Funny, but she hadn’t actually believed that was possible until now.
The rain was starting when Galen came out of the bathroom. He was clean-shaven, his face as soft as butter, and his wet hair combed back. He wore lounge pants that fit snugly across his hips and his groin…so snugly that Sloane could feel her gaze sliding down and had to make herself study the stew very intently. He also wore a short-sleeved T-shirt, as if the damp cold didn’t bother him, whereas Sloane couldn’t stop shivering.
He made a fire at the hearth and said something to the dogs. The three of them dutifully stood and then flopped onto two dog beds just before the hearth. He returned to the kitchen and, from a foot or so away, he leaned over her shoulder to have a look at the stew.
“I think it’s ready,” Sloane said.
He reached past her, his arm brushing hers as he did, and picked up two mismatched bowls. He filled them up and set them on the tiny bar that separated the kitchen from the rest of the cottage. After rummaging around in a drawer, he produced two spoons and put those on the bar as well. He crouched down, opened a door, and peered inside. “Ah, I thought so.” He stood up, holding a bottle of wine. “My older brother is married and his wife doesna care for pints or whisky. She stashes wine in our houses to have handy when she visits.” He opened the bottle, poured two glasses, then offered Sloane a stool. He sat next to her. The space was so tight that they were squeezed together.
The stew was remarkable. Sloane tried not to slurp it, but it was so good she couldn’t help herself, and Galen chuckled at her groans of delight. The last thing she wanted to be accused of was bad table manners, so she made herself put down her spoon and forced herself to take a breath.
She watched Galen eat his stew like a civilized man. “Hey…are you really a solicitor?” she asked dubiously.
“I was. I donna practice now.”
“Why not?”
Galen paused, his spoon just above his dish. “Two reasons, really. I always liked the idea of law. But I discovered the practice of it is a wee bit tedious. And then my granda died, and the question of what to do with the pub came up, and…” He shrugged. “And there I am.”
That helped Sloane understand why a man like Galen Buchanan would be in a run-down pub like the Black Thistle. “I can relate to that a little,” she said. “My maternal grandfather owned this little corner grocery in Chicago. When I was a kid, my mom would take me to see him.” She remembered her grandfather as a doughy, smiling man who smelled like Old Spice. “He always had a pocketful of candy,” she said with a fond smile. “He died when I was fourteen and they sold the store. Thirteen years later and do you know I still walk around to that corner to see it?” She picked up her spoon. “It’s a cell phone shop now.”
Galen nodded. “My granda worked in the Black Thistle all his life. We all worked there coming up.”
“And now it’s just you and the guy who comes around to cook in the evenings?”
Galen stabbed his spoon into his bowl and left it. “Aye,” he said ruefully. “My mother and my brothers thought I was daft to want to keep it up, and with good reason. There’s hardly any business. There’s no’ a lot happening around Gairloch. I’m sure you’ve noticed. A few bike tours, aye, but no’ much else.”
No, there was not a lot happening in Gairloch. “Well, it is a very charming village.”
“Charming,” Galen repeated with a shake of his head. “That would describe half the places in Scotland that have sprung up to attract tourists like yourself. It’s all a mishmash of castles and kilts and bed and breakfasts.”
Galen stood up, picked up his bowl, and walked around to the sink. “I donna know how much longer I can keep the pub running to be quite honest. I need an infusion of cash, an investor—something.”
It surprised Sloane that he would admit that to her. He seemed so fiercely determined in everything he did. And she hated to hear it, too. She liked that little pub.
She wanted to think of Galen always there, polishing mugs and leading Ned away from the customers. Sure, the pub could use a good cleaning and please, a decor update—how many swords and pictures of bagpipes did one place need? And she was convinced the constant parade of livestock was a problem. But what Sloane liked about that pub was the regulars. There were a lot of them, people coming down to the Thistle to check in, to belong to something bigger than themselves. She wished she had something like that at home.
