“Good morning,” she said and smiled.
“Good morning.” His gaze slid over her in a long, lazy caress, lingering on her chest and then her legs. “Quite a nice frock you have there. It’s a new look for you, aye?”
“I don’t want to be accused of being matronly,” she said and gave him a sly smile as she twisted one way and the other, making the dress swing around her knees.
He smiled. For a moment. “What’s that? Have you got my kilt around you?”
Sloane looked at the plaid blanket she’d turned into a shawl. “This is a kilt?”
“Aye, Sassanach,” he said with a bit of a smile as he moved toward her. “Old style. It belonged to my granda.”
“Oh! I’m sorry.”
“No need—that’s what it’s for, aye?”
“So listen, Braveheart, I’m starving,” she said, as he stepped out of the gate and batted his way through the dogs. The implement, it turned out, was a hoe, which Galen had propped on one shoulder.
“The cupboards are a bit bare. You might find porridge or the like if you have a look around. I’ll join you in a bit.”
He began striding down the muddy road, the three dogs trotting along behind.
Sloane allowed herself the undiluted pleasure of watching that man walk away—strong hips, muscular shoulders, trim back—and then went inside to find something to eat.
Galen was right—there wasn’t much. She found some microwave popcorn and a tin of oats in the pantry, but not much else. She folded the plaid and put it aside, then looked around the tiny kitchen until she found a pot—someone take a picture, she was actually pulling out a pot—and studied the directions for making porridge. She proceeded to make her first batch ever.
When Galen returned a half hour later, she proclaimed, “I made porridge!”
“Congratulations. One canna help but wonder how you survive most days,” he said as he casually pulled off his muddied pants and stood before her in a pair of boxers.
“It’s not always easy,” she quipped and tried to ogle him without actually appearing to ogle him. She thought he might be on to her.
“Ah, now, here’s a grand kilt,” he said, picking up the plaid. “This is no’ the sort of kilts they sell to tourists in Edinburra.” He folded the plaid, then wrapped it around his waist. It fell to his knee. He held the ends together as he leaned over a basket near the door and rummaged around until he found a belt. He used it to belt the plaid around his waist. When he had it belted, he cast his arms wide and grinned at her. “There you have it, Sassenach, an authentic Highland plaid.”
If ever Sloane had envisioned a modern day Highlander, he was standing before her now. Galen Buchanan was her Jamie Fraser.
His gaze narrowed. “Why do you look at me like that?” he asked brusquely.
“Like what?” she asked dreamily.
“Like you’ve had a few too many nips, aye?”
She supposed she did look a bit swoony. She was swoony. What had started out as a big fat lie had turned into…this. This was good. This was awesome. Sloane smiled sheepishly. “I really like your kilt.”
Galen blinked. Then grumbled something under his breath before pointing a finger at her. “Donna be getting excited, lass. I’ll no’ wear a kilt for you.”
“But my friends would totally love to see you in a kilt—”
“No,” he said firmly. “As my da used to say, only a wally would wear a kilt when he wasna attending a wedding or a funeral.”
“My friends don’t know that,” Sloane tried. She wouldn’t mind if he wore a kilt every day for the rest of his life.
“Aye, but I know it,” he said. “I’ll no’ make myself the laughingstock of Gairloch just to entertain your friends.”
“Killjoy,” she said as her gaze drifted down his body, to his legs.
“Aye, a killjoy, and one that intends to have a bath.” He stepped past her into the bathroom and leaned over the tub, turning the spigot.
“Ah, come on—no more kilt?” she asked, crowding into the door of the bathroom so she could admire him from behind.
He turned back to her, leaned down so he could look her directly in the eyes, and said, “No more kilt.” He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her about, presumably to usher her out of the bathroom, but hesitated, and nuzzled her neck.
Sloane closed her eyes, enjoying the scintillation of his warm mouth on her skin “The kilt could be a deal-breaker, you know. It could be the reason I break up with you.”
