The Perfect Bargain

by Jessa McAdams

  “Ach, come,” he said with a wave of his hand. Surprisingly, the words and sentiment came easy to Galen. He must be really knackered, because it suddenly seemed much easier to bring Sloane and her rich American friends along than it did to talk her out of it. And honestly? Galen sort of liked the idea of her coming on Sunday. He sort of liked the idea of hanging out with her. He pushed a strand of her loose hair behind her ear. “Come and meet them all. My mum will be chuffed to meet you and your friends. All the way from America? She might even hang your picture near the hearth.”

  Sloane looked skeptical. “Are you sure?”

  Was he sure? Galen looked at those green eyes. That shirt buttoned up to her throat. “I’m sure,” he said, and curiously, he was. He didn’t know what he was doing or where this could possibly go, and frankly, he didn’t even know what exactly he was sure about. But he was sure about Sunday.

  “It’s just that you said—”

  “Aye, I know what I said.” He ran his finger along her chin, his gaze drifting to her bosom. “It will all be over soon enough, aye? In the meantime—we might as well have a wee bit of fun.”

  She smiled and stepped closer, so that they were touching. “When you put it that way, who could resist? Let’s have some fun.”

  “It willna be fun for you, lass,” he said as she slid her hand up his chest. “Only for me. This goes far beyond our agreement. Since you’ve managed to get yourself invited, I intend to make you work for it.”

  “Whatever you say, Braveheart,” she said and slid her hand around his nape.

  “I say you’ll work, and there’ll be no sitting for your tea and crumpets behind my back.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it.” She pulled his head down and kissed him.

  Galen savored that kiss, the soft press of her tongue against his, the plushness of her lips. He ran his arms around her waist, put a hand to her hip and squeezed as he pressed her into him.

  “Thank you for being a good guy,” Sloane murmured between kisses.

  “I’m no’ a good guy,” he reminded her. “It’s a job.”

  “Right,” she said, but she wasn’t really listening. She was too busy sliding another hand into the waist of his jeans.

  “How are you going to break up with me if I’m a good guy?”

  “I don’t know,” she mused languidly and drew his earlobe in between her teeth. “You don’t cheat, so that’s out.”

  She moved to his throat, lingering there a moment. With every touch of her mouth, every caress of her hand, his blood was heating, flowing faster in his veins.

  “I’ll say I can’t abide the pub life.”

  “But you’re in my pub more than anyone,” he said, and kissed her, hard, running his hands up her spine, and one around to her breast. “You aspire to be a barmaid, remember?”

  “Okay. I’ll say you’re in Scotland and I’m in America.”

  “Aye, but you could live anywhere and do what you do.” He bent his head, teased her neck with his teeth.

  “You’re making it really hard to think,” she said, bending her head to give him better access.

  “You started the fire, aye? You best think of something. You have a week.”

  She laced her fingers with his. “Then you better shut up and take me home, mister. We’re running out of time.”

  He grinned. “Bloody hell, what a randy lass you are,” he said with a laugh. He squeezed her hand, then let go and put his arm around her, whistled for his dog, and began to walk up the hill with his pretend woman to his house.

  Chapter Eleven

  The sun was up when Galen leaned over Sloane, kissed her shoulder and gave her a playful shove. “Do you mean to loll about all day? The day’s wasting.”

  Sloane grabbed his wrist. “Let it waste,” she murmured, tugging him down to her as she pulled back the warm wool blanket on his bed. “Come back, it’s still early.”

  “Mmm,” he said and trailed a line of kisses down her side. Her skin tingled under each kiss, just as it had last night when he’d kissed his way down between her legs then had languidly licked her until she’d come apart at the seams. And then he’d slipped inside her, rocking until she completely disintegrated. It was a miracle there was anything left of her at all.

  He paused, leaning over the bed and squinting at something beside her. “What’s this, then? Did you eat biscuits in my bed?”

  Sloane felt around the sheets, her fingers brushing against crumbs of a sleeve of shortbreads she’d eaten last night. She really liked them. “I told you I was hungry and you said to help myself.”

