Ten Days With the Highlander

by Hayson Manning

  “I can meet you there.” She moved off the barstool, but Callum materialized at her side.

  “I’ll walk you. It’s raining cats and dogs outside.”

  She craned her neck to look out the window. “Don’t see any cats or dogs. I’ll be fine.” She headed for the front door, but his hand on her shoulder halted her progress.

  He eyed her, a frown on his face. “Where’s your coat?”

  “The weather didn’t seem too bad when I left, and my coat was damp, so I left it drying.”

  He draped his woolen coat around her shoulders. She breathed in notes of whiskey, a smoky scent she couldn’t place, and something unique to the man the coat belonged to.

  “You don’t have to give me your coat,” she said, touched by his thoughtful gesture. “I’ll be fine, I promise.”

  He cocked an eyebrow, then opened the door. An arctic blast ripped the air from her lungs. On cue, the skies opened, and fat raindrops hit her face like icy grenades.

  She stared at the sky. Seriously?

  Callum reached into the pocket of his jacket, pulled out a beanie, and stuck it on her head.

  “There you go, saving me again,” she managed.

  “We’d better make a run for it.”

  “Wait, what?” She gaped at him. The ground was covered in ice. They’d kill themselves for sure.

  But then he was gone, moving like an athlete as he sprinted ahead. Georgia closed the door and hurried after him, but only managed to skid across the wet cobblestone with all the finesse of a skating sumo wrestler in high-heeled boots. Right as she was about to land flat on her ass, he reached out, grabbed her hand, and kept her upright. He somehow managed to pull her across the slippery road, while she cursed her choice of heels. Together they would not be taking any skating medals at the Olympics. Well, she wouldn’t.

  They reached the hotel. He dropped her hand to open the door, and she registered the loss of warmth. His big hand had engulfed hers. Kept her safe.

  She stomped the water from her feet, took off his hat and shook it out, and did the same with his coat. “Seems you’ve got a thing for saving American women today.”

  “Your time runs out at midnight.” Not a muscle moved on his face.

  “If you murder me in my sleep, I will haunt you like one of those ectoplasm-shooting things from Ghostbusters.”

  A hint of a grin curled his lips. “We’ll talk tomorrow, yeah?”

  “Okay.” She stifled another yawn.

  He pulled on his discarded coat and the hat and headed back outside.

  “Callum,” she called.

  He turned.

  “Thank you for today. Helping me park, making sure I didn’t get hypothermia.”

  He nodded once, then headed back out to weather that would have Noah putting in an extra order for wood to build an ark.

  Georgia made it up the stairs, unlocked the door, and stepped inside. A soft gasp dropped from her mouth. A fire slumbered in the hearth, the glowing embers throwing warm shadows across the room. A huge bed sat in the corner. Pillows in all colors of the rainbow were scattered across a thick, white quilt. The room had a woman’s touch.

  Interesting.

  Would she be sitting down tomorrow morning with Callum and his plus one, or the man himself? She threw on a thin T-shirt that was inappropriate for the climate of Scotland, but she’d left before Macy’s could deliver, and she had no time to hit a mall, find a parking spot, and battle it out with hordes of shoppers before she left L.A.

  That was her brand of purgatory.

  She pulled on thick socks, climbed into bed, and snuggled in. Sleep claimed her almost immediately, and she only stirred during the night when something landed on her bed, started purring, and curled into the crook of her legs.

  Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture pulled Georgia from a dreamless sleep. She groped for the phone, disoriented that it wasn’t on the nightstand by her bed. As the music continued to blast a hole in her skull, she remembered where she was, rolled to the other side of the bed, grabbed her phone, and swiped the screen for a snooze—something she never did, but her brain was still on California time, and it wasn’t even close to morning there.

  When trumpets shattered her sleep again, she dragged herself from the bed, rubbing Hello Kitty who purred a good morning. Yawning, she pulled on her robe and headed downstairs with caffeine the only thing on her mind. She made it down the creaking stairs, pulling her silky blue robe tighter against the chilled air. Once heat was installed, the mornings would be toasty for the guests.

