He was right—she was too prim for that.
But something else caught his eye. Something new. Something even more outrageous. A paragraph that said he, Galen Buchanan, would spend at least two days with her in order to establish the authenticity of their relationship.
“What the hell is this?” he asked, stabbing the paragraph with his finger.
Miss Prim leaned over to see what he was pointing at, and when she did, Galen could see down her buttoned shirt. He could see two perfect breasts encased in black lace, and damn it if his mouth didn’t water just a wee bit.
“That’s for authenticity. So it doesn’t look fake.”
“Again, I know what the word means,” he said. “Bloody hell, where do I start? None of this will hold up in a court of law, and I’ve no time for havering about it anyway.”
“For what?
“Talking,” he said, and made the universal gesture for run-on chatter.
“Wait—how do you know it won’t hold up? It’s a perfectly legal document, outlining the agreement between two people.”
“I’m a solicitor.”
Her eyes widened. Her lips formed a perfect little o of surprise. She quickly gathered up her papers and stacked them neatly. “I’m only suggesting that I come here during the day and that we talk. I mean, if my friends show up and I hardly even know your name, it’s never going to work.”
“Of all the ludicrous—I’ve no time to sit about and chat you up. Have you no’ noticed? Something needs my attention all bloody day. And besides, I’m closing the pub for two days.”
“What?” she cried, startled. “No, no, no! Why?”
Galen was not particularly proud that her crazy panic amused him, but it did. “I’m to see after my brother’s place while he’s in Edinburra.”
“But…but when will you be back?”
“Wednesday, if all goes well.”
“Wednesday? That’s not enough time,” she moaned, dipping backward with displeasure.
Galen shrugged. Her issues were not his problem.
She frowned at him, drummed her fingers on the bar, thinking. “Okay. Well okay,” she said, flinging her arms wide. “I’ll just have to come with you.”
Now Galen laughed. He laughed so hard that he had to toss his head back to let it all out.
“What’s so funny?” she demanded.
“I’m off to the Highlands, lass. You’ll no’ want to go there.”
“Why not? It’s beautiful. And I could do with some sightseeing.”
“This is no’ sightseeing—I’ve work to do. Are you perhaps noticing a pattern here?” he asked, gesturing to himself. “I am a working man. Which means I’ve no time for you.”
“I could help you with your work,” she suggested brightly.
Damn it if her eyes didn’t shimmer when she was grasping at straws. Galen had to laugh again. “What, you’ll muck out a barn?”
She blinked. He could almost see her thoughts scudding across her pretty green eyes. “I don’t see why not.”
“Do you no’?” he asked with a grin. “That should be interesting. It’s hard work, you know, and no’ the sort a prim little princess who taps on her laptop all day would know how to do. Do you see now what I mean? You’d never be my girl, lass. You’re no’ cut out for it.”
“Hey.” Her brows sank into a deep vee. “I am not a princess and I am not prim. I can manage hard work, buster. Just watch me.”
Galen grinned. Watching her would indeed be prime entertainment under any other circumstance. “Have you ever held a shovel?”
“A real one?”
Lord. “Have you ever built anything?”
“So, what, you only date carpenters?”
“Do you know the slightest thing about lambing or changing the oil in a car?”
“Are those two things related somehow? If you want, I can pretend to be a mechanic for a few days.”
Her cheeks were turning a delightful shade of pink. It was a laugh, watching her agree to anything he said. He couldn’t picture her in work clothes or mucking out stables. But he thought of that glimpse down her shirt—bloody hell, he was a man after all—and began to believe that it might be fun to watch her try. He studied her a long moment, debating.
She looked almost hopeful.
“Can you ride?”
She flushed. “Ride what?”
“Aye, a horse, of course,” he said and pushed down other random male thoughts of what else she could ride.
“Yes, I can ride.”
No, she couldn’t. But he pretended to accept it. “Have you something to wear besides…” He gestured at her blouse and the slim black trousers that stopped at her ankles.