  He laughed and braced himself above her, kissing her. “Come on then, out of bed, little piggy. I’ve really got to work,” he muttered against her skin. “And your friends will wonder what’s become of you.”

  “Fuck ’em,” Sloane said lazily, threading her fingers through his hair.

  Galen laughed. He playfully slapped his hand against her bare hip. “Get up now. If you donna, I’ll send Molly in to rouse you properly.”

  The thought of a wet snout against her naked back prompted Sloane to yank the blanket up and burrow into the pillows. She felt Galen’s hand stroke her hair. “Suit yourself. Let yourself out,” he said. “No more biscuits.”

  “No problem. I ate them all.”

  She heard him laugh as he walked out of the bedroom. And then he was gone, his presence evaporating and cool Highland air sinking into the space where he’d just been. Sloane didn’t like that feeling.

  She got up and dressed in the clothes she’d worn last night. She smiled at herself in the mirror above his sink. Her makeup was smudged. That was something she would never do in Chicago. She wouldn’t dream of going to bed without washing her face and flossing and brushing and putting lotion on her limbs. She wiped the smudges away as best she could, looked around for a comb and couldn’t find one, so she used her fingers to comb through her hair.

  She stepped outside of his house. The chairs were still in his garden. They’d sat there last night, Molly curled between them, sipping whisky under blankets and stargazing. They’d talked about movies and books, music and old flames. Sloane couldn’t really remember how she’d ended up straddling his lap, but remembered thinking how bold she was, how she’d never been like that. She remembered how he’d slid his hand between them and stroked her until she lost herself in him. And then he’d picked her up with her legs wrapped around his waist and had walked her into his bedroom for more.

  Sloane sighed with contentment. She could see Molly down on the beach, her tail high, her nose to the ground. The sun was warm on Sloane’s skin, the air crisp and salty. She hugged herself and, with her eyes closed, tilted her face up to the sun. She had never, in her twenty-six years, had sex like she was having in this little Highland village. She’d never ridden this sort of pony. It was all so delicious. All of it. The sea, the scenery, the man. It was all those transcendent things her friends had talked about. At last, Sloane got it.

  She was in a great mood, obviously, and decided to walk down to the little bakery and buy scones for everyone. She was determined to get some new walking shoes. She wished she could walk more in Chicago like she had here, but she was always in a rush, always needing to be somewhere faster than her feet could get her there.

  The scent of fresh-baked bread wafted out of the bakery when she opened the door.

  “Be with you shortly!” someone called from the back.

  Sloane moved to the case of pastries and bent down to have a look. She heard the clerk come out of the back room and stood up, all smiles. It was the red-haired girl from the pub who was in love with Galen. Sloane felt awkward. And for some strange reason, a little guilty, as if she’d stolen Galen from her.

  “What can I get you?” the girl asked in a sweet lilting brogue.

  “Umm…how are you?” Sloane asked.

  The girl shrugged. “Well enough.”

  Sloane nodded. She felt as if the events of last night were written on her face a
nd wondered if the redhead had been at the pub and had seen her with Galen. Sloane had been so preoccupied with her friends and Reeny that she hadn’t really noticed who else was there. “I’m Sloane, by the way,” she blurted. “I’ve seen you at the Black Thistle.”

  “Aye,” the redhead said, and her gaze flicked over Sloane’s rumpled clothes, smudged make-up, and uncombed hair. “I’m Maread. What would you like?”

  “Scones,” Sloane said brightly, glad to have something else to say. “A half dozen, please. Whatever you have,” she said, and gestured to the glass case.

  Maread bent down to gather the scones. “Nice morning for a donner, aye?”

  “A what?”

  Maread straightened and looked Sloane in the eye. “A walk. Were you walking the beach?”

  There it was—something in Maread’s expression that told Sloane she knew exactly where she’d been last night. “A little,” she said vaguely.

  Maread began to put the scones into a white paper bag.

