One Hot Scot

by Donna Alam

  ‘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.

  Chapter 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.

  Fucking maniac.

  Sitting in the pickup truck, I start the ignition, knowing I need to move.

  The first thought to cross my thick head when I’d heard her squealing was that she’d fallen and hurt herself. The second, after I’d rushed in, seeing that fucker with his arms wrapped around Fin, was that it was him I’d like to hurt.

  Like to.

  Seriously.

  Still.

  Was he the ex-husband? Because the way he’d looked at her as she’d put a bit of space between them was proprietary—like if I’d looked hard enough, I’d find his name stamped on her somewhere. Like I haven’t already looked hard enough. Nah, he wasn’t her ex; she was too relaxed. But for Christ’s sake, it was like he was goading me—his eyes scanning her up and down like he was picturing what was under her clothes. Probably for a spot of self-abuse later. And watching him watch her created a knot in my stomach the size of a fucking ball. Fuck knows how I’d forced myself to just stand there as the meathead’s eyes all but fell out of his fucking head. I wanted badly to grab the bastard, to punch him into the understanding that he couldn’t leer at her like that.

  I’m a fucking maniac. And I’m losing the plot, clearly, especially as I’d told him to let her go.

  In no uncertain terms.

  Back. The. Fuck. Off.

  How did I get from something casual to wanting to tear off someone’s limbs?

  It’s only my sanity that keeps me in the truck. I can’t afford to go back. Can’t let my feelings show, especially as I can’t make sense of them myself. And something tells me she wouldn’t welcome being thrown over my shoulder and dragged off to bed. But that’s exactly what I want to do; erase the imprint of his gaze by placing my fingerprints all over her skin. She’s so fucking cool, or at least she manages to pretend to be. Right up until the point of cutting to the chase when it becomes so fucking clear. She. Wants. Me. But how much?

  I’ve had women play hard to get. Sometimes it works—adds to the thrill of the chase—and sometimes I just can’t be arsed and am more than happy to let them walk away. But this . . . This is something unfamiliar. Confusing. It’s like she’s afraid of acknowledging her wants.

  And I think I’m playing the same game.

  Yesterday, as she’d pulled up in her pal’s wee car, my steps had faltered, then sped up, though it took every ounce of my restraint not to rush at her. Pull her out of the thing. To feed her hands to the small of her back, to pin them there. To kiss her senseless, kiss her until she was boneless, held up against the car door purely by desire. And my dick.

  I could see myself lifting her thighs around my hips, letting her feel how hard she made me, right there, pressed between her splayed thighs. I’d swallowed, almost tasting the salt on her skin as I imagined dragging my tongue down her neck, while loosening her buttons out in the open, the cold morning air aiding my quest to make her nipples hard peaks. I’d’ve kissed them then, my mouth and tongue warm. Lick and nip. Consume, as I’d carry her back to that tiny bed. I’d desperately wanted to lie her down, spread her out under me. Probably leave those boots on her, the first time, at least. Then fuck her so hard she’d still be feeling me the following week.

  Yeah, I might’ve given it a little more thought than I should.

  I’d opened the door, the floral smell of her perfume preceding a flash of thigh where her dress draped. But when she looked up into my face, I was a goner. Pink, full lips with just a hint of gloss. It took me back to that first night when she’d propositioned me at the pub. What they say about men—and mouths and any kind of lip gloss—is the truth. And right then and right there, I wanted to see those lips wrapped around my cock. Not the most original thought, but as an encore I wanted to see them covered in my come.

  I’d held out my hand, not that she’d needed my help, but more for the opportunity of contact, but when I’d failed to ask what happened to her on Saturday night—Jesus, her face! She’d lifted a chin, a wee bit imperious, so I thought I’d wind her up and annoy her a bit more.

  What I’m coming to like second best about Fin—first, naturally, is being inside her—is making her pissy, then making her spin. And, just as I think this, my smile is quick to grow . . . and quick to fall as I realise I’m fucking drunk on the woman. That I shouldn’t be loving the experience. I’ve enough going on in my life without getting involved with a woman that makes me feel like this. Add to the fact that she’s just coming out of a marriage—at least, I don’t think she’s been divorced long—she won’t be looking at getting involved. It had seemed like a fairly good reason to screw her earlier, but the way she looks at me and the responses she draws from me, really, all of the facts, as opposed of all of the feelings, tell me this is a terrible idea. I lower my idling foot and the engine roars, and then after opening the windows, hoping to blow the cobwebs from my eyes, as I push the lever into
drive.

  Of course, it might’ve been cooler had I avoided spinning the wheels in the gravel like a lovesick teen.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Rory

  It’s dark when I get back to the house, timing my arrival until I’m sure Fin will have left. I’ve spent a lot of time thinking this afternoon; hypothesising while driving around aimlessly. Thinking rationally, I suppose. The conclusion I’ve come to is that I have to stop thinking with my dick. It just keeps leading me into bad decisions; Beth, Anna, and now Fin. The first two were poor business decisions, but I think messing with Fin could be much more damaging. It’s not that I want to stop this thing between us, this whatever it is, but she’s not in the right headspace for casual, despite what she might think. And me? I have all sorts of thoughts and feelings concerning the woman—wants versus needs—desire versus what’s good for me.

  It's bloody ironic, really. I love women; that’s no lie, but I’ve never been interested in the whole package deal, preferring my women in parts. Sounds slightly serial killer-ish, but isn’t at all. I love their eyes, their laugh. A pretty face and a nice smile, and I happen to like their intelligence almost as much as I like what’s between their legs. But the other parts? The truth is, I’m not interested. I don’t want to know of their dreams and ambitions, their pasts, their families or their beloved cat’s name. I really don’t give a toss about any of that stuff. But with Fin, I can see the day coming where a roll in her bed won’t be enough. Isn’t enough now.

  I’ll want all of her and won’t be satisfied by parts. This isn’t only wrong but dangerous, because she’s unavailable, and I’m not sure she really knows.

  Just my fucking luck that the first woman I’ve ever had strong feelings for would be only available in parts. I can have her body, sure.

  But her head?

  Her thoughts?

  Her heart?

  It’s clear I can’t afford to get involved.