanours.

  So, I might’ve jacked off in her wee house.

  And I might’ve, not five minutes ago, offered to show her the same.

  I don’t know what it is about her exactly; I only know I’m not done. There’s more to her than meets the eye; things she’s not saying. Things that don’t add up. The watch for starters. Your average punter wouldn’t know a Patek Phillipe from a Casio . And the fact that she’s been hiding out here.

  I’ll not lie, it’s kind of worrying, though it’s a notion I’m trying hard to suppress. I’d hate to find her ex is causing her some kind of harm. It’s obvious she’s been staying here and I’m not convinced she’s told me the truth.

  So I’m still here. Hanging on. Even as I wonder why.

  I thought I’d shag her out of my system over the weekend, but we know how that worked out. And now, after this morning, I’m thinking I should leave well alone.

  There’s something about her, something secretive, for sure. And fuck me if that doesn’t add to the allure.

  My arse cheek vibrates, so I slip out my phone and see a text from Kit.

  Glad you’re looking at the gardens. Looking forward to seeing your plans. Don’t know if you got what I was saying, but this thing about Beth; we need to talk.

  All of a sudden, I become aware of the cold. It’s bright and sunny, but, fuck , is it freezing. Still swearing under my breath, I make my way to the ground keepers’ workshop, sure I’ve left my jacket down there.

  Twenty-Nine

  Fin

  I’d decided to spend the remainder of the day being anywhere Rory wasn’t, though mostly holed up in the tiny site office that I’m sure was once a broom closet. I suppose I should’ve been relieved the space was an internal one, and as such had no windows. It meant I’d avoided inadvertent sightings of that copper-lit halo of hair, that there’d been no drooling over his jeans clad ass. Filled out perfectly both back and front. And definitely no longing glances as he toiled over garden beds.

  No windows = no trouble. Just lots of imagining.

  The gym equipment had arrived that afternoon and though the house is still a ways from being ready for a paying clientele, its gym-space can now accommodate their work-outs just fine. Pale wooded floors and gleaming mirrors, work-out equipment clearly worth tens of thousands of dollars, and a sauna large enough to seat a football team. It’s the kind of space world class hotels pride themselves on. And I would know. And it’s where I am currently, tidying up the following day. I guess Rory must be taking a leaf out of my avoidance manual as I haven’t seen him all day.

  ‘The fine Finola!’

  I turn from rubbing fingerprints from the expanse of mirrors, knowing only one person who’d dare address me like this. Mac. It’s his company that was contracted to supply the machinery yesterday.

  ‘You’re late.’

  ‘Ah, come on. It’s not like there’s much going on here anyway.’

  ‘That’s not the point,’ I return, tucking the cloth into the back pocket of my jeans and folding my arms. ‘It’s very unprofessional to make an appointment and not turn up. Especially with friends.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ he placates, holding up surrendering hands. ‘I’d’ve rang but I’ve had a bit of a problem, see?’ Opening the pocket of his jacket, he pulls out a plastic ziplock bag containing his phone. And a whole lot of brown rice.

  I try to hide a snigger by coughing into my hand. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Nat rang me this morning. There was something wrong with one of the basins in the salon.’ His tone is wry as he opens his jacket, sliding the bag away. ‘So I went over to look, like the good brother I am.’

  ‘More like trying to get into someone’s good books.’ Less for Ivy’s benefit than his.

  ‘Aye, well,’ he says, ignoring me. ‘I was leaning over the thing when my phone fell out of my shirt pocket into the basin of water. And the bastarding thing’s now kaput.’

  ‘Oh, too bad. Whose idea was the rice?’

  ‘The wee granny manning the place. She’d give Hitler a run for his money.’

  ‘You leave June alone. She’s cool.’

  ‘She’s a couple of sarnies short of a full picnic. She put my phone in a bag of cooked rice first.’

  Sounds about right. ‘She means well.’

  ‘She doesn’t like me.’

  ‘Hmm, and why would that be, I wonder?’

  ‘Well, I might have called into the salon last night, you know, to make sure everything was all right, like Ivy asked—’

  ‘She
only left yesterday.’

  ‘Aye, well—’

  ‘And I’m there every day.’

  ‘I know, but—’

  ‘But you like Natasha, and maybe you were hoping to catch her on her own?’

  Mac laughs, rubbing a hand against the scruff on his chin. Early beard production in the works for a certain peroxide blonde? ‘Shame it was her granny I caught instead.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you gave her a show like the other night.’