  She walked into the kitchen at the back of the hotel and smiled when she caught sight of a sparkling, commercial coffee machine.

  Yes.

  She found a cup, had milk in a metal jug ready to froth, and stared at the machine.

  The on switch has to be here somewhere…

  After five minutes of turning knobs and pushing buttons, she huffed in frustration, her hands on her hips.

  There has to be a manual for this beast.

  She pulled open the nearest drawer, smiled at the stack of thumbed manuals and papers inside, and started hunting through them.

  “Never had a woman go through my drawers without asking first.”

  Georgia jumped. Her cheeks heated, and she turned to find a sexy, sleep-tousled Callum in jeans and bare feet, pulling a white Henley over his head.

  She ogled his flat stomach, muscled with what had to be a twelve-pack, before the shirt was pulled down. Busy studying his feet because they were attractive and feet were never appealing to her, she registered that the atmosphere in the room had shifted. She looked up to find his gaze traveling the length of her body.

  Lordy.

  Her summery robe had parted, revealing a T-shirt with a picture of Spock and the words “Live Long and Prosper” underneath. The T-shirt landed midthigh, and her thick black socks were pulled up to her knees. She quickly tied the robe, her face on fire.

  “Sorry. I was looking for the manual for The Beast.” She waved in the direction of the coffee machine. “Is this from a Survivor challenge? Because if it is, I’m going to Tribal Council.”

  Callum shook his head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  She opened her mouth to delve into the amazingness that was Survivor but Callum walked past her, his hand brushing hers.

  He froze and an unexpected but lovely rush of tingles danced in her hand. Nice, delicious tingles that she hadn’t felt in a long time.

  Jet lag. Definitely jet lag.

  Callum hesitated a moment longer, then moved toward the machine, leaving her stuck in a pre-caffeine, warm tingle phase. The machine began grounding beans and Callum was frothing the milk like a barista, all before she’d moved. Before she knew it, a steaming cup of coffee was pressed into her hands.

  “Thank you.” The post-caffeine haze broke when she sipped the best cup of coffee she’d had in ages. Way better than Starbucks and Coffee Bean combined.

  She moaned inwardly.

  She opened her eyes to find Callum staring at her mouth.

  She stilled. “Did I moan out loud?” she whispered, praying for a time machine. She’d even go back to the Jurassic era and take on a T-rex rather than moan in front of her new business partner.

  His gaze stayed locked on her mouth. “Aye.”

  What was with the tingles now buzzing around her body in a spread of warmth?

  Snap out of it, Georgia. You have work to do. A lot of work to do, judging by last night’s reaction to your impromptu proposal.

  “Can you, um, teach me to use The Beast sometime?” She moved to the table and sat, the back of her neck uncomfortably warm.

  “No problem.” He turned his back and the machine went back to grinding and whirring, and soon he was sitting across from her, yawning.

  It occurred to her that a pub owner would finish in the early hours of the morning.

  “How come you’re up so early?” She checked her phone. Six forty-five a.m. This was a late start
for her, but for the sake of starting the morning on a positive, friendly note, she’d do the idle chitchat before they launched into negotiations.

  “I thought Tchaikovsky had risen from the dead and was outside my door.”

  “Oh, that was my alarm. Sorry. I sleep like a zombie, so I set it loud.” Flustered, she picked up the empty cup then put it back down. “I’ll put it under my pillow.”

  His calm gaze and a hint of a smile that curled his lips took away the fluster. “Why the 1812 Overture?”

  “I change it up. Last time was ‘Good Vibrations.’ Before that ‘Enter Sandman,’ a few vintage Zeppelin songs… The list is long. I heard 1812 when I was in an Uber in Santa Monica and thought it would do the trick, so today I woke up to a man who died one hundred and twenty-seven years ago or thereabouts.” At his amused smile, she pressed her lips together. “Saying that out loud makes it sound kind of creepy.”

  Another of Callum’s yawns entered the conversation.

  “What time do you get up?” she asked. Looking around the kitchen she spied a toaster. As she wondered how to broach the subject of breakfast, he caught where she was looking.