She picked up her bowl and followed him. Galen was filling the sink with water and dumping some soap into it. “Owen is a right proper slob,” he said with a shake of his head. He washed a bowl and handed it to Sloane.
She picked up a towel and began to dry. “You know, I was thinking—”
“No more thinking,” Galen warned her. “You and thinking donna get on, do you?”
She breezily waved that off. “I was thinking that maybe there are some things you could do to spruce the pub up to attract more customers.”
Galen paused in his task and stared at the little window above the sink. “No.” He looked at her. “Bloody hell, no,” he said again. “I’ll no’ take advice from Miss Prim.”
“I really wish you wouldn’t call me that,” she said. “I’m not prim, and I actually have good ideas for how to make things work. It’s what I do.”
Galen snorted. “And when do you do that? Before you hand out your family’s money? Or after?” He plunged his hands into the sink.
Sloane gaped at him. “Wow, that is so insulting on so many levels that I won’t even dignify it with an answer,” she said, snatching the plate he offered her to dry next and vigorously moving the towel over it. “You think you’re the only one with a hard job that requires a lot of hours? I work hard at what I do, too, and you know what, Galen? Your pub needs a thorough cleaning. And maybe some kilts.”
He sighed heavenward, as if kilts had been suggested to him many times before.
“I’m just saying, it could be a big tourist draw. I know I’d go to your pub every day if you wore a kilt.”
“You come to my pub every day as it is.”
“Yeah. For the wifi. But think how many would come for the kilts.
He smiled. “Perhaps what we need is lassies in short skirts, have you thought of that?”
Sloane put the bowl down. “That would ruin it.”
“For you, maybe. No’ for me,” he said, and with a wink, he pushed another bowl into her hands. “Never mind about my pub.”
She dried the bowl and stacked it in the first. “I’m only trying to help.” Apparently that did not impress him.
“Once more, Sloane—donna help me.”
“I’m just saying, make it sparkle,” she stubbornly continued. “People like things that sparkle. And maybe serve coffee during the day.”
“Coffee! Is that the American answer to everything? Turn it into a bloody Starbucks?”
“Well, now that you bring it up, there is not a decent cup of coffee to be had in Gairloch. It’s all instant. There’s not any good tea, either. You could serve tea and coffee. And the redhead girl makes great pastries. I know because I had one at the inn. They’re delicious. I bet you could make a really good deal with her—”
“Sloane,” he said, startling her.
“What?”
He sighed. He didn’t look angry, he looked tired. “Kindly leave the pub to me, aye? You canna waltz into Gairloch and think that after two bloody weeks of using my wifi, you know what to do with my pub.”
“I’m only trying to help.”
“So you keep saying. But help is—Let’s see how you like it. What is it you do, exactly?”
“I sit on the board of directors for the Chatfield Foundation,” she said, lifting her chin a little. “We are a philanthropic organization and we make grants to worthwhile endeavors.” She had a little speech she made about her work, because no one ever got it. “And I’ve started a small business helping non-profits raise money. I mean, I read proposals for our money, and wow, some people hav
e the hardest time getting their point across. I know how to make it clearer and I know all the things they could do to raise more money, and—”
“And you’re helping people raise money in America, all the way from Scotland?” he asked skeptically. “Coming in to my pub every day to do that?”
“Well…” Sloane dried a glass and put it aside. She did spend an awful lot of time surfing Rue La La. “So much is done online now, you know?” One of his brows floated above the other. “Some,” she said, holding up a finger. “Okay, not as much fundraising as I’d like.”
“Aye, as I thought.”
“Fundraising is an art. You can’t believe the psychology that goes into—”
“Let down your hair.”
Surprised, Sloane lost her train of thought. Galen had stopped washing, had turned toward her. He was peering at her hair, and she couldn’t resist touching it to assure herself nothing was wrong.
“Let down your hair,” he repeated. “And donna wear your shirts buttoned all the way to your neck. You’ll raise more money that way.”
She gaped at him. “Are you really suggesting that I use my sexuality to solicit funds?”
