One Hot Scot

by Donna Alam

‘I know, but there’s lemon, ginger and—’

  ‘I didn’t ask for a bloody cocktail!’

  ‘I know what you asked for, and I know what you got.’ He’s a much better nurse than patient, but thankfully, his illness has been pretty short lived. Just as well.

  ‘What the f—why?’ He looks like a little boy who’d had his lollipop confiscated.

  ‘One, you’re pumped full of meds, and two, you didn’t offer me one when I was ill.’

  ‘I’d’ve risked the puking to give you one, believe me.’

  ‘Really?’ I reply, sliding my hand against my hip. ‘Because I heard your sympathy retching.’

  ‘There are those that pay to be puked on,’ he says, changing the subject.

  ‘I don’t want to know how you know that,’ I reply, perching myself on the edge of the mattress next to where he sits.

  ‘Between us, we could’ve made a fortune.’

  ‘I see you’ve got your sense of humour back.’ I can’t help that this makes me a little sad. Once he’s recovered, we’ll be forced from our little cocoon. It also means it’s time to come clean. Some of the stuff I have to tell him seems like ancient history.

  ‘Who says I’m kidding? At least about giving you one. I’d’ve risked a lot of things just to be close to you, ill or not.’

  ‘Rory,’ I say quietly. ‘I need you to be serious.’

  ‘Oh, I am,’ he says, reaching out for my hand.

  ‘That’s good,’ I say, taking the opportunity presented and squeezing his fingers back. ‘Because I have something I need to tell you.’ His expression falters, happiness exchanged for confusion, then a wary sort of acceptance. ‘You’ve been honest with me, but I haven’t really had the chance to tell you what I need to.’

  His throat moves as he swallow, his gaze falling to our hands. ‘I don’t want to know if you’ve been seeing someone else. I mean, you’ve been here with me—for a week—and you haven’t had any calls, other than from your friends. If you’ve been seeing someone, it can’t be serious. Not yet.’

  ‘Rory.’

  ‘And if it’s not serious,’ he says, raising his head, his gaze steel grey and resolute. ‘I don’t need to hear.’

  ‘Rory,’ I repeat. ‘There’s been no one else, but there are things you don’t know, things the newspapers don’t even know. Wait; does that mean you’ve been seeing other— ’ Fuck; does that mean . . . ‘Have you being seeing—’ I halt. Don’t ask. It’s none of my business what he’s been doing. Or who.

  His smile rises quickly. ‘When have I had the time? Between the new hotels and weekends hassling your friends. I only want you. And I don’t give a fuck what the newspapers or anyone says.’

  ‘But there are things you need to know about before. Stuff from way back. Before I was married.’

  He blinks twice as he processes this. ‘And you want to talk about then?’

  ‘Not want, need.’

  Placing the cup of hot liquid on the nightstand, he turns back to me. ‘You’d better get over here, then.’ And then he grabs me, pulling me onto his lap.

  ‘Hey, no manhandling,’ I complain, even as my chest aches from the thrill of contact. We’ve been so tentative around each other and then, of course, we’ve both been ill.

  ‘I haven’t held you in months,’ he says gruffly.

  ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘Okay, I haven’t held you in months outside the confines of the bathroom.’

  ‘That sounds kinda kinky.’

  He huffs out a small laugh. ‘Sounds much less fun than it was.’

  ‘I’m aware,’ I reply, dryly.

  ‘Then don’t complain. Actually,’ he adds, grabbing my hips. ‘I think this would work better face to face.’

  He begins to lift me, though I help once it becomes clear what he’s doing, unfolding my legs to straddle him. Once seated, I suck in a sharp breath; we’re so close, face to face, his silver grey eyes watching me so carefully, his hands on my waist. We stare at each other for a long drawn out moment, a moment where my heart begins to race. It has been months since we’ve been this close, but oh, my body remembers him. I ache to sink into him and my fingers burn with the need to touch.

  ‘This is difficult.’ Because I want to leave my fingerprints all over him. He smells so great—did I already say that? He’s so solid and warm, he feels like home. Or what home could be. I slide my teeth over my bottom lip to prevent myself from telling him these things.

  ‘The important things usually are,’ he says gruffly, his fingers stroking the sides of my waist. ‘What is it that you need to say?’