“I suppose there are worse reasons, aye?” He nibbled her earlobe. “So…when is the breakup to happen, exactly?”
Something sharp pricked at Sloane’s gut; she swallowed it down. She would rather think of men in kilts. “I don’t know. There’s no reason to rush it…right?”
Galen didn’t say anything for a moment. Then, “I think we should agree now. A week from Friday.”
Sloane’s eyes flew open. She didn’t want to think of breaking up, she wanted to think of sex and his mouth on her skin and looking into those misty gray eyes. She wanted him to think about it, too. She twisted around to face him. “Why that day?”
“Why no’?” He stepped away and pulled his dirty T-shirt over his head and tossed it onto the floor. “I thought about it. Seems long enough. Your friends are due to arrive Thursday. That will give you a week of play acting.” His gaze met hers. “Should be enough time to achieve whatever it is you’re doing.” He patted her arm and stepped around her, holding open the door. “If you donna mind, I’ll have that bath now.” He winked at her, as if last night really had meant nothing at all.
Sloane kept waiting for the Galen of last night to return. But the Galen of the cool, distant smile was the one who bathed, who ate his porridge, and then loaded Molly and the bags into the utility vehicle. He whistled as he went about it and said nothing more about the planned break-up. But neither did he touch Sloane or kiss her. Had she really misread him so completely?
On the drive back to Gairloch, he pointed out a few things of interest to her but otherwise seemed content just to drive along.
Sloane didn’t say anything, either. What was she to say? That she didn’t like a week from Friday? That she didn’t want to think of breaking up anymore? This was all her doing, all her conniving and make-believe. How could she have truly believed he would be miraculously smitten by her? That only happened in Hallmark movies.
And what about her? She wasn’t seriously harboring any feelings for this guy, not after one twenty-four hour stretch spent in his company. He truly could be an axe murderer. Well, okay, Mr. Beattie said he wasn’t, but the point was, she didn’t know anything about him other than he’d made her come like a freight train. And that was not a reason to fall for a guy and begin to fantasize about raising sheep.
Well, not the best reason.
Sloane couldn’t keep from looking at him, expecting—hoping—that he would say, last night was fantastic, or, let’s have some fun before your friends come. Something. Anything.
But he didn’t. He talked about fishing and picking up supplies. He was apparently quite all right with the one-night stand and letting this thing between them play out for money. She was a fool if she expected more than that.
When they reached Gairloch, he dropped her off at her cottage. Sloane stepped out of his Jeep-like conveyance and reached for her bag. Her hand met Molly’s wet snout instead. “Okay, all right, good-bye, Molly. Good-bye.” She pushed the dog’s head to one side, grabbed her bag, and then dipped down to look through the passenger window.
Galen smiled cheerfully. “Have everything, then?”
“Yes. Thanks for—”
“Aye,” he said and lifted his hand as if to wave good-bye.
“When will I see you?” she blurted.
“At the pub, I suppose.”
“But shouldn’t we…I mean, I think we should be together some. You know, so it looks as if we’re a couple.”
“Aye, come round to the pub.” He looke
d off. He seemed anxious to be on his way.
“Because we need to talk. I don’t know how old you are—”
“Thirty-one.”
“Where you went to school—”
“Here, in Gairloch.”
Sloane frowned at him.
He smiled. “Sloane. We’ve talked enough to convince your friends, aye? Come round to the pub if you like.” This time, he gave her a friendly wave and put the vehicle into gear.
“Wait.” Sloane said, grabbing the passenger doorframe. “We have an agreement—”
“Aye,” he said shortly. “But what more is there to say, really?”
Everything. There was everything else to say. There was more sex, more talk, more laughing, more everything. But Sloane dropped her hand from the vehicle door. His message was loud and clear—it had been a one-night stand. And she couldn’t magically make it more. “You’re right. We’ve covered it.”
“All right, then, I’m off.” Molly barked at Sloane from the back of the vehicle as he drove away.
“You’re not right,” Sloane said as she watched him go. “You are so not right, you stupid bastard.”
