The Perfect Bargain

by Jessa McAdams

  Sloane waited for him to speak. She knew what he would say—what any sane, rational man would say—so it wasn’t as painful to hear as she’d feared when he finally spoke.

  “We had a good time,” he said and laced his fingers with hers. “But we must be honest, aye? Nothing could ever come of it. Do you mean to move to Scotland and take up the life of a pub girl? Do you think I will come to Chicago and be what, a bartender? Of course no’. Nothing will ever come of it, aye?”

  He made perfect sense. She hated him for making perfect sense. “You’re right,” she said with a weary sigh.

  He grunted and let go of her hand. He put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her into his side.

  Sloane pressed her cheek against his shoulder and closed her eyes, breathing in the leathery, spicy scent of him. “Of course you’re right,” she said morosely. “But seeing as how I’ve already set this horrible thing into motion, will you still…I mean, my friends will be here Thursday.”

  “Aye, yeah, of course,” he said. “I canna leave you to your own devices, can I? God knows what a fucking mess you’d make of everything.”

  Sloane smiled. She laid her hand on his chest.

  Galen covered her hand with his and pressed her hand across his pec. Then he kissed the top of her head and sat up. “Come on, then. Off with you. I’ve bookkeeping to do.” He took her hand and pulled her to her feet, then tugged her along behind him to the door. He reached for the doorknob, but before he opened it, he paused and gave her a brotherly kiss on the forehead.

  That was the thing Sloane would not abide. Adam used to do that to her, kiss her forehead like she was his sister and then skip off to another night out with the boys. Sloane hated it so much that she impulsively grabbed Galen by the front of his shirt and pulled him down to her as she rose up on her tiptoes and kissed him. She pressed her tongue against his lips until he relented and opened his mouth, his tongue meeting hers. She pressed her body against his, her breasts into his chest, and swirled her tongue around his.

  Galen sank into her. His arms went around her back and he angled his head, and goddammit, Sloane kissed him. Her fingers were in his hair, her lips sliding across his, and she slid her hand down to his hips, and pressed him into her. It was one of the deepest, most sensual kisses she’d ever experienced. Her body was revving up, and she was ready to yank her clothes off—

  But Galen took her head between his hands and pressed his forehead to hers, ending it. “That stunt just cost you another hundred and fifty pounds.”

  “Nope. You said if I kiss you, it’s free, remember?” she breathlessly reminded him.

  “Aye, but again, that kiss was too good for free. Since you started it, I’ll give you a bargain price of fifty quid.” He turned her around and opened the door, giving her a gentle push out.

  “Galen?” Sloane whirled around before he could shut the door. “Do you think, given that we are still pretending for another week, that we might…you know.” She gestured between the two of them. “Do it?”

  His eyes rounded with surprise. “Have you no’ heard a word, then? No. It’s no’ a good idea for pretend.” He started to close the door, but then he lowered his head and pointed at her and said, “Maybe. I willna promise anything but aye, maybe.” He closed the door.

  Sloane grinned at the closed door. Maybe definitely meant yes. She whirled around and fairly bounced down the little flagstones to the road. She paused before stepping out onto the shoulder to walk back to her cottage and took in a deep breath. Good God, it was beautiful here. So clean, so pristine. Scotland, she thought as she marched up the road, was beginning to grow on her.

  Chapter Nine

  The hired motor coach sounded as if it was missing a gear or some other major part as it rattled up the road into Gairloch and squealed to a halt at the bus terminal. Sloane was waiting with Mr. Beattie, who had volunteered to collect her friends and their luggage and convey them to the cottage in what he called a lorry, but Sloane called a peanut of a van. There was no way that thing was going to carry four grown women and their luggage.

  “Aye, it will,” Mr. Beattie said calmly, and popped the hood of the lorry to adjust a belt or something beneath it.

  Paige was the first of Sloane’s friends to get off the bus. She was wearing cigarette jeans, a sleeveless white silk blouse, a leather jacket, and wedges. Her dark hair was pulled back in a sleek ponytail and her oversized dark glasses covered most of her face. She had a Hermes bag slung over one arm. Apparently, her mother had finally given in and handed over the bag. Sloane wasn’t surprised. Paige could be very convincing when she wanted. She looked like a Hollywood star stepping off that bus. Which, Sloane guessed, was exactly the look Paige was going for.

