The Perfect Bargain

by Jessa McAdams

  “How many what?”

  “Women. You asked if I knew how many women want to, ah, bring you to…” She made a sliding motion with her hand to indicate a bed.

  “Today? Only one that I know of,” he said, and arched a brow in her direction.

  Sloane gasped. She was about to tell him to forget the whole damn thing when he added, “You’re a poor negotiator, lass. You might have had me for two fifty.” He laughed again.

  She could hardly speak. The man was cocky and full of himself and probably a prick to boot. His only saving grace was that he was super hot. Sloane could put up with a lot from a man if he was super hot. “Do we have a deal or not?”

  “Aye, why no’?” he said jovially. “But donna you want to know my name before we shake on it?”

  “What is it?”

  “I’m Galen. Galen Buchanan. And who do I have the pleasure of taking to bed, again? Because we both know I will.”

  Well, forget clinging to the tattered shreds of her dignity. Sloane was certain that her face was fire engine red. “We don’t know any such thing. And my name is Sloane Chatfield.” She yanked on her cardigan, pulling it over her hips. “I’ll draw up some papers.”

  “Papers.”

  “Yes, papers. Every good business arrangement is documented.”

  “You draw up whatever you like,” he said indulgently, then cast one slow, sexy smile that Sloane knew was designed to make women drop to their knees and blow him. She imagined it had worked like a charm in the past. She tried to think of something to say to him, something to put this appalling bargain in its proper place, to remind him she was only doing this to save face with her friends, but she couldn’t think of a word. So she pivoted about and marched to the table, clumsily gathered up her things, and fled the pub for the cottage on the hill.

  She didn’t know how she might have possibly made her fraud any worse than it already was, but she was fairly certain she’d done just that.

  And for that, she blamed her friends. She was going to get new friends, just as soon as this little jaunt through Scotland was over.

  Chapter Two

  Galen closed the pub at midnight, wiped down the bar top and put away the clean mugs. He trudged up to the cottage on the hills just above the sea where his grandfather had lived, fed his dog Molly, and fell into bed, exhausted.

  Thoughts of his promise to bed that demented little cupcake—for five hundred bloody pounds, no less—made him smile into his pillow. Her buttoned up exterior made it hard to tell anything about the goods clearly locked in cold storage…but thoughts of unbuttoning each dainty little pearl button on her sweater were teasing him as he drifted off to sleep.

  Those thoughts left him to toss and turn all night, dreaming of the maddening wench with the sweetest mouth this side of Scotland. Morning came too early and at dawn he was back at the pub to finish the new shelves he was making for the storage room.

  When he flipped on the lights in the back entrance, he almost tripped over Bradley MacIntosh, who tended to sleep there when he’d been on a bender and was too fearful to face his wife. That happened at least twice a week, and Galen always had a space for him. They weren’t too concerned with locking doors in Gairloch.

  Galen nudged MacIntosh with his foot. The big man rolled onto his back and blinked up at Galen. “Ach, Buchanan,” he said as he sleepily gained his feet. He rubbed his eyes with the palms of both hands then gave Galen a gap-toothed grin. “Donna you go and make the same mistakes I’ve made, lad. Stay away from the drink and the lassies.”

  “You’re no’ telling me anything I’ve no’ discovered on my own,” Galen said, and clapped MacIntosh on the back as he sent him out.

  For some reason, Galen thought of the American girl as he watched his patron stumble down the road. Miss Prim, as he’d come to think of her. She of the tightly wound blonde hair and the sparkling green eyes. The girl was a different bird, all right. As pale as a Norwegian princess, as stiff as a north wind.

  The first time he saw her, she was surrounded by a tour of Belgian cyclists asking for directions. In that hair clip, slacks, and shoes that covered her toes, her shirt buttoned up to her eyeballs, a tight cardigan and pearls dangling from her ears, she’d looked like a tour guide. Pretty, but prim.