She glanced down. “Yes.”
She sounded a wee bit uncertain. “No computer,” he said, enjoying himself now. “There willna be time for you to sit and hammer on the thing. No Facebook, no Instagram, no Twitter.”
She chewed her bottom lip, apparently debating that, and reluctantly nodded. “May I at least bring my phone?”
“Only for emergencies. I best no’ find you checking your email, aye?”
“What, you mean there is actually cell service in the Highlands? Fine. Only emergencies.”
Galen wasn’t through yet. “Can you cook?”
“Cook? I’m not going as your slave.”
“You’re going as my girlfriend, aye? My girlfriends cook. They can dig a ditch and they donna fear getting dirty. They donna worry about fingernails and hair. My girlfriends desire only to please me.”
“Well, that certainly answers the mystery of why you don’t have one,” she said, and folded her arms.
Galen had to swallow a laugh.
“Are you going to be prickly the whole time?” she asked, gesturing at him.
“You said nothing about congeniality, did you? If you want less prickly, you may add another thousand pounds to the bottom line there.”
“I guess I thought congenial was implied. You know, boyfriend-girlfriend,” she said, motioning between the two of them. “But that’s okay. I’ll learn to live with prickly. Maybe I’ll even learn to please you enough,” she said sarcastically.
“Doubt it.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Well, you just may be in for a big surprise, mister.”
“Oh, I know exactly what you think. You think you’ll smile and ask me sweetly, and offer me a bit of money and I’ll be at your beck and call, aye?”
She colored again—a guilty bit of color, Galen thought, and he was waiting for her pert little response when the door jingled and Maread walked in carrying a big crate of fresh produce.
“Ah…hallo,” she said, her gaze darting between Galen and Sloane.
“Hi,” Miss Prim said, and turned to Galen. “Just tell me when we leave and I’ll be on my way.”
“Tomorrow morning, eight o’clock sharp. Donna be late—I’ll no’ wait.”
“Somehow I knew that.” She swiped up her so-called contract and stuffed it in her bag.
Galen fluttered his fingers at her, indicating she should go. “I’ve a retirement party this afternoon. It’s best you go and open your laptop somewhere else.”
“Way ahead of you,” she shot back, and to Maread, “Have a great day.”
He watched her swish out of the pub, his gaze on her very shapely hips. He wished he could yank that damn knot from her hair. The door shut behind her, and in the next moment, he heard her yelling at the sheep grazing the grass.
“Umm…”
The sound of Maread’s voice startled him back to the present. “Maread,” he said and smiled. “Aye, the food.”
“Nora sent a ham, too. She said you’d be needing it for the party, whether you know it or no’. But she willna charge you.” Maread was looking down as she spoke, her cheeks flaming.
“What do I owe you, then?”
“Twenty four pounds. I was a bit off the mark, I guess.”
Galen didn’t know if she meant she was a bit off on the amount
he would owe, or if she was bit off about him. Both were correct. He walked to the register and punched it open. He took out the money and looked at the paltry amount that was left. That two thousand pounds would go a long way, he hated to admit it. Twenty five hundred pounds would go even further. Funny, he was starting to warm up to that idea.
He walked back to Maread and handed her the money. She still wouldn’t look him in the eye, and Galen felt bad for her. He’d never given her any encouragement, and yet, every time she came into the pub she looked so bloody hopeful. “Maread,” he said softly.
She reluctantly lifted her gaze to him. But whatever she saw in his expression made her turn even pinker. “Thanks, then,” she said, and hurried out of the pub. She ran down the path to her bike without looking back.
Galen could kick himself for hurting that tenderhearted girl.
He laid the blame all at Sloane Chatfield’s feet. He’d been minding his own business until that demented blonde had made her proposition.
Always did have a weakness for blondes.
Of course, he planned to put Miss Prim in her place as he worked her like a yoked ox over the next two days.