  Right behind her was Victoria. Tori, as they often called her, was the athlete among them. Of course she was wearing form-fitting running pants to showcase her excellent body. She had on running shoes, an expensive warm up jacket, and a ball cap pulled low over her eyes. Her Louis Vuitton bag looked out of place with the rest of her outfit. Her strawberry blonde hair was also pulled into a long ponytail that stuck out the back of her cap. If Sloane knew Tori, she’d run as soon as she could find a road.

  Last, but not least, was Dylan, the Bohemian among them. She wasn’t as thin as Paige or Tori and prided herself on a natural diet of unprocessed tree bark and goat horns. Well, maybe not that exact diet, but when she began to talk about whole foods, that’s what Sloane heard. Dylan was wearing a long knit skirt and Converse shoes, a long silky top, and a long sweater over that. None of it really matched, but then, nothing ever matched on Dylan. She claimed that was her fashion aesthetic. Privately, Sloane and Paige worried she might be colorblind. Her light brown hair hung wild and curly around her shoulders, held back from her face with a silk scarf. She had a utilitarian backpack and her yoga mat strapped onto her back.

  Dylan was the first to see Sloane and shrieked, waving at her.

  “Hey,” Sloane said. She had donned black slacks, a white shirt and a pink cashmere cardigan for the occasion. “You guys made it.”

  “I don’t know how,” Paige said. She towered above Sloane in her high wedges. “We’ve been on a bus for hours—for this? Is this it?” she asked, taking off her shades and looking around. “Where the hell is this?”

  “You’re in Gairloch,” Sloane said.

  Paige blinked. “This is it? This is the Scotland you just had to see? You have to be kidding, Sloane. Jesus, we could have been in Edinburgh.”

  “Nope, not kidding. This is Gairloch. And I think it’s charming,” she said as she hugged Paige.

  “Oh, it is,” Dylan said enthusiastically.

  “It’s charming, I’ll agree,” Tori said carefully. “But I also agree with Paige—there doesn’t seem to be much here.” Tori was a master at walking a fine line between Paige and Sloane. She’d been doing it since they were twelve years old.

  “And that, girls, is the beauty of this place,” Sloane said cheerfully. “Come on, let’s get your bags. Mr. Beattie is going to take us up to the cottage.”

  The amount of luggage crammed into the little cottage was staggering, especially when one considered that only three of the four women were the culprits—Dylan always traveled light. They had to walk around the mountain of bags as they tromped about, checking out the cottage, the sleeping arrangements, and the tragically tiny bathroom. “There’s no bathtub!” Paige shouted from inside the bathroom. She came out, hands on hips, and glared at Sloane. “What the fuck, girlfriend? This place is so small! You know I need a bathtub.”

  “You’ll live,” Sloane said airily.

  “I love this mirror,” Tori said, admiring herself in a long, rectangular mirror at the entrance. “I am so skinny.”

  Paige rolled her eyes and plopped down in the chair and stacked her wedge-clad feet on the coffee table. “I can’t imagine what we’re going to do. I’m already bored. Why are we here again?”

  “It’s the Highlands,” Sloane said
. “It’s Jamie Fraser. Where’d you think I was going to find him?”

  “Silly me, I thought we’d find him in Edinburgh or Glasgow,” Paige sniffed. “At a decent restaurant with a decent bar.”

  “Yeah…” Sloane winced a little. “I might as well tell you now that Gairloch is a little short on fine dining choices.”

  “Adam is going to freak out,” Tori said as she adjusted her jacket in the mirror.

  That struck Sloane as an odd thing to say, and she looked up at Tori. “Freak out about what?”

  “This place,” Tori said.

  Sloane laughed. Tori was jetlagged. “Hello? Earth to Tori! How the hell would Adam know?”

  Tori looked at Sloane’s reflection in the mirror. And then she whirled around and pointed at Dylan. “Goddammit, Dylan, you were supposed to tell her.”

  A sliver of panic slipped down Sloane’s spine. The kind that made her want to throw up. “What’s going on?”