  ‘I’m hardly likely to walk into my sister’s salon with my dick in my hand.’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I let my gaze wander over him. ‘You sure don’t look like a deviant, but that little stunt you pulled proves otherwise.’

  ‘Little? Choose better words, eh?’ He steps towards me, resting his hands on my shoulders, his expression mockingly stern as he stares down. ‘You lot walked in on me . I didn’t know you’d be calling in and if you’re not allowed to masturbate in the peace of your own home, well, that’s a world I don’t want to live in.’

  ‘My heart’s breaking here, but while I remember, Ivy says you need to do something about the violated couch. And I quote, “you pervert”.’

  ‘You’re a wee scunner, so you are,’ he says, giving my shoulders a light shake.

  ‘Don’t shoot the messenger,’ I reply, laughing. ‘But June’s a love, so whatever you’ve done to upset her, you’d best fix it.’

  ‘The old biddy was just embarrassed. I walked into the shop and she was singing—gi’yin it laldy so she was, at the top of her lungs. Probably been on the sherry, if you ask me.’

  ‘I heard you liked your ladies tipsy. Makes them compliant, so you said.’

  ‘Wherever did you hear that?’ he asks, his brow furrowing.

  ‘One from the horse’s mouth. About a decade ago.’

  ‘I’d like to think my seduction skills no longer rely on how many pints of cider my date has had.’ As he says this, he pulls me into his chest. ‘And Granny June is more of a mare than a filly and just a wee bit north of my preferred age range.’

  ‘Eww!’ I twist in his arms knowing full well what he’s about to do—the reason he’s pulled me into his chest with that familiar glint in his eye. Confirmation comes as he slides his hand around my waist, securing my back to his front. ‘Get off,’ I say through a laugh, attempting to squirm away and prevent the delivery of a noogie to my head.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ A deep and familiar voice rings through the room, though his usually easy-going tone is nowhere to be heard.

  ‘Rory.’ His name sounds a little breathless on my lips, my laughter drifting away.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Yeah. I’m . . . fine.’ I attempt to pull myself from Mac’s arms as they tighten. ‘Cut that out.’ I’m disconcerted to hear the pleading whine in my voice, even though I can’t help but smile. Mainly because I’m hella ticklish. ‘I mean it, Mac,’ I say, giggling and wriggling and slapping his arm. ‘Let go.’ The latter comes out stronger, embarrassment now harshening my words.

  ‘You heard her.’ Rory’s bass tone rings through the space. He doesn’t yell, and it isn’t a growl, but it’s very obvious he’s not happy. Not happy at all.

  Mac’s hold loosens, a wry sort of smile now on his face. ‘She doesn’t usually make such a fuss, do you, hen?’

  His words and delivery could mean anything, though they make my heart sink to my stomach.

  ‘Doesn’t the place look great?’ I say, stepping closer to Rory. ‘Mac owns the company who set up the equipment.’

  ‘Yeah. Great.’ His words hold little conviction, his eyes unmoving from the space behind me; the space containing Mac. I half turn, trying to catch the silent messages flying between the pair. ‘Does the owner of the company always make follow-up calls?’

  ‘Only for very special customers,’ Mac answers, ignoring Rory’s antagonistic tone. For good measure, he adds a wink in my direction. Hell.

  My head swings between the pair, the room suddenly and obviously very still, when my skin becomes aware of the weight of Rory’s gaze as he watches me. Stares. It’s a look of such intensity, though it’s hard to understand the cause. Is it anger? Frustration? Desire? Dislike? Whatever this is, my mind screams with the knowledge of his gaze, my every fibre aware from the ends of my fingers balled into fists, to the tiny hairs prickling against the back of my neck.

  I’m being scrutinised.

  ‘Right, well.’ Rory’s words are expelled with a long exhale, like the phrase is uncomfortable. ‘I’ll let you both get on.’ With one last unreadable look, he walks out the door.

  ‘What was that?’

  I turn to Mac’s amused tone, my hands clasping cheeks which suddenly feel very hot. ‘That was Rory.’

  ‘I didn’t ask who . I asked what.’ I can feel myself frowning, not sure what to say. ‘Someone’s a bit hot under the collar. A bit red about the face.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ I ask, forcing my hands away.

  ‘Rooree , is it?’ Mac’s tone borders on delight, his accent drawing out the sounds in the name, making it something else completely.

  ‘He—he’s the landscape guy. Garden designer, I think.’ Though, in truth, I haven’t seen him do much of anything. Except maybe me.

  ‘Oh, he has designs on more than just the garden.’ Mac chuckles. ‘And I think that sentiment is returned.’