He chuckled. This could be a wee bit fun, now that he thought about it.
Chapter Three
The Black Thistle sat on the edge of Gairloch at the top of a hill. There were three structures on the hill above it: the tiny cottage Sloane had rented; a larger, nicer house, occupied by the man who owned her rental, Mr. Beattie; and on the opposite side of him, a house situated with its back to the other two abodes, overlooking the sea. That was his house. Sloane knew, because he woke her up early mornings when he rode off to God knew where on a very loud motorcycle.
In the solitude of her cottage, Sloane heated water in the kettle and poured it over god-awful instant coffee. She took the cup, a couple of complimentary shortbreads, and sat at the small table that overlooked the garden.
With a day to think about it, she was ashamed of what she’d done, propositioning that man. It had all seemed so clever when she’d conceived the idea in the midst of her bubble bath, but now that she’d set the wheels in motion, it seemed scarily absurd. Who was she right now? Not careful, methodical, Sloane Chatfield, that was for sure. Sloane Chatfield was a responsible, no-nonsense woman. At least she’d always believed that was so.
Miss Prim, he’d called her. All right, so she was a little prim. What was wrong with that? But when had she become prim? Not before college…
Well, maybe. In high school, when Victoria and Paige snuck out to Lookout Point, Sloane had been too scared of being caught to go along. Still, no one had called her prim.
Had it begun at Mount Holyoke, then? It was true that she didn’t date as much as Victoria, Paige, or Dylan. But no one had ever said she was too uptight.
After they graduated and went out into the world, Sloane had taken a job with her family’s foundation, working to dole out money to charities the board deemed worthy. She helped nonprofits with their proposals, but what she really wanted was to start her own charity, one that would provide art therapy to at-risk children. Her father said that was touchy-feely. Maybe so, but she liked it. And the planning had kept her busy.
But then she’d met Adam Fentress at a charity function. It was one of those instant, mutual attractions. He hadn’t thought she was prim. It wasn’t long before they were in an apartment together and Sloane had given up on forming her own charity because Adam was working so many hours.
They’d been together three years last summer when Adam proposed, and Sloane had happily accepted. Of course she had, she’d been waiting for it.
She’d assumed she’d have a life much like her parents—she would host society events and work on her favorite charities and take care of her home and her man while Adam worked his way up the corporate ladder.
The wedding was supposed to have been this month. The venue had been booked, the dress bought, and the cakes had been tasted when Adam told her what in all honesty she’d sensed was coming—that he was breaking up with her. “You’re too hard, Sloane,” he’d said that December morning. “You’re cold. I’m not saying this to hurt you, I’m just trying to be honest here. I can’t live like this.”
Cold? “Can’t live like what?” Sloane had asked, not understanding what she’d done, desperate to understand how it had all gone south. “Is there someone else?”
“No,” he’d said indignantly. “It’s exactly what I said. I hate to say it, but it’s you.”
It had been a stunning blow. And to her parents, who loved Adam. And though she’d been devastated by him—okay, was still devastated—a part of her knew what he said was true. A tiny part of her recognized that it was hard for her to open up to her fiancé. To anyone.
Their sex life had never been easy, either. She’d never felt completely free. She’d never felt the wondrous orgasms Paige described, or the tender emotions that moved Victoria, or the flat-out, bone-jarring thrill of raw sex that made Dylan giddy. Sloane felt things, and she’d had orgasms…but they didn’t come easy. Nor did she ever feel that she was truly pleasing Adam. He liked to correct her. Move here, don’t put your arm there. It always seemed as if he was making do with her.
But damn it, she’d tried.
In the months since Adam had left, Sloane had poured herself into her work. She’d spent long hours and weekends reading the tiny print of proposals for funds from her family’s foundation. But in the dark, when she lay in bed, she would worry over her relationship, turning upside down every moment that she could remember, trying to see in hindsight what she’d done that was so offensive.