  “I was going to,” Dylan said testily. “Just give me a minute.”

  “No minutes left, chica,” Paige said.

  Dylan looked at Sloane as if she were afraid Sloane was about to haul off and hit her. “Okay, so. Remember that day you called? And I kept trying to tell you something, but you’d found Jamie Fraser and you wouldn’t let me talk?”

  “No, I don’t remember that,” Sloane said accusingly. “I let you talk. I let you say whatever you wanted to say.”

  “Not really,” Dylan said. “What I was trying to tell you was that I ran into Adam. Well, actually, he ran into me, because he’d come to your place to look for you, and I was there because, you know—I had that class and I was using your apartment because it is so much closer. You said it was all right—”

  “Yes, yes, it’s all right. So?” Sloane demanded, gesturing for Dylan to get on with it.

  “So…Adam and I had a couple of drinks, and he was telling me about this new job he got at DuPont working in community outreach. You know, community outreach is a misnomer. It’s not really community, and it’s not really outreach—”

  “Dylan, tell her,” Tori insisted as she fished in her purse and pulled out a tube of mascara.

  “Okay, okay,” Dylan said. “So anyway, he started talking about you, and how much he missed you, and what a mistake he’d made.”

  The sliver of panic ballooned like a blowfish inside Sloane. “What are you talking about?” She was a tiny bit thrilled and completely mortified—and all she could see was Galen in her mind’s eye.

  “So, anyway,” Tori said, swirling her mascara wand at Dylan before turning back to the mirror and leaning in close to apply a fresh coat.

  “He asked how you were, and I said, great, you were fine,” Dylan continued. “And then he asked where you were, and I said Scotland, and I told him how we were all coming to join you.”

  “Hold on to your seat, this is where it gets good,” Paige said.

  “Oh, come on, Paige,” Dylan protested. “He seemed so earnest and sincere.”

  “What the hell is happening right now?” Sloane shouted at the ceiling.

  “He’s coming,” Dylan said apologetically, and bit her lower lip.

  Sloane gaped at her. “What?”

  “I know, I know!” Dylan cried. “I should never have invited him—”

  “You invited him?” Sloane shouted.

  “Okay everybody be calm,” Dylan said, holding her hands out, palms down.

  “What the fuck did you do, Dylan?” Sloane demanded, all semblance of a proper response out the damn window.

  “Sloane, Sloane, Sloane.” Dylan lurched forward, grabbing her hands before Sloane could wrap them around her neck. “You were so hurt when he broke off the engagement, and you haven’t been with anyone since—”

  “Not true,” Sloane said sharply and yanked her hand free. “What about the guy at my cousin’s wedding?”

  “Oh my God, he doesn’t count,” Dylan said sternly. “Listen—Adam was so obviously sorry and regretful, and when I told him about this trip, he lit up like a Christmas tree.”

  “Did you tell him the reason for this trip? Did you mention Jamie Fraser?” Sloane demanded.

  “No. Because he reminded me that you were supposed to get married this month—”

  “Oh my God,” Sloane said and batted Dylan’s hand away.

  “He just wants to come and say he’s sorry. He really looked and sounded like the old Adam.”

  “No,” Sloane said. “No, no.” Her heart was slamming against her ribs. The last person she wanted to see was Adam.

  “It’s too late,” Paige said. “He’s on his way.”

  Sloane looked from Paige’s exasperated expression, to Tori’s sympathetic expression, to Dylan’s smiling, hopeful expression. “When?”

  “Tomorrow,” Dylan said.

  Sloane fell onto the couch, then slowly tipped over until she was lying face down. This was overwhelming news. She was not ready to deal with Adam. Not here, not in Scotland. He would ruin everything. Just when she was beginning to feel like her old self again, too. Just when she’d finally gotten past wanting Adam to want her.

  “Don’t be sad.” Dylan’s hands were on her arms, pulling her up. “So what if he pays an exorbitant amount of money to fly over here at the last minute to tell you he was wrong and he wants you back? Think how satisfying it will be to tell him to take a hike?”

  “What about the purpose of this trip?” Sloane said. “I’ve met someone!”