  ‘Hush,’ I reply. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m recently widowed.’

  ‘According to Ivy, that’s no’ a bad thing. I hear he was a bit of a bastard.’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ I say, my eyes gliding to the space where Rory just stood.

  ‘Fine, but that gardener?’ he teases.

  ‘Seriously, Mac, you’re full of crap.’

  ‘Must be the Lady Chatterley affect. I know horny when I see it and those were some serious come fuck me eyes.’

  ‘He was not looking at me like that.’ I mean, he was definitely looking at me like something, but it would’ve been easier if he’d clued me in on exactly what. Maybe sent me a note?

  ‘I wasn’t talking about him.’

  He looks at me pointedly, one eyebrow raised, as I grasp at something to say, words to take us away from the topic of Rooree, because I’m so not going there. Even if I am tempted to ask Mac to decipher the man’s behaviour. God knows I could do with a clue.

  ‘So, you were saying about maintenance?’

  ‘No, I wasn’t,’ he answers with a sly smile.

  ‘Yeah, you were. Before—’

  ‘Before Mellors came in?’ I think my chin just hit my chest, or maybe it would have if I actually had boobs. ‘Come on, I’m not a complete philistine.’

  ‘You’ve read Lady Chatterley’s Lover?’ My question is filled to the brim with bewilderment. How is this possible? He’s such a guy.

  ‘Porn,’ he answers with a shrug.

  ‘Someone turned D. H. Lawrence’s work into porn?’ Incredulous much?

  ‘Aye, it was a bit art hoose for my tastes.’

  ‘I can’t believe—’

  ‘Jesus, your face. I’m not a complete moron. I have read bits of it.’

  ‘The dirty bits, I’ll bet.’

  ‘They were’na that dirty,’ he answers. ‘And it ended a bit flat—where was the resolution for either of them? But I digress. The point I was trying to make is that Mellors there.’ He gestures to the door Rory just shot out of. ‘Was looking at me like he’d smile while breaking my arm, just for having it near you. And you, well, you’ve no’ much of a poker face.’

  ‘It’s complicated,’ I begin. ‘An—and you mustn’t tell Ivy any of this.’

  ‘Fat chance of that, is there? Not when she’s buggered off to the States again. I don’t think she knows where she wants to be.’

  ‘I’m worried about her,’ I admit. ‘It just doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘Don’t fash yourself. Ivy does nothing she doesn’t want to. That girl’s
got a head like a mule. Anyway, I can’t stand here all day. I’m an important business man.’ With this he folds his arms, pokes out his tongue and crosses his eyes as though we were both kids again. Though I suppose, as far as his emotional development goes, he still is.

  ‘You’re a loop. A serious fruit loop.’

  ‘That’s a bit of an oxymoron. Seriously daft? And, aye, I understand the word,’ he says, amused again. ‘So, am I to suppose you don’t want a lift with this fruit loop?’

  ‘Aw,’ I say, patting his cheek. ‘I didn’t say you were stupid, just a little crazy.’

  Mac’s never cranky for long, and true to form, his smile stretches into my hand. As far as transport goes, it’s true I don’t have Ivy’s Fiat today having left it at the salon for Natasha to make a trip to the wholesalers. And while it’s tempting to leave now, avoiding Rory totally, I still have a couple loose ends to tie up today. Plus, after yesterday and the whole imma-crush-you-between-the-car-and-my-fantastic-smelling-body thing, I don’t want him to think he has me running scared.

  I need to be sensible about this thing.

  ‘Thanks,’ I reply, retracting my hand. ‘But I’m not done yet.’

  ‘You haven’t been done yet?’ Hands against his thighs, Mac guffaws.

  ‘I didn’t say that.’ Did I? No, I couldn’t have. And yet, my cheeks begin to heat all the same.

  ‘Oh, you most certainly did. Freudian slip of the tongue . . . you like to use on him?’

  ‘God, you’re worse that Natasha. She must be rubbing off on you. Stop,’ I add as he begins to speak. ‘I don’t want to know where you’re going with that. And just . . . just get out of here!’ Pushing on his shoulder, I turn him in the direction of the door.

  ‘Suppose it’s better than just telling me you’re hanging about to get f—’

  ‘Please leave. Go bother Nat!’

  ‘Now, there’s some business I’d like to take care of.’

  ‘Urgh, you’re such a Neanderthal,’ I complain, pushing him harder in the direction of the door.

  Thirty

  Rory

  Fuck it all.

  If the way I reacted in the gym is any indicator, I really need to get my arse back to London.