Ten Days With the Highlander

by Hayson Manning

  Fuck it.

  The sound of footsteps on the stairs woke him further. Fully awake, he pulled on jeans, a sweater, and thick socks, and followed the string of muffled curses to Georgia in the kitchen, standing before the coffee machine, pulling levers, turning knobs. With nothing happening but a hiss of steam.

  “Come on, you nasty beast. I’ve stroked you, I’ve petted you, I’ve promised to do unspeakable things to you like clean you.”

  Her back was to him, so he was able to appreciate the way the weak sun filtered through her silky robe, outlining her firm, slender legs.

  He walked up behind her. “Morning.”

  She jumped and turned. Her robe was open, a weird-looking space creature on her T-shirt that landed to midthigh, and thick socks pulled to her knees—the same sexy cheerleader look that had revved his engine the previous morning.

  “Who did Spock mate with?” He scratched his head, Star Trek not being something high on his list of shows or movies to watch.

  “A Romulan,” she said as if that explained everything. But when she looked him up and down, her gaze lingering on his chest, all he could think about was mating. With her.

  “Turn around,” he grumbled. His libido couldn’t handle both the sexy, sleep-tousled woman looking at him and her sexy morning voice, all husky and warm. He’d beg her to crawl into his bed or something equally disastrous. And he did not beg.

  She obeyed and turned, giving him a moment of reprieve. He pressed closer and forced himself to ignore her sharp intake of breath. He grabbed her left hand and placed it on the arm that held the ground coffee. “Your aim’s off.”

  He twisted the arm until it was free, then clicked it into place. He then put her hand on a knob on the side of the machine. “Twist lightly,” he said. “That knob is temperamental. Your stroke has to be just right.”

  With his hand covering hers, he turned the knob until a stream of coffee poured into the ceramic cup.

  “A temperamental knob. Duly noted.”

  He swallowed. Yep, husky bed voice.

  He pressed in another half inch and grabbed her right hand, guiding it to a lever. “To get the pressure right, you’ve got to push this lever down until the steam starts to appear.” Her hand was soft and warm under his.

  “Okay.” More husky voice, and heat pouring out of her and soaking him.

  “When you get steam, turn it off like this.” He gently pushed her hand, so the lever set to neutral. “You want to get all the water out before you dip your wand.”

  She moved back a fraction, brushing against his chest. “Everyone should know how to dip their wand just the way they like it.”

  “Manufacturer recommendation.” He edged back, so the evidence of this conversation didn’t announce itself. He could blame morning biology, but he wasn’t a liar by nature.

  The atmosphere in the room thickened to clotted cream.

  “I always follow the manufacturer’s recommendation. I wouldn’t want the wand to get damaged.”

  He shook his head. “Terrible thing, a damaged wand.”

  With the wand dipped into the silver jug, he swirled the milk until the right consistency of froth appeared. Balancing the cup and the jug, he drew a heart into the coffee.

  “Last thing.”

  “Okay,” she whispered.

  “You must always clean the wand, thoroughly. No one wants a dirty wand.”

  “Wands should be kept clean at all times. Never know when you’re going to need it.” The husk in her voice vibrated through his body.

  He stepped back, hands in his pockets, her heat hitching his heart rate.

  She turned. He schooled his features at her dilated pupils, the way her chest rose and fell as if she’d been running—or thinking of something that would give the same output as running, but in a horizontal manner, with him.

  “Thank you for the lesson. I’ll try to remember tomorrow.” She took a sip of coffee and moaned, which shimmied straight to his “wand.”

  Shower soon, as in now.

  He couldn’t help it, he reached out and wiped the foam from her top lip.

  She swallowed, her eyes never leaving his.

  Before he did something stupid like pull her into his arms and taste those soft, puffy lips, he gave himself a wake-up smack to the head. She was here to change his mind about the hotel, and she’d try every trick available.

  He smiled.

  If she thought she had an arsenal, he was about to make headway into changing her mind.