  “Ooh, yes, Jamie Fraser,” Tori said gleefully.

  “Look,” Paige lifted one long leg from the coffee table, and then the other, and planted her feet on the ground. She leaned forward and braced herself against her knees to address Sloane. “Let the asshole come all this way to make some big proclamation. And let him see that you have moved on with a hunky Highlander. It will have cost him a hell of a lot of money, which is great. You can’t kick him in the shin, but you can kick him in the wallet. Now can we stop talking about Jackass Adam? Where’s the hunk?”

  Sloane slumped against the back of the couch. “At the pub.”

  “A pub,” Paige said and stood up. “I like him already.”

  “I want to meet him,” Dylan said.

  “Me, too,” Tori said, raising her hand. “And I’m starving. Is there any food there?” she asked as she moved toward the mountain of luggage.

  “Sandwiches.”

  “Ohmigod.” Tori paused and sighed. “Is there a vegetable? Maybe a piece of fruit? A salad?” she asked as she pulled one large piece of luggage toward one of the bedrooms.

  Dylan settled in next to Sloane. “I’m so sorry, Sloane,” she said softly. “I thought you’d be happy. I mean, I know how much you loved Adam and really wanted him back.”

  “I did, Dylan. Past tense,” Sloane said curtly.

  “Really? Because you haven’t liked anyone we’ve found for you.”

  Sloane stared at her friend. “You do realize that one of them was only interested in drafting me into his protein powder distribution network, right?”

  “I’m sorry,” Dylan said again, a little abashedly. “Look, don’t worry about Adam. He seemed kind of desperate, to be honest.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I don’t mean it like that,” Dylan said.

  “You have to get rid of him, Dylan. You have to call him off. You have to.”

  “All right,” Dylan said. “I’ll email him and tell him not to come.”

  Sloane stared at her.

  “I will, I will,” Dylan promised.

  It took an hour for all of them to decide what to wear for an evening out. Paige emerged in a miniskirt and heels and a form-fitting sweater. Tori had changed into skin-tight jeans and leather boots, also with heels. Dylan didn’t bother to change from her long knit skirt, and while Sloane rummaged through her clothes, she decided to stick with what she had on.

  “Okay, how are we getting to the pub?” Tori asked.

  “We’re walking,” Sloane said.
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  “Walking!” Tori and Paige cried in unison and exchanged a look of horror. “I’m wearing heels,” Paige said, gesturing with both hands to her feet.

  “Try not to be ugly Americans, okay? We’re in Scotland now.”

  “Honey, I couldn’t be an ugly American if I tried,” Paige said and gave her ponytail a dramatic toss. “Let’s go blow the lid off this pub.”

  How interesting, Sloane thought, as they began to make their way—slowly, every step a complaint that a shoe would be ruined—that not two weeks ago, she had been just as miffed about the lack of transportation as Paige and Tori were tonight. Now, she kind of liked the idea of walking everywhere. She wished she could be walking on the beach this very moment, trying to make sense out of this thing with Adam.

  Since when was he sorry? Since when did he think he’d made a mistake? And why the hell would he come all the way to Scotland? He couldn’t wait for her to come back? Dylan seemed to think it was some grand romantic gesture, but Sloane smelled a big, fat rat.

  As they neared the pub, the music and low din of voices drifted up to them. They paused in the yard to survey the array of bicycles and motorbikes, three or four cars…and the goats that were mowing down the weeds that had sprung up out of yesterday’s rain. Sloane was set to move on, but her three friends seemed reluctant to pass the goats.

  “I don’t understand,” Tori said.

  “They’re goats,” Dylan said.

  “I know they are goats, Dylan,” Tori said. “But why are they here?”

  “Good question,” Sloane said. “Sometimes it’s cows. Sometimes it’s sheep.”

  “Oh my God,” Tori whimpered. “Where are we?”

  “I like it,” Dylan said and squatted down next to a goat, which promptly head butted her shoulder and toppled her over. Her three friends squealed with shock; Sloane shouted at the goat as Paige and Tori awkwardly helped Dylan up.

  There was no hesitation after that; they rushed to the door before the goats could attack. Tori threw the door open and the four of them crowded in, shutting the door firmly behind them.