  And what the bloody hell was she doing in Gairloch, anyway? He hadn’t seen her do much of anything but hog his wifi. He’d seen her walking along the shore in the mornings, and sometimes up into the hills. But he hadn’t seen her about the main village, which only added to his belief that the woman was as mad as a March hare. Who would come to Gairloch for no reason?

  She’d been coming into his pub for two weeks now, disrupting his flow and agitating his regulars. Her presence meant Galen had to keep a watchful eye on Neddie, because the man was a dog. Mr. Anderson complained she blocked the view of the loch and the sea beyond by taking the best table every day. “This is no’ an office park,” Anderson whined.

  She sat at the same table, her fingers flying over the keys of her laptop. He was curious as to what her work was. There wasn’t much business around Gairloch that didn’t involve fish or wool. But she showed up like clockwork every day for his free internet and the mobile phone coverage and, after a cup of tea, she liked to offer him helpful ideas. Except they weren’t helpful. He had no money for flowers and china, and besides, he was running a pub, not a bloody tearoom.

  Galen shook his head and went about his work, chastising himself for not telling her to bugger off when she came to him with her latest absurdity. And yet, in a perverse way, it had been a wee bit of fun to dicker with her. He hadn’t flirted in so long he’d almost forgotten how. But after a few hours of sleep, Galen was thinking more clearly, and what she’d proposed was farcical.

  He’d tell her he’d had a laugh last night, but that he wouldn’t pretend anything, least of all that he was her boyfriend. And then, at the end of the night, he’d close the pub for the two days he planned to drive up to his younger brother Owen’s land to look after the place as he’d promised.

  He’d forget all about her then.

  Galen worked on the shelving with his lathe—his brother Malcolm had given him the old thing when he’d bought himself a new one—and took two new shelves into the main barroom to fit them in place. He’d just finished up work when his first morning regular came in.

  “Hiya, Galen,” Marvin said as he shuffled in with his lopsided gait, a newspaper tucked up under his arm.

  “I’ve no’ put the kettle on,” Galen said, indicating the industrial water heater he’d bought last year. “It’s a quarter to nine, is it? No’ open for business just yet.”

  “I’ll wait,” said Marvin congenially, and took a seat at the bar, spreading out his paper. “Looks like we’ll have a right proper storm tonight.”

  Galen paused for a moment to look out at the sea. He had a notion that the state of the sea dictated how his day would go. When it was sunny and calm, his day was generally good. But when the day was gray and the sea churned, his day was a rough go. The sea was calm, but the sky was gray. That was ominously inconclusive.

  He went into the tiny office just behind the bar and crouched down to open the wall safe. He took out a little pouch of money and peered inside. There wasn’t much—maybe ninety pounds.

  Fuck, but this pub was hard work.

  It wasn’t that Galen minded hard work in the least—what he minded was when hard work never accomplished anything. He’d been running the place for a little over a year now, and instead of making any progress, he felt as if he were sticking his fingers into new holes in the dike every day. He longed to know how his grandfather had managed to keep it afloat all those years.

  When Granda had passed, there’d been talk among the family about selling the Black Thistle. Galen had been firmly against it and had argued with his brothers and mother that they needed to keep it going. “It’s been part of Gairloch for decades. This pub is our legacy. It’s what the Buchanans do.”

&nb
sp; “The Buchanans were also pirates and smugglers at one time,” his mother pointed out. “Should we continue on with that, too?”

  “It’s a money pit,” Malcolm had complained. “Granda was losing money faster than it came in.”

  “We can make it profitable again,” Galen had argued.

  “We?” Owen, his younger brother, had challenged him. “What will you do, then, Galen? Quit that fancy solicitor job in Edinburra and come up to run the pub? Or do you expect me and Ma and Malcolm to do it for you?”

  It was a fair question, and Galen had finally decided that if anyone was going to keep that part of the shared history alive and their grandfather with them in memory, it would be him.