  This lovely woman was better suited for Galen than Sloane could ever be. She imagined Maread and Galen in the pub, living their Scottish lives, tending their business, and speaking in brogues and drinking whisky and ale. She imagined red-headed children playing with the goats, and family strolls on the beach at sunset.

  Of course Galen would eventually marry someone like Maread. To have thought otherwise was…

  It was ridiculous. And it was strangely painful.

  And still, after last night, it was all she could think about. She could imagine making a home in his cozy little house. She could imagine taking Molly for long walks every day. She could imagine learning to cook something Scottish…okay, learning to cook at all. Cooking seemed like it would be fun if there were someone to cook with and cook for.

  So absurd.

  First, Sloane’s parents would have an unmitigated fit if she left Chicago for some backwater Highland village. And what about her work with the board and non-profits? What about the goals she’d set for herself? Would she ever really walk away from all that?

  Maread handed the bag of scones to Sloane.

  “Do you have any clotted cream?” Sloane asked.

  “Aye,” Maread said and disappeared into the back.

  Sloane looked out the window onto the main street. People were beginning to move about on this cloudless, summer morning. The denizens of Gairloch were going about their lives. Sloane wished she were one of them. But she wasn’t.

  Maread returned and placed a container of cream next to the bag. “You’ve had friends come from America as well, have you no’?” Maread asked as she began to ring up the scones and cream.

  Sloane blinked with surprise. “How did you know?”

  “Oh, Ned,” Maread said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “He’s our town crier, he is. I suppose we’ll meet your friends at Mrs. Buchanan’s, aye?”

  “You’ll be there, too?” Sloane asked uncertainly.

  The disdain seemed to roll off of Maread and fill the little shop. “We’ll all be there,” she said matter-of-factly.

  Who was all? And why was Sloane imagining villagers with scythes and pitchforks? “Great. That sounds like fun.” No, it didn’t. It sounded like the worst possible thing that could happen. She slid her money across the counter and picked up the scones and cream. “See you Sunday,” she said with a cheer she most definitely did not feel.

  The girls were up and hungry when Sloane appeared with the scones.

  “Where have you been?” Tori demanded as she dove into the bag.

  “I know where she’s been,” Dylan said with a laugh. “Did you have a good night, Sloane?”

  “Leave me alone,” Sloane said. But she was smiling.

  “I hired a car,” Paige announced. “I had to walk down to that cute little hotel on the highway to do it.”

  “A car?” Sloane said. “For what?”

  “Don’t be offended,” Paige said casually, which usually meant that Sloane would be offended. “But we want to get out of here and do some sightseeing.”

  “Today?”

  “Yes, today. Right away, in fact,” Paige said. “Here’s the thing—this cottage is too small for all four of us for any extended period of time.”

  “Not for me,” Dylan said. “I love this place. It feels magical,” she added as she smeared cream on her scone. “I went down to the beach this morning at sunrise and practiced my yoga and I could feel the magic.”

  “Dylan, please,” Tori said through a mouthful of scone. “You feel magic on the shores of Lake Michigan in the dead of winter.”

  “This is true,” Dylan agreed.

  “Come on,” Paige said, and tousled Sloane’s hair. “Let’s get out of here. But you should shower first. You’re reminding us all that you are having a lot more fun than we are.”

  “Well it is my Jamie Fraser trip,” Sloane reminded her. “Jealous?”

  “Yes,” Paige said. “I don’t know how you did it, but that guy is hot.”

  Sloane giggled and stood up. “Dylan, did you get through to Adam?” she asked.

  “I sent a text last night,” Dylan said. “I’m sure he got it—he’s never without his phone. But I can’t check for a reply until we have cell service.”

  …

  Despite her friends’ best efforts to extract the details from her, Sloane remained coy about Galen. She realized she couldn’t very well gush and then suddenly break up with him next week. She still hadn’t figured out how, exactly, she was going to manage that break-up. The whole plan seemed so weird to her now. Maybe because she’d never actually expected to feel things.

  Fortunately, they were first distracted by driving on the left—Tori proved to be the best at it—and then enamored with Cawdor Castle—which they stumbled upon accidentally—and forgot to grill her about Galen.