  “Corporate, meet me here in an hour. I have something to show you.”

  She widened her eyes. “Does it have a wand and knobs?”

  “It will blow knobs and wands out of the water.”

  Chapter Seven

  Much to Georgia’s delight, Delilah sat in the back of Callum’s battered old Jeep, the goat’s head out the window as they headed toward a mystery destination. Classical music in the form of a beautiful piano score drifted over her. As usual, a soft, misty rain fell.

  In the bath, where she’d hidden under warm bubbles as high as her neck, she’d replayed every moment of the morning, thankful that Willy in the pipes hadn’t delivered freezing water.

  The playful, but sexy banter over the coffee machine had sent her body into jelly mode. Her insides twisted when his hands brushed hers. The playful talk about knobs and wands had her heart and all areas below heating and knotting. How she hadn’t panted was a miracle.

  But it wasn’t the physical. He could have been all business and issued instructions from across the room. Instead, he’d made it fun, and that was incredibly attractive. She’d nearly laughed at the smile in his voice. But his gaze raking down her body like he was a death row prisoner and she was his last meal left her more than a little breathless.

  With him an inch away from her back at the coffee machine, his scent made her want to lean back against his hard, flat stomach, feel his sturdy arms circle her waist, and let her head drift to his shoulder. When his hands had touched her, heat that could power Alaska in a snowstorm had blasted from her body. It wasn’t knobs and wands of the coffee machine she wanted to touch. No siree. She wanted masculine wands that would inflict unimagined pleasure to her body.

  Her nipples, so beaded they could’ve been captured by the International Space Station, were a giveaway if he’d noticed, but he gave no indication that he had. She’d been the one who’d gone all hazy, her blood on a steady boil, threatening to flood her body with lava unless she turned and did something very uncorporate, like press her body into his and moan his name.

  “A penny for your thoughts?”

  She glanced across at him. If he only knew. “Planning meeting with myself. Strategy.”

  “Ah.”

  He steered the Jeep expertly around tiny corners bookmarked with hedges, slowing at the approach of a car, and giving the occupant a tilt of the head.

  Americans are going to love this place.

  She just had to convince him this place was perfect for the outside world.

  “Are you sure this is a road?” They’d traded smooth road for a stone-dotted trail that Georgia would never have found with a map or compass, or even if a homing beacon were attached to the wood post where they’d turned.

  “Hey, girl,” Georgia said when Delilah started chewing on her hair. She patted the goat’s nose and pulled her hair over the opposite shoulder. “Does she always come along?”

  “She rides shotgun, which is why she’s trying to eat your hair.”

  Callum stopped the vehicle, a broad smile on his face. “We’re here.”

  Georgia climbed out—and almost immediately tripped. She’d worn flats for the excursion but faltered over rocks that jutted out of the ground at odd angles.

  Callum grabbed her hand and her heart warmed. She had plans to go into town later and buy some supplies, gloves being high on the list. However, her hand in Callum’s was turning into a favorite thing.

  Lush green grass covered the countryside, dott
ed with cows. The distant hum of a tractor and dogs barking filled the air. Callum pointed out craggy rock piles that rose from the land like praying hands. Thick hedges that lined the roads gave way to sweeping fields dotted with sheep, their heads to the ground. A decaying castle perched on the side of a hillside.

  “It’s like stepping back in time,” she breathed, then frowned. “Wait. Where’s Delilah?”

  “She’ll turn up. As soon as I start the Jeep, she’ll come.”

  They followed a path, worn by time, the earth packed and pockmarked. Their combined breath puffed into the air around them, swirling together in the mist. Callum still held her hand even though she was capable of walking herself.

  Maybe it’s a Scottish chivalry thing.

  That was so going in the brochure.

  Because there would be a brochure.

  Was she cocky? Maybe, but Georgia had come across some testy people, and she’d convinced them all that in the long run her business plan would boost revenue and help people get their dreams of early retirement, a trip to Australia, hitting every town in Mexico in an RV with a margarita glass held aloft. She just had to find what Callum wanted, what he really wanted, and she’d have the deal nailed.