  The pub didn’t seem to matter to anyone else, but to Galen, it represented everything that had ever been good about his life. It was where he’d grown up. His father had herded sheep on this land, his granda had run the pub. When Galen was a boy, the pub had been where everyone in town had come to celebrate the milestones of life. Weddings, graduations, retirements. It was even where he’d met his first love. Hell, he’d had his first go at sex in the storeroom.

  He supposed he was sentimental, but he couldn’t let the pub, his legacy, go. So he’d quit an unsatisfying career in agricultural law, had taken what money he had in savings, and he’d come home to Gairloch.

  In the year since he’d been back, he’d yet to turn a profit. He’d done nothing but bleed his savings, and now the damn refrigerator needed major repair. Was he really reduced to pretending to be a boyfriend to repair it? For fuck’s sake.

  Galen thought of the blonde American again, that disaster waiting to happen. She might as well be wrapped up in police tape with a sign hung around her neck warning of danger. But the truth was that two thousand pounds would go a long way toward fixing a refrigerator. It was money he didn’t have.

  Galen sighed and walked back out into the main room with the pathetically light pouch of money.

  He saw that Maread—“the redhead with the bread”—had come in. Her face instantly lit when she saw him. “Morning, Galen.”

  “Morning, Maread.” He smiled. He knew the lass liked him more than she ought, but bless her, she was the sort of woman he’d never be attracted to. She was too sweet, and he guessed her heart could be too easily broken. And he…

  Well, suffice it to say he’d broken a heart or two in his thirty-one years. Not intentionally, but he was always the half of the couple who first spotted cracks in the relationship. The last time he’d realized his girlfriend was not the right woman for him, it had taken him too long to face it and it had caused all sorts of grief. He wished he knew how to tell Maread he was not the sort of man she hoped he was.

  “You’re still on to help with the retirement party, aye?” he asked.

  “Of course!”

  Bucky Cameron was retiring from British Petroleum. His party would be at the pub this afternoon. What Galen would make off the party would almost be enough to pay his monthly orders.

  “Nora is sending up the bannocks and scones with Lazlo. He said to tell you he’d come at half past three to start cooking.”

  “Did Nora say what I’d owe her?”

  “No. Maybe twenty pounds?”

  There went a quarter of Galen’s cash register for the day.

  “Well then.” Maread smiled sheepishly, apparently unaware that Marvin was watching the two of them like a soccer match. “I’ll leave you to your work, then,” she said. “I’ll see you later?”

  “I’ll be right here.”

  She gave him a little wave and went out, bouncing down the walk through the few of Mr. Beattie’s sheep that had wandered up onto the grass.

  Marvin watched Maread go, too, then turned to Galen. “Lovely lass.”

  “Aye.” Galen picked up a stack of bar towels.

  “She’d make a fine wife to a deserving man.”

  Galen gave Marvin a pointed look. “You know I’m no’ looking for a wife.”

  “Didna say you were,” Marvin sniffed as he turned his attention back to his paper. “But maybe you ought. You could use a wee bit of help here, aye?”

  “Which is why I donna need a wife underfoot.” What Galen needed was someone with a good head for numbers, with some business experience. He needed someone who could cook so he didn’t have to pay Lazlo to come make sandwiches for the evening crowd. He needed a partner, an investor, a think tank. He needed an employee, not a wife.

  Marvin left the pub after he’d had his tea. Galen was changing the kegs when he heard some shouting outside. He didn’t have to guess who. The next moment, he heard the jingle of the bell as the door opened and some muttering under breath.

  “You didna kick the ewes, did you?” he called out as he finished hooking up the keg. He rose up, wiped his hands on a dishtowel, and pivoted around. Miss Prim was standing there in a tight sweater and tighter trousers. She did have a nice figure, he’d give her that. “As I suspected. You again, terrorizing the flock.”

  “You were expecting the Queen in your fine establishment?” She walked to the bar and slapped down her messenger bag. “Have you ever thought about fencing in your yard so that your pet sheep don’t leave their calling cards everywhere?”

  “No.”

  “It’s bizarre. You know that, right? The rest of the world doesn’t like sheep shit at their door.”