Never mind how wrong he was. This was exactly what Sloane had wanted and had haggled for not three days ago—a pretend boyfriend and, bonus, hot sex to boot. She was going to forget about any fuzzy feelings she had, chalk it all up to a very fun night, and get back to work.
Sloane didn’t get back to work.
She tried, she really tried. But she kept getting up from her review of a proposal to help fund the protection of El Salvadoran watersheds, which, while important, was a real snoozefest and was causing her mind to wander. She kept going to the window to look down at the village of Gairloch. At the Black Thistle, which was dark today. And at the cottage, where the motorcycle was parked out front, the strange Jeep parked down on the road.
“This is ridiculous,” she said as she munched on some shortbread late that afternoon. “Are you going to stand here all day?”
No. No, she was not. Sloane couldn’t let it go. She was never one to rock the boat, but this time, she was going to capsize it.
She marched to the window and looked down at the house above the sea. She was going down there, by God. She was going down there and she was going to tell him…
She’d figure out on the way down what she was going to tell him.
Sloane put on her jacket, and with the skirt of her dress whipping around her knees, her hair swirling around her head, she started for his house, crossing over Beattie’s property, then stomping across the spongy, brambly bit of land until she reached Galen’s door. She could hear the faint strains of music and paused to drag her fingers through her hair. She yanked on her jacket, and with a deep gulp of courage, she knocked on the door.
Inside, Molly barked, and the music stopped. A moment later, the door swung open and Molly lunged forward, tail wagging, and stuck her nose directly into Sloane’s crotch.
“Get back, get back,” Galen chided the dog, and pulled at her collar, dragging her back inside.
His gaze fixed on Sloane, and he looked past her, almost as if he expected her to be with a horde of others. But seeing no one else, he shifted his gaze to her once again. “Is something wrong?”
“No,” she said, but she was nodding. She tucked a tangled tress behind her ear and wished for a hair clip. She thought more clearly when her hair wasn’t hanging in her face.
“Then what are doing here?”
“I need to talk to you. May I come in?”
He didn’t look as if he wanted to talk. In fact, he braced his arm against the doorframe, blocking her entrance. “Lass. You know—”
“I’ll only be a moment,” she said crisply.
Galen groaned. He pushed both hands over his head and locked his fingers behind his neck. But then he stepped back, opened the door a little wider, and impatiently motioned for her to come in.
His house was very charming. There were thick wood beams in the ceiling, which matched the window casings. The floor was slate, and the living area was covered in a thick wool rug. The furniture—a couch and a chair—were both covered in leather that looked worn. On a coffee table was a pair of glasses and a newspaper.
And there were books. Loads of books, most of them in two floor-to-ceiling bookcases on either side of the cold hearth. “Wow,” she said with wonder, momentarily forgetting how awkward she felt. “You must like to read.”
“No. I like to collect books to amuse myself,” he drawled. When Sloane looked at him he said, “What do you think, that Higlanders have sheep dung for brains? Of course I like to read.”
“Touchy,” she said and picked up a book on the table near the sofa. The Goldfinch. It was heavy. “That’s two things I was right about. Did you read this?”
“Aye. It won a Pulitzer Prize.” He took it from her hand and returned it to its spot on the side table. “Have you read it?”
“No. My tastes run to the more…commercial.”
“Commercial,” he repeated. “What do you mean, then? Love stories?”
She smiled self-consciously. “What’s wrong with love stories?”
“No’ a thing,” he said. “Only I imagined the country club set wouldna think of reading them. Only classics.”
“The country club set. Is that supposed to be me?”
“Aye,” he said, and leaned back against the wall, his arms folded. “I’d bet you’re a member of one.”
She blushed. He had her pegged, all right—her family belonged to one, and she was included in the number. “Okay, so I belong to a country club. Some of the country club set like a good old-fashioned love story. Anyway, I didn’t come here to talk about that.”
“Then why did you come?”