  “Help yourself. There’s a wooden box out by the back door. If the flag’s up, Joe the baker has done his rounds. If it isn’t, it will be soon.”

  The lure of fresh baked bread was too much, so she went to the back door. She braced herself against the biting air, breathed in spicy herbs and rain, and lifted the lid on the box with a red metal flag standing to attention. She collected the loaf wrapped in glossy white paper, and delivered it like the triumph it was into the kitchen.

  “Still warm.” She wanted to press her face against it and inhale the yeasty aroma, but figured her host wouldn’t appreciate the imprint of her face on his breakfast. He’d arranged a bread knife, board, butter, and a variety of what she hoped were homemade jams judging by the handwritten labels.

  “To answer your question, I get up around ten or eleven.” He eyed the ticking clock above the door and rubbed sleep from his eyes.

  She fought to keep her jaw from dropping. The day was half over by that time. She busied herself cutting bread and popping it in the toaster. She knew her face had registered shock, probably dismay. This was going to be one tough negotiation. Her boss’s usual refrain echoed in her head.

  If anyone can convince someone to change their mind, it’s Georgia.

  “I don’t get in until two or three, sometimes later.” He rolled his shoulders. “Guest check-in here is from midday onwards, so I’ve got plenty of time.”

  She ducked her head. “Sorry about my alarm.”

  The toast popped. She spread liberal amounts of butter on the bread, added jam, and bit into heaven.

  Sweetly tart strawberries and decadent, creamy butter, the likes of which she’d never tasted before, mingled with the fluffy toast.

  “You’re going to have to watch that moaning. You’ll give a man ideas.”

  Her eyes popped open. When had they closed? Callum was beside her, his eyes hooded, but a smile on his face. She stilled when he scooped a dribble of butter from her chin, his finger leaving a warm exclamation point.

  “Oh, God, I’m sorry. This is not how this morning was supposed to go.” Heat powered up her chest and landed on her face in a touchdown. “I’m usually efficient, but between that coffee and this bread, I’m going to leave here two hundred pounds heavier, and I don’t care.”

  He chuckled, and his gaze slipped down her body then back up. He blinked as if he’d been caught checking out the hot new math teacher, and rubbed the back of his neck.

  “Why don’t we meet back down here in an hour and we’ll talk.” He shook his head then walked out the door.

  Great, Georgia. Make a dribbling, moaning fool of yourself.

  She walked up the stairs after having two more pieces of toast, justifying that she’d attempt a star jump and a sit-up this afternoon, wondering what on earth she was going to do for an hour. Getting ready took fifteen minutes, tops. Her keratin-straightened hair was coming toward the end of its straightening abilities, but it should last the ten days she was here. She discovered after going through all her stuff she’d left her flat iron back in L.A.

  Showered, dressed, and wearing flat boots this time, she made the bed, and after exploring downstairs, decided to have a peek around the outdoors.

  What one of her many P.E. teachers would have called “invigorating” air slapped her face when she stepped outside. A shed without a door lay to the left, and there was a lot of hay on the ground. Chickens pecked in the grass. A long line of woolly Highland cows meandered in the distance, being driven by an invisible compass. Hello Kitty ignored the chickens and jumped through her window, even though Georgia had left the door open.

  Something wet jutted her hand, then her ass. Hard. Before she could turn around, teeth nipped her hand. Georgia shrieked and whirled around. “Oh. My. God.”

  Chapter Four

  Callum trotted down the stairs, picking up his pace when he heard Georgia’s squeal. He had a fairly good idea what had caused the sound. He walked out of the house into the backyard…and found his new guest hugging his goat.

  “You have a goat!” She looked up at him from her squatting position, her eyes shining, dark hair spilling over one shoulder. She wore a cream sweater today tucked into dark jeans and flat riding boots. He shouldn’t notice the way her jeans molded perfectly over her ass, or how her sunshine smile could melt icecaps.

  “Georgia, meet Delilah. Delilah, this is Georgia.” He nodded at them both. With introductions out of the way, it was time to get down to business, but it seemed that Georgia was in a chatty mood.