In the meantime, she never went out, and her friends worried about her. How could she possibly make them understand that relationships scared her? That of all the things she could suffer, being told again she was cold, that something was wrong with her, was not something she thought she could endure again? How did she make anyone understand the agony she felt knowing she was a problem but not knowing how to change?
But they were so persistent. “Did I ever tell you about falling off that dressage horse?” Paige had asked her once.
“Ohmigod, don’t you dare try and claim a cliché as your personal experience,” Sloane had warned her.
“But it happened!” Paige had insisted. “You have to get back up and ride that pony.”
It had taken a lot of effort on her part to get her friends to stop bringing ponies for her to ride. And now, her careful plan had devolved into her begging a Scottish stranger to pretend to be her boyfriend so that her friends wouldn’t try and find one for her.
Well, it was done. And if a girl was going to pull a pretend boyfriend out of the air, Sloane had to congratulate herself—she’d done pretty well in the looks department. She was going to be patient with Galen’s resistance to her.
This trip to the Highlands, however, was a puzzle. She had no idea what to pack. She didn’t have many “work” clothes, but she had a pair of jeans and a designer T-shirt, and some riding clothes, too. Why? Because she’d bought into Paige’s fantasy that they would go riding somewhere.
Ha.
She also had a couple of sundresses.
Sloane picked up one of them and held it up to admire it. It was buttery yellow with tiny white dots, and it swung around just above her knees. It was the kind of dress that Sloane admired, and might buy, but would never wear. It seemed too flirty for the type of work she did. But it was perfect for a Scottish farm. Or so she guessed.
She wondered what Braveheart would think of it, and suddenly, she was pissed. Did he really think only Scottish women could lift a finger? That because she took care of herself and had regular manicures she was weak?
Sloane muttered some very strong opinions about Highland men as she shoved what she had into a small overnight bag, along with two pairs of panties, a camisole, and her toiletries. She donned a designer denim jacket, slipped on her Uggs, and hoisted the overnight bag and her messenger bag sans laptop onto her shoul
der. “Tell me I can’t work,” she said.
Sloane flung herself out of the cottage and paused to take a deep breath. The air was different here. Cleaner. Crisper. It was nothing like her place in Chicago’s Lincoln Park—a tall, narrow townhouse that seemed to trap all the noise from the street between its walls. Or her parent’s luxurious condo on Lake Shore Drive. They lived in a building full of old, rich people. What she liked about Gairloch was that she could walk out the door of a cottage on the rise above the sea and look around at the world as God had made it. She could walk on the beach in the morning without passing another soul, could walk into the hills without hearing a single motor.
There was no fine dining here, and the cell service sucked, but it was beautiful.
Sloane heard a noise and looked around. Mr. Beattie, the ancient owner of the cottage and proprietor of the free-roaming livestock, was puttering about the gardens, raking up leaves.
“Good morning!” Sloane called out to him.
“Morning. I brung ye more linens. Shall I put them just in the door?”
“Please. Thank you.”
“Off are ye?”
“Yes, I’m going to do a little sightseeing.”
“Good on you. Donna like to see a lass locked away here. You’re a wee bit too pale, are ye no’?”
She blinked. “I’m pale?”
“As a ghost. I think ye donna get out and about much, aye?”
“I get out,” she said.
Mr. Beattie nodded.
“Okay, maybe not a lot,” she conceded.
Mr. Beattie pushed his stained hat back from his brow, stacked his hands on top of his rake, and leaned into it, his gaze moving over her. “And where ye off to, if ye donna mind me asking?”
“The Highlands.”
“You’re in the Highlands, lass.”
She really had no idea where they were going. In hindsight, that seemed a prudent question to have asked. “That way,” she said, and pointed up behind her.
Mr. Beattie peered in the direction she pointed. “Tournaig, aye?”
Was that a place? Or Scottish for hell?
“With Buchanan, I take it.”
How did he know that? Stunned, Sloane stared at the old man.
The Perfect Bargain Page 4