  He shrugged. “It’s our way in the Highlands. Beattie needs the land the pub sits on. No one seems to mind but you.”

  “Whatever.” She blew out an exasperated breath that lifted a tress of hair from her brow that had escaped the claw that held the rest of it prisoner. “I drew up a contract.”

  “A what?” He had heard her quite clearly, but he was surprised.

  “A contract.”

  In that moment, Galen had every intention of telling Miss Prim to forget it, but as he opened his mouth, a flash of irritation at her “contract” shot through him, and what he actually said was, “I said we had a deal. That’s good enough for me.”

  “Maybe for you, but not for me. I need to be clear on what we’ve agreed.”

  “What, you donna trust me?” he asked, shocked by her lack of self-awareness.

  “I don’t trust anyone,” she said, as if that was the only way to approach life. She reached into her bag and pulled out three or four pieces of paper and slid them across the bar to him.

  “Look here, lass, we had a laugh last night, but that was all. I willna pretend to be your boyfriend, and no one would ever believe you were my girlfriend. You need a different bloke. Better yet, forget this insanity and go home.”

  “What the hell do you mean no one would ever believe I was your girlfriend?” she demanded, affronted.

  Maybe it wasn’t obvious to her, but it was to him. She was too prim, too well put together. He liked women who were hale and hearty, who had a wee bit of excitement to them. “Just as I said. You’d never be my girlfriend.” He enunciated very clearly for her.

  She gasped. “Are you kidding me right now? Well, guess what? No one would believe you were my boyfriend, either.” She punctuated that with a toss of her head.

  “Well then. Seems we’ve answered all the outstanding questions, aye? Good luck with it.”

  She glared at him. “See, this is why I drew up a contract,” she said, making a swirling motion with one hand at him. “I expected as much. But you need to get up to speed about me and not be so obviously wrong on every level.”

  Galen couldn’t help a small chuckle. “I donna know how you do it, but you continue to warm the cockles of my heart. What’s this about a contract? Are you a solicitor?”

  “No, but I work with contracts. I think for our purposes what I’ve done will suffice.”

  He would be the judge of that. He picked up the paper and looked at it. I, Galen Buchanan, do hereby agree to….

  He tossed the paper onto the bar. “What makes you think you know how to put together a contract if you’re no’ a solicitor?”

/>   “I work in philanthropy.” She said that as if it should answer his question.

  “In what?”

  “Philanthropy. That’s when you raise money for causes—”

  “I know what philanthropy is, Miss Prim.” God help him. “But I canna say I’ve heard of anyone claiming it as an actual job.”

  “Actually, I have a degree in philanthropy,” she said smugly.

  Did people really need a degree in how to give away money?

  “And I sit on the board of directors for the Chatfield Foundation. We give lots of money to lots of worthwhile causes.”

  “Such as?

  “Such as ecological endeavors,” she said, holding up a finger. “At-risk youth.” She held up two fingers. “Hunger, education—you name it, we’ve funded it. So yes, I think I’ve learned a little about contracts.” She snorted at what she obviously thought was his rudimentary grasp of things.

  “Takes more than giving away lots of money,” he said, making invisible quotes, “to know how to draw up a contract.”

  “Oh right,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “You need a lawyer.” She shook her head as if that was absurd.

  Now Galen was riled. “I willna sign it. It’s unnecessary and unenforceable.”

  “Why are you being so stubborn?” she groaned. “This says you get money, remember?”

  “Oh, I remember. I think I’ll never forget it.”

  She frowned and picked up the document. For once, she seemed uncertain. “Maybe I could read it to you—”

  “Bloody hell,” he said, and took it from her hand. He scanned it quickly and saw the whole ludicrous plan was outlined. In bullet points. And she’d actually used the word “subterfuge.” She probably thought he didn’t know that word, either, pretentious American, and somehow thought it was a legally defensible term. She described in detail the promised payment. He noticed that while she’d included the kissing—did she think he was serious?—she had not included the sex.