“To ask why you’re acting so distant,” she exclaimed, gesturing at him with both hands. “Look at you, your arms folded and clear across the room. What happened? We had a great time, didn’t we?”
“Aye, we did,” he agreed.
“Then what is the matter?”
His gaze narrowed. “Do you want to know what is the matter with me, Sloane? It’s you.”
Sloane felt a strange, sickly trickle run down her spine and land in her belly. “Me?”
“Aye, you.”
“Oh, Jesus.” Her worst fear had just been realized. And she’d thought last night had gone so well! She pressed the tips of her fingers to her face. “Galen, I’m sorry. I know I’m not any good at that, but I honestly thought things went really well.”
He frowned slightly. “Good at what?”
“You know.” He shook his head. “Are you going to make me say it?” she groaned to the ceiling. “Fine, I’ll own it. I’m not very good at sex and I know it.”
He blinked. And then he suddenly pushed away from the wall with such vigor that it startled Sloane. She took a step backward. “I’m sorry.”
“Are you daft?” he asked angrily as he advanced on her.
“No! I mean—I don’t think so, but honest to God I’m starting to wonder.”
“You’re bloody brilliant at sex, Sloane.”
She waited for the but. And when none came, her eyes widened. “I am?”
“Do you think you ought to have hung from the ceiling?”
“Well, no, but—”
“Sloane,” he groaned and closed his eyes a moment as if he were trying to gather himself. He opened his eyes and leveled an intent gaze on her. “For fuck’s sake, I donna know what it is about you. You’re daft about so many things, but you’re brilliant as well. The sex was fantastic,” he said firmly. “All of it. But what does it matter? You’re a rich American and I’m a poor Scot. We live an ocean apart. You go to country clubs. You sit on your family’s charitable board, for God’s sake. You are obviously privileged, and me? I own a pub in Gairloch, one that is failing and one that has been pointed out to me is a dirty mess.”
“I didn’t mean that in a bad way.”
He sighed. He grabbed her roughly and pu
lled her into his chest, hugging her. “Why are you doing this? Donna tell me it’s because of your girls, I willna accept that. Tell me why, Sloane. Tell me the truth.”
“I told you—”
“Why come all the way to Gairloch to find a Highlander to make your point?” He suddenly grabbed her by the arms again and pushed her back, dipping down to look in her eyes. “That makes no sense, no’ even to you, I expect. Donna be a fool. Go back to Chicago and find a pretend boyfriend there. Hell, find a real one. You could have both if you like. You’re bonny, Sloane. You’re funny and lovely and you can almost build a fence. You should be putting all that to better use than playacting in a tiny Scottish village and hiding from your truths.”
Boy, he’d nailed it right on the head. She was hiding. “It’s not that simple.”
Galen grunted his opinion of that.
It was impossible to explain to this gorgeous, decent man all that she’d been through and all the thoughts that had led her up to this. “I’m not very…affectionate,” she said with a wince. “I’m not very good in relationships. You were right about me in the beginning—I’m too stiff. I really am prim. It’s really hard for me to get to know a guy, and when I do, it’s hard for me to just…to let go,” she said, frustrated by that admission. “And my friends? God help me. I know they want to help, but they only make things worse. My anxiety about it goes through the roof.”
“You let go last night, aye?”
She closed her eyes. “Aye,” she said softly. She had let go, all right—in a most stupendously freeing way.
“Maybe you think all these things about yourself because you’ve no’ yet found the right man. Maybe you’re too hard on yourself.”
“Maybe you’re the right guy,” she blurted. There, she’d said it—she’d come right out and said what had been teasing her thoughts all day. Crazy as it was, maybe Galen Buchanan was the perfect man for her. Maybe, by some miracle, she’d stumbled into the perfect man while trying to be someone else whom she couldn’t let go.
“Ah, Sloane,” he said sadly, and wrapped her in a hug again. “You’re such a bloody numpty.” He fell to the couch, taking her with him. They sat side by side, looking out the bay windows to the loch and sea below.
The Perfect Bargain Page 10