  In the village of Nairn, Sloane bought some proper walking shoes. Paige and Tori proclaimed them hideous. Dylan was concerned that they were made of manmade rubbers. “Some child in Taiwan is making that material, you know,” she lectured.

  They arrived back at Gairloch, tired but happy, chattering about Paige’s idea to visit the Isle of Skye. The girls were warming up to the Highlands. But as they turned up the drive to their little cottage, Tori said, “Uh-oh,” and pointed to a suitcase just outside the gate.

  Sloane’s heart sank—she’d know that mossy green Tumi suitcase anywhere. Sure enough, as Tori parked the car, Adam appeared, walking out of the garden. He was wearing jeans rolled at the ankles and loafers without socks. He had on a Ralph Lauren polo sweater and a checkered shirt underneath. His neatly trimmed black hair and clean-shaven face and rectangular glasses made him look too hip for the Highlands. A fish out of water. A Sassenach, as Galen would say.

  He lifted a hand and waved at them. Tori waved back.

  “How did he find it?” Sloane demanded.

  “I may or may not have sent him a screen shot of a map,” Dylan said, averting her gaze away from Sloane. “But before we left. Definitely before we left.”

  “Shit,” Sloane said. “Shit, shit, shit,” she added, pounding her fist against the back of Paige’s headrest.

  Paige twisted around in her seat. “Look, just make him grovel and send him on his way.”

  “He’s not one of your boyfriends, Paige,” Sloane said.

  “Hey, that was uncalled for,” Paige said with a sniff.

  Adam was moving toward the car, bending to one side to better see in.

  “No, she’s right, Sloane,” Dylan said. “You didn’t ask him to come here, I did. You don’t owe him anything.”

  “He’s not staying here, is he?” Tori asked as he bent down next to Paige’s window and waved, as if they might somehow have missed him. “This cottage is small enough as it is.”

  “Oh come on, I’m not that dumb,” Dylan said. “Not a word from you, Paige,” she quickly added. “Adam said he would book a room at the local hotel. I think the one with the restaurant.”

&nb
sp; “Great,” said Paige, turning her head away from Adam. “Now where are we supposed to eat?”

  “Well, one of you can take him over there and drop him off,” Sloane said curtly. “I don’t want to talk to him.”

  Adam cupped his hands around his face and peered in. He was saying something, his words muffled by the glass.

  Sloane slid down deep into the back seat.

  “So what are you going to do, Sloane?” asked Tori. “Sit in the car all night? I mean he’s right there,” Tori said, pointing at him.

  Adam knocked on the passenger window.

  “What is he doing?” Sloane groused.

  “I think he wants in,” Paige said.

  “Great. Fine. I’ll deal with it.” Sloane threw open the door of the car and got out. Her friends quickly followed suit, scrambling past Adam with a quick hello as they made a break for the cottage.

  “Wow,” Adam said, watching them disappear inside. He looked back at Sloane. “I wasn’t expecting a warm reception, but I didn’t think it would be that bad.”

  Sloane stood at the trunk of the car, her arms crossed over her chest, and Adam at the head of the car, his hands shoved into his tight skinny jeans. She hated those jeans, she realized. She liked the jeans that Galen wore. Not too tight, worn in all the right places. “Fancy seeing you here. On my vacation. Where you weren’t invited.”

  “Surprise,” he said, and smiled, and Sloane remembered how his smile was the first thing to catch her eye. “You look great, Sloane. Really great.”

  She glanced down at her prim slacks and cardigan sweater. And her new walking shoes. She felt stupid in them now. Why did she feel stupid? Because he looked like he’d just come surfing out of a glossy GQ ad? Because he was here to remind her that she didn’t walk everywhere and she wore cardigans and she always accompanied her parents to their charity events?

  “Look.” He pulled his hands from his pockets and held one up. “I know I have a lot of explaining to do—”

  “Ya think?” Sloane scoffed.

  “Do you think we could go in and sit down? I’ve been traveling all day and I’m beat.”

  “No.”