  She stopped to take a breath of the crisp air. Mist hung in the air like stranded diamonds. The sky was a gloomy gray, with a watery sun trying to push through the wall of clouds. For once the drizzle had stopped.

  No crisp air like this in California.

  “Up here.” Callum let go of her hand as the path narrowed. The shock of cold registered from the palm to her shoulder. She shivered and buried her hands deep into her coat pockets.

  He had a confident way of walking, all long loose muscle, and his jeans molded against his muscled ass. She bet his broad shoulders were as hard as his stomach.

  Lost in a fantasy of the bulk of muscle underneath his winter clothes, she nearly missed that he’d stopped and turned around. He cleared his throat and raised his eyebrows, heat in his eyes.

  Caught checking him out. Again.

  She held his heated look a little longer, then walked to where he stood.

  “Oh,” she breathed out in a whoosh. “This is stunning.”

  An ancient well built with river stones, covered by a thatched roof, greeted her gaze. A wooden pail held by coiled rope swayed above an intricately carved cover. Two silver tankards hung on hooks.

  “What do the symbols represent?” She couldn’t keep the wonder out of her voice. She ran her hands across the ancient stones of the well, marveling at the patterns that matched the old covering. Green vines snaked around the rocks. Bursts of pink and purple thistle dotted the setting in a Technicolor rainbow.

  Callum stood beside her, close enough that his warm breath dusted her cheek. She swallowed over an increasingly dry throat.

  “In these parts, it’s said that, if you speak each other’s names while drinking the sweet water of the well, under Scottish folklore, you’re husband and wife.”

  “Really?” she nearly squealed. “That’s awesome. Let’s try it.”

  Surprise flitted across his face. “I didn’t think you’d believe in old folklores, Corporate.”

  She shoulder bumped him. “Of course I don’t, Sofa, but I want a photo…”

  He shook his head. “Photo for the brochure that will never happen?”

  “That’s the spirit.” She walked to the well and tried to move the heavy covering, but couldn’t make it budge.

  I must get some upper body workouts in. Scratch that, I must get any workouts in.

  Stone scraped against stone as Callum removed the cover.

  “Hey, Maggie.” Callum lifted a hand in greeting to a woman, who arrived carrying a water bottle.

  “Mornin’.” She nodded to Callum before her sharp blue eyes turned to Georgia, who straightened as if being inspected by a boarding school principal. “You’re Callum’s lass.”

  “Oh, no. I’m here for eight days—less than that, really—then I’m off. New adventures await.”

  Maggie raised an eyebrow. “You drink from this well and say his name, you will be Callum’s lassie in sickness and in health. You’ll be married under the old folklore around here, then when the time is right you’ll be married in the church behind you.” She grinned. “We’ve been waiting patiently to meet Callum’s girl. Let me know the date, as I’ll have to get a frock.”

  Georgia gave the woman a weak smile. What the hell is a frock?

  She believed in folklore like she believed in horoscopes and superstitions, though Grace read and planned her life by hers every day. If you opened an umbrella inside, she’d pitch a fit about bad luck. If Georgia ever saw a shooting star, she’d sneak in a wish, but this defied science.

  Maggie held up the water bottle. “I’m helping out the course of true love. My Matthew has been pining over Jessica Harrison, and I’ve seen the looks she gives him.” She walked to the well and turned the crank lever. Slowly, the wooden bucket descended.

  “Here, let me.” Callum walked to Maggie’s side and spun the handle until the bucket dropped, then reappeared, brimming with water. Maggie dipped in her container until water spilled out the top, screwed on a lid, and nodded to both of them. Halfway down the path she stopped and leveled her gaze at Georgia. “There are powerful forces here that go back a long time.” A twinkle appeared in the older woman’s eye. “You’re a good match for Callum.”

