“Maybe get a coffee,” he suggested.
“I only have instant. We can talk right here. Why did you come, Adam