  Something ridiculous, I don’t answer, because although I need to say this to clear my conscience, it seems so stupidly childish. It makes the decisions I’ve made since leaving home a complete joke.

  ‘Spit it out, Fin. What can be worse than hearing—’

  ‘That I’ve still got a husband? That I’m not divorced?’ His countenance clouds immediately. ‘I’m sorry,’ I add quickly. ‘I didn’t mean to sound so harsh.’

  ‘If you can handle still being married to the prick, I’m sure I can. For now,’ he adds weightily. ‘Same goes for what you have to tell me now. I’m guessing this is about your marriage?’ I nod. ‘It won’t be forever. And I want you, Fin. I think I’ve made that perfectly clear. Everything else is secondary.’

  ‘Okay,’ I say quietly. ‘Just remember, this isn’t about you.’

  ‘Me?’ He looks faintly confused. ‘What could I have to do with your marriage?’

  ‘This is not about you. This is more a reflection of me. The me of then.’ His mouth is suddenly a thin line as I inhale a deep breath and begin. ‘You know about my mother, right?’ He nods, a sort of taciturn motion, his fingers tightening on my waist as though in reassurance. Maybe he thinks speaking of her in these terms is uncomfortable. But a spade is a spade. ‘Look, I’m grown up. The things narrow-minded people may think or say—’

  ‘Still hurt.’ His thumbs caress now, his earnest expression bringing a lump to my throat. ‘I know.’

  ‘Yeah, you’re right.’ I look away because I can’t be this close and remain detached. I don’t want to cry; for either of our memories. ‘Back then, it was pretty shitty.’ I bite the insides of my bottom lip in an effort to stop it from quivering. ‘I think that’s probably why I lost my virginity late.’ His brow quirks in question. ‘Real late,’ I answer. ‘Like twenty-one. I’m not even sure what I was trying to prove.’ My gaze slides back to his all watery. ‘Because they said shit about me anyway.’

  ‘Kids can be cruel.’

  ‘Even to themselves,’ I reply on a deep exhale. ‘You had a hand in losing my virginity. Well, more than a hand, because technically, you can’t lose your virginity by the use of only hands.’

  ‘What?’ His question comes out quivering, like he’d like to laugh but isn’t sure it’s appropriate. ‘Surely, you lost your virginity to your husband, because you said—’

  I shake my head, repeating. ‘You and I.’

  ‘You and I what?’

  You know that saying; the one about understanding and the light dawning in a person’s eyes? Yeah, that’s not happening here.

  ‘You and I had sex,’ I say slowly, the rest coming much faster than I’d like. ‘Before I married. After college, I came back to the village because my mom was selling the house and I needed to pack up my things. We met at the County one afternoon. You know, the pub?’ I pause, finding myself nodding encouragingly, and though Rory inclines his head, barely, I’m pretty sure he has no idea what I’m talking about.

  ‘There were some bitches from school at the pub that afternoon.’

  ‘School?’ He looks kind of horrified.

  ‘No, I wasn’t at school. It was over. I’d left and hadn’t seen them in years. Unfortunately, they seemed to have decided they hadn’t had enough of being mean to me. And you stopped them—kissed me in front of them—hell, my toes curled and everything.’

  He smiles, tho
ugh I think bemused rather than with any sort of recollection, the warmth in his smile more related to my position on his lap, or perhaps my exuberance.

  ‘You had a tongue piercing.’ I lick my lips, an automatic reaction, not sure why the memory still causes such a subtle thrill. ‘It was my first time, not being kissed. It was the first time I’d had sex—but not in the pub.’

  He laughs suddenly, his gaze sparkling with mirth. ‘I should think not—not for your first time.’

  My cheeks heat, though it feels good to hear him laugh. Almost as good as it feels to have his hand on my waist. Stroking, as though his fingers ache with need as much as mine. ‘No,’ I agree, smiling. ‘Not in the pub. It happened later that evening. And I’m pretty sure it wasn’t your first time.’ If my laughter sounds forced, it’s because it kind of is. ‘I’m sorry, Rory. When you told me about your dad, of how you used to spend holidays at the cottage, I could’ve—should’ve—said then. God, my life is a walking clusterfuck!’

  ‘Fucking hell!’ And there it is; it might not be early in the day, but the light, it’s a dawning. ‘You had blue hair!’ he exclaims, his eyes wide and his smile . . . bright and unexpected.