“No. But I’m sure that if you let down your hair, and eased up on looking like you’re headed for the bloody nunnery, you’d raise more money.”
Sloane tried to speak and cry out at the same time, and ended up wheezing her indignation. “You don’t know anything about it!”
“No,” he readily agreed. “I donna know a thing about it. Which is at least as much as you know about pubs, aye?”
Jesus. “They aren’t the same thing at all. Fundraising and philanthropy involve certain skills,” she said, tossing down her towel.
“And running a pub is work for monkeys? Donna answer that,” he said, pointing at her. “Look here, lass, I’m a perceptive bloke. People will give money to a woman who looks approachable. They’ll give less to one that reminds them of the teacher who whacked their knuckles with a ruler.”
Sloane could feel the flame of embarrassment in her cheeks at that observation, and worse, she could hear Adam’s voice in her head all over again. You’re cold, Sloane. Uptight. Loosen up a little.
“Now, now, donna twist what I’ve said,” he said cheerily as the blood drained from her face. “I’m speaking in general terms. It’s a thought I had the first time I saw you.”
“What, the first time you saw me you thought I needed to let down my hair?” she gasped.
“Aye, I did. You reminded me of Mrs. Maguire. She was one of my primary school teachers. She was…” He squinted, as if trying to find the right word. “Matronly.”
“Matronly,” she muttered. “That’s what every girl wants to hear.”
“You wear that thing screwed into your hair—”
“Shut up,” she said, and turned away from him, intending to march out of the kitchen and into the bathroom, the only place she could go and gasp for air in private.
But Galen caught her hand.
“Let go,” she said half-heartedly, keeping her face averted so he couldn’t see she was on the verge of tears.
“I’m no’ trying to tell you how to do your job,” he said, tugging her back around. With his free hand, he pulled the knot from her hair. It tumbled to her shoulders, still wet. He pulled her closer, so close she was almost touching him. “Much better.” He smiled softly and pushed a wet tress from her cheek. “You have lovely hair, Sloane. And your eyes… “ He gave a slight shake of his head. “They’re beautiful.”
“Wow.” She blinked away the moisture in her eyes, surprised by his words. “And here I thought you didn’t see anything to like in matronly me.”
“No’ true. It is true I donna understand you. And I donna need your help. I wish you’d no’ kick the coos—”
“Okay, okay,” she said, before he could catalogue all her faults.
“But your hair? Your eyes?” His gaze moved to her mouth. “Your lips? Your laugh, your tenacity?” He lifted his gaze to her eyes. “I like that all very much.”
Sloane was completely undone by his unexpected admiration. Her gaze fell to his lips, and somehow, his arms were around her, and somehow, she was sinking into him. His mouth moved on hers, and he teased her with his tongue, tasting her and losing himself in the moment for what felt like hours before he kissed her neck. She pulled in long, shuddering breaths as his hands slid down her body, over her hips, gripping them, and Sloane dropped her head back with a soft gasp of pleasure. Everything in her ignited, and tiny little flames fanned through her, flaring in every patch of skin that he touched and kissed.
She pressed against his body, felt the hard ridge of his erection, and sucked in another ravenous breath. Anticipation, white-hot and urgent, shot up her spine. The kiss turned molten, and his hands moved on her rib cage, to her breasts, squeezing them, revving her up.
Sloane wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him fervently, her body full of need, wanting a release.
Galen lifted his head and breathlessly gazed down at her as if he were surprised by what he was doing. He ran his thumb across her bottom lip and said, “That will be one hundred and fifty pounds.”
“One hundred pounds,” she said.
“Aye, but I used my tongue. And it was a bloody good kiss.”
“It was definitely a bloody good kiss,” she agreed.
“I’ll make you a bargain. If you join me in the main room,” he said, pausing to nip her bottom lip, “I’ll give you a significant discount.” He smiled. It was a true smile with dimples and shining eyes, and it made Sloane feel sparkly inside and soft and…
Panicky.