  Georgia opened her mouth then closed it. There appeared to be no way of convincing the people around here that she wasn’t Callum’s lass, or that she was leaving.

  “Do you believe in this stuff?” Georgia walked to the well and took one of the cups.

  He dug his hands into his pockets. “A lot do. I can’t see the science behind it, but it has worked on a lot of couples.”

  “Are you game?” She dipped the container into the water, pulled her phone from her pocket, and snapped a picture of herself holding the cup. “Because this is as close to any marriage as I’ll get.”

  “That sounds like a firm commitment a corporate girl would make.” He walked to the well, took the other tankard, and moved in for a selfie. “Does it get lonely in bed at night?”

  She looked him directly in the eye. “We modern girls know a thing or two.”

  His face flushed as he got her meaning, and his heated gaze dropped to her mouth. She licked her suddenly dry lips.

  Good one, Georgia.

  “Shots,” she blurted out. “Let’s get some shots of the happy couple.” His unshaven face against hers made her want to run her fingers through the scruff. His hand came around her waist, pulling her into his side. She leaned into him and inhaled.

  He turned to her. “Did you just sniff me?”

  Why, yes. Yes, I did. “Of course not. I was inhaling the refreshing, aromatic air.”

  She took multiple shots with her iPhone, then stuffed the phone back into her pocket.

  Callum filled the other silver tankard. His dark eyes held hers. “Georgia Paxton,” he murmured, and took a long gulp of water.

  Georgia was mesmerized by the thick column of his throat as he swallowed. She cleared her throat. “Callum MacGregor.” She sipped the cool water.

  “Corporate.” He saluted her with the cup.

  “Sofa,” she replied, also raising her cup.

  “You’ll have to go with me here because it’s tradition, and at heart I’m a traditional man.” He advanced until he was inches away, then took the tankard from her hand, placed both on the edge of the well, and cupped her face in warm hands.

  Before she could gasp, his soft lips landed on hers.

  She blinked, frozen. What was wrong with her? A hot Scottish Thor was kissing her and she was standing there like a plank of wood?

  He moved closer, pressed deeper, asking for permission to take more.

  On a whimper, she melted against him like chocolate, her mind white static then a burst of color as his tongue tangled with hers.

  This is a kiss.r />
  Long-dormant nerve endings crackled to life under her skin. Heaviness settled between her legs, a rush of awareness that caught her off guard. Her eyelids fluttered closed as sensation took hold. A needy moan broke free of her chest, and his mouth turned firmer, more demanding, and he nipped her lip. She gasped. Oh, God.

  At his growl, she pushed herself against him, needing to be closer, needing to be joined. Electricity bolted from her head to the soles of her feet. She’d been kissed, but until now, she’d never been kissed. His kiss was a demand, a promise…pure decadence. Her nipples turned to hardened, aching peaks. Her breasts felt heavy, and strained against the confines of her bra. If they could speak, they’d be screaming for his hands then his mouth to touch them, tease them, and never stop. His hands moved to her ass, pulling her into his body. His hard, ripped body. One part in particular was harder than the rest.

  Oh, yes, she needed more of that. He hesitated. She growled, tried to pull him closer, then felt his answering smile against her mouth.

  Crap. Maybe he wants to stop, and I’m the desperate woman clinging to him like a Bieber fan.

  She pulled back breathless, her crumpled lungs demanding oxygen, and stared into his stormy eyes. A girl could get lost in those eyes.

  I could get lost in those eyes.

  “Um, I guess you kissed the bride,” she said, her voice sounding husky and torn as if pieces of her had transferred to him and rattled around somewhere in his body.

  “Guess I did.” His voice was as ragged as hers. Little pieces of him must’ve been rattling around in her body, too.

  The heat from his hands on her ass branded her through thick denim. Later she’d take a peek and see if there were marks there. Part of her hoped so.

  He slid his fingers around her waist and took her hand, a beautiful smile lighting his face. “Come on, I’ll show you the church.”