  ‘You remember?’

  ‘I’m not likely to forget. Any of it.’ His fingers tighten, his gaze flicking over me like he’s recognising me all over again. I find myself smiling along with him, actively fighting against its fall, knowing what else I have to say. The idiocy I have to admit.

  ‘But then, the next day—’

  ‘Aye. You were supposed to come back.’

  ‘I did,’ I reply softly.

  ‘But I don’t . . .’ His brow furrows; whether he’s trying to recall, or he’s just remembered his shady morning activities, who knows.

  ‘We made plans, but when I got to the cottage the following morning, it looked like you’d changed yours.’

  ‘I didn’t see you that day, or any other. And I looked.’

  ‘Look, we were kids,’ I say. ‘And you were obviously going through some things. I’m not blaming you for any of this, but when I saw you with another girl less than twelve hours later, I’m not gonna lie, it was a kick in the gut.’ And something I’d vowed never to experience again.

  ‘Another girl?’ he repeats, not without scepticism.

  ‘Dark hair? Big rack?’ I raise my hands to make the appropriate gesture, thinking the mime juvenile before lowering them again. ‘It’s not like I’m expecting you to remember any of it.’

  ‘But I do remember. I remember you, and the next day when you didn’t show. I sat at the end of the street I’d walked you to—sat there for hours, hoping you’d pass by. I thought you must’ve, I don’t know.’ He shrugs. ‘Had regrets?’

  ‘Oh, I did.’

  ‘And that was the only thing that stopped me from knocking on all the doors in that street.’

  ‘But my regret came that morning when I reached your garden gate. I know what I saw.’

  ‘Must’ve been Kit,’ he says decisively.

  ‘No, it couldn’t have been.’

  ‘Must’ve been,’ he says with a confident nod. ‘He was all about experimenting back then.’

  ‘Experimenting?’ I ask, slightly horrified.

  ‘He’s gay. Maybe bi—hell, I don’t know. I don’t like to ask. Did I not mention this?’

  ‘No.’ I draw the word out, the sound resembling an unkind laugh. Not because Kit’s sexual orientation, but because, ‘I know what I saw, Rory.’

  ‘And I know what I did or didn’t do. I also know Kit was shagging girls almost exclusively then.’ I’m pretty sure, right now, my eyes would be at home on Looney Tunes; as in, hanging out of my head on stalks. Could this be true? Part of me wants it to be even while I silently acknowledge this makes me an even bigger fool. ‘Think about it,’ he says. ‘You’ve met him. Some people have a hard time telling us apart, maybe less so now, seeing as how I’m so much more handsome than him.’

  ‘I just don’t know . . .’

  ‘I might be older—by fifteen minutes—but I think he’s doing all of the aging, y’ken?’ he says, squeezing my waist again.

  But I don’t ken. In fact, I understand very little right now. ‘There was no other girl for me that day. I mean, I was a bit of a lad, but two girls in the same twelve-hour period would be something to brag about. What I mean is—’

  ‘You don’t have to explain. Quite frankly, you’re only making this worse.’ Because if he isn’t guilty of being a dick, then it means I’m doubly so.

  ‘I’ve never led you on, Fin,’ he says soberly. ‘I’m not gonna apologise for—’

  ‘No.’ I place a finger across his lips, silencing him. ‘That’s not why it’s worse. It’s worse because . . .’ If I thought it uncomfortable to say before, now it’s downright torturous. ‘I’m just going to come out with it. Gonna rip that Band-Aid off fast.’ As I say this, I’m making the motion with my hand, Rory’s confused gaze following.

  ‘It was good—real good—but afterwards, not so much. I was young and hurt after seeing . . . what I thought I saw. I don’t think I ventured from my bedroom much in the weeks that followed. Don’t look at me like that—I wasn’t to know the truth. Anyway, it was time to grow up, but we were going to have one last fling, Ivy and I, before growing up. I went travelling and in Thailand I met a guy. An older guy.’

  ‘How old?’ He’s frowning again.

  ‘Not that old.’ I find myself adding Marcus’ age as Rory’s frown develops into a scowl. ‘A little older. A lot more sophisticated. And I’d decided before I left Scotland I wasn’t—wasn’t going to be like my mom.’

  ‘I think I see where this is going.’