Her heart was suddenly racing, and not in a good way. She hadn’t been with anyone since Adam—well, except for that drunken one-night stand after her cousins’ wedding. The toasts had gotten the best of her and her memory of the night with one of the ten groomsmen was hazy at best. She didn’t want to blow it with Galen. She didn’t want to be the American one-night stand who came off like an ice cube.
“Ah…” Her hands slid from his arms. “You know, I’m just going to step into the ladies room a moment,” she said, jerking her thumb in that direction.
“What?”
“The bathroom.”
Galen looked confused. He shoved a hand through his hair. “All right.”
Sloane fled to the privacy of the bathroom.
Inside, she gripped the cold porcelain sink and gulped air to calm her heart and her body. Goddamn it, she was on fire. On fire! She wanted his mouth all over her body. She wanted him to bury himself deep inside of her and fuck her like she’d never been fucked. And there he was, standing in the kitchen, willing and able, and she hadn’t been able to let loose. This was it, that one week in Scotland thing. This is what her friends wanted her to have. This is what they were begging her to do, to let herself go, and she desperately wanted to.
But…was she seriously buying sex now? And then have to worry about what hand went where and what she should be doing instead of what she was doing and then see the ho-hum look on his face when it was all said and done?
For God’s sake, lighten up.
Adam again, always Adam clanging in her head. What was wrong with her that she couldn’t let that go? It didn’t have to be this way, she knew it didn’t. A hot rush of desire flushed her neck and cheeks. Sloane dropped her hands from the sink, stepping back. “Okay,” she said to her reflection in the mirror. “Okay. I’m going to do it. I am going to go out there, and I’m going to ride that fucking pony.”
She splashed water on her face, ran her fingers through her hair and fluffed it out, and yes, she unbuttoned the neck of her Henley T-shirt. And then she threw open the door and walked out before she lost her nerve.
Galen was making a pallet on the floor. Was that for the two of them? When there was a perfectly serviceable bed right next to it?
He glanced up as he went about his business. “You take the bed.”
All of Sloane’s brava
do and buoyancy leaked out of her—she’d blown it before anything had even happened. Great.
“I changed the sheets,” he said, as if Miss Prim had wrinkled her nose and asked about clean sheets, when that had been the furthest thing from her mind. He took a pillow off a chair underneath the window and tossed it onto the pallet. He looked down at his handiwork, and apparently satisfied with it, he put his hands on his hips and looked at her. “Do you need anything?”
“Umm…” She looked at the bed again. Yes, there was something she needed. To feel his arms around her, to feel him hard and moving in her. Sloane could feel herself deflate. She had to be the only woman in the world who didn’t know how to take advantage of a situation like this. She was hopelessly flawed.
She watched him settle down onto the pallet. He tucked one arm behind his head and crossed his feet at the ankles. Sloane sighed. She felt like an idiot, like a woman who had to pay a guy to be her boyfriend. She got into the bed and pulled the covers up high over her head.
“Night,” she heard him say, and the light flicked off.
“Night,” she muttered and closed her eyes.
She gave a yelp of surprise when something jostled the bed. That was followed by a wet snout in her face. It was Molly. The dog turned several circles, then with a snort, flopped down, her back pressed against Sloane’s.
God.
Sloane hadn’t even closed her eyes again when another dog jumped on the bed and settled in. And then, of course, the third one, all of them stretching out and pressing up against her until Sloane was clinging to the edge of the bed.
Well, this evening had certainly gone to hell.
Chapter Seven
This had never happened to Galen. Never. He’d never been kissing a girl only to see her run to the bathroom. On that cold, damp floor, listening to the rain and the sound of a leak dripping somewhere, he was in a bit of a snit about it.
It didn’t help that he was freezing, tucked up as tight as he could be under a blanket and a kilt while barmy Miss Prim had three dogs and a wool blanket to keep her warm. With every subtle shift of his body, it felt as if a gust of cold air was sent down under his thin covers. He thought about getting up to stoke the fire, but he didn’t want to leave the little warmth he had.
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