  “I’m not really a screamer.” She brushed her hands down her jeans. The weak sun dusted copper highlights throughout the hair.

  “More of a moaner.” He stuffed his hands into his pockets.

  She grinned. “If you make coffee like that, and bread arrives every morning, you’re going to hear a lot of moaning.”

  The sound of her decadent moan was still trapped between his pants and his head, rattling around his middle somewhere. When he’d scooped butter off her chin, he’d noticed how petal soft her skin was. Before he thought of more of her skin, he ruffled Delilah’s head. The goat headbutted Georgia, whose delightful laugh and sparkling smile brought a grin to his face. “Seems she likes you.”

  “I like her. A goat named Delilah, a cat named Hello Kitty…this place is adorable and perfect for what I’m about to propose.”

  The happiness in him died a swift death. “About that.”

  “Yes, about that.” She straightened, now all efficiency and professional apart from the goat hair covering her jeans. “Give me ten minutes to set up the presentation, and we’ll run over any points you have.”

  He stared at her, mystified. Had she not heard him last night? Did the words “Over my dead body” go over her head?

  Did she have a set of balls in those jeans?

  No, she did not. Standing in his kitchen issuing death threats to his coffee machine, in a Spock T-shirt that barely covered her silky thighs, a ridiculous lacy robe that was suited for California not Scotland, and thick black socks, she’d looked like a sexy cheerleader with bed hair.

  She gave him a sunny “I’ve got this” smile and walked back into his house. He set about doing morning chores he wouldn’t normally be doing at this hour—feeding the chickens, mucking out Delilah’s stall, and starting the game the hens and he played. Hide and seek. They hid well, but he seeked better. Chores done, he wandered inside to find Georgia pacing in front of her computer. She stopped when he entered the room. Gone was the woman from outside, and in her place stood the model of corporate efficiency.

  “I’ve got the presentation all ready.” She’d set up in the reception area, dragging two chairs to the table. A notepad and a pen with her company logo in a deep-blue swirl against stark white waited on the table. LiveAbout. Your Journey. Our Destination.

  He sat an
d leaned back, ankle over a knee, and took in her presentation. It was sleek, professional, and something he’d have been proud of back in his corporate days. Now it left him cold. Her words floated around in his head. Some stuck, most he let drift out. At the end of her twenty-minute spiel, she turned to him, a professional smile on her face. Her eyes drifted downward. Her head cocked sideways at the blank pad she’d placed in front of him.

  “Do you have any questions? Most people want to know the financial aspect and how it will benefit them. I’ve put together a spreadsheet which shows the annual projection based on anticipated visitor numbers. We’ve crunched the numbers, and I have to say I think you’re going to be delighted at the bottom line of your profit and loss.” She brought up a spreadsheet that he glanced at.

  Silence, and not the comfortable kind, filled the space between them.

  In a different life, he’d been the corporate cutthroat, but the days of working eighty-hour weeks, wining and dining people he disliked to win a contract he didn’t want to line the already-lined vault of his father, were long gone.

  “No questions?” She sat with her legs pressed together, hands neatly folded in her lap. Practiced smile. The face of corporate everywhere. He’d once been out there, freshly minted from university, joining his father’s world-renowned architecture firm, ready to put his stamp on the world. To make a difference. To design buildings he was proud of with the aim of helping families get out of state housing and into their own place they could afford.

  Ah, the dreams of youth.

  To quote Sinatra, regrets, he’d had a few. At the end of the day, he hadn’t done it his way, but he was now living his dream.

  “Callum?”

  Her soft drawl pulled him out of his dark cloud.

  He let out a long exhale and shook his head. “I don’t have any questions.”

  Smiling, she stood, wiped her hands down her jeans, and stuck out her hand. The deal, as far as she was concerned, was already done.

  He stood. “You mistake me, Miss Paxton. I don’t have any questions because, as I said last night, I’ll partner with you over my dead body. I aim to live long and prosper in my neck of the woods without turning my town into a tourist trap.”