  ‘I wish I had. I wouldn’t sleep with him—I wasn’t going to make the same mistake again—and looking back, I think he became infatuated. With me, I mean.’

  ‘I can see how that would happen,’ he says with a sad smile. ‘So he asked you to marry him?’

  I nod. ‘And even more foolishly, I said yes.’

  ‘No man asks a woman to marry him because he just wants in her knickers. You know that, right?’

  ‘So maybe he thought he loved me. Maybe I thought I could love him in return.’ My hands are in the air and I’m trying hard not to cry, because the truth is, I was running from my past and Marcus saw me as something to possess. ‘I made stupid assumptions and decisions, doubly so, as it turns out, because it wasn’t even you with that tramp! God, I’m such a fuck up. Ivy’s totally right. I do make stupid, rash decisions.’ I bring my hands up to cover my face, surprised as I’m suddenly flush with his body, his arms banding my back.

  ‘You should’ve told me.’ My hands slide around his neck, his words rumbling through his chest and into mine. His reaction is so much better than I could ever have imagined, even if this is totally mortifying. And I’ve missed this. Being held. This is what I like best about relationships, I decide. The best thing about men. Right here, like this, being held in strong arms. Arms that would take on the world on your behalf.

  ‘Can you imagine if I’d told you all this before? Maybe after the cottage?’ The words are muffled against his skin, but not so much that he doesn’t laugh. ‘You’d have thought I was a nut.’

  ‘Yeah, well you sort of are. You did give me a fake name, after all.’ Ouch. I feel myself physically cringe. ‘I knew there was something familiar about you.’

  ‘Because we’d met in the salon.’ I tilt back my head to really look at him. ‘Even if you pretended not to remember.’

  ‘Aye.’ He quirks a brow, kind of wickedly. ‘I told you, I was only playing along with what you wanted. But seriously, I remember thinking that I knew you from somewhere. I was even daft enough to wonder if you were the hotter sister of someone I’d already screw—well.’ He halts. ‘It wasn’t a very sensible thought and probably no’ worth repeating.’

  ‘And not very flattering.’

  ‘I mean it,’ he says, laughing softly. ‘It was like déjà vu.’

&nbs
p; ‘Déjà who the fuck are you, more like.’

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ he says, holding my face. ‘The elusive blue!’

  ‘So you remember me?’ I hate how small and hopeful my voice sounds.

  ‘Jesus wept, woman!’ he exclaims. ‘I know we’ve had some pretty spectacular sex, but I’m not likely to forget that night. I had’nae shaken so much since I’d lost my own virginity.’

  Rory lets out a slow breath, his eyes raking over me, his expression leaving me in no doubt as to where his mind is. This could have gone so many ways given what has passed between us, and the way he’s looking at me is a reaction that gives me hope. Hope that we can do this thing.

  ‘I’ve thought about that night often.’ His voice is low and gravelly as his hands slip from my face to my shoulders. From my shoulders to my hips.

  ‘I tried not to for a long time. Mostly I failed.’

  ‘You were so sweet, Fin. So lovely. Like a ripe peach.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, laughing, as I press my hands against his chest and push. ‘I get the metaphor.’

  It’s a weak attempt at movement, but allows his hands to slip under my oversized t-shirt. Skin on skin for the first time in months, I’m not sure whether it’s the brush of his calloused fingers or the look in his eyes that causes my stomach to flip. I sigh, my thighs giving way, pressing me against his lap.

  ‘You liked the tongue piercing?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘You didn’t have to, you dirty little girl.’ His husky voice and light touches tie my insides in taut, pleasurable knots.

  ‘I’m not sure you were ever a little boy,’ I say, gently rocking against him.

  ‘I’m no’ little right now.’ Hands still on my hips, he slides me against the hardness barely concealed by his cotton pyjama pants. ‘And I’m feeling very, very possessive.’

  ‘Yeah?’ His velvet, seductive tone has me fighting a full body collapse.

  ‘Yeah. My t-shirt and my shorts.’ he growls. ‘I want them back.’ Suddenly, his fingers push the t-shirt up my body and pluck it from my head. And I’m not wearing anything under there.

  ‘It’s nice to share.’ My reply is low and throaty, the word pure reflection of his gaze. He looks hungry; like one wrong move and he’d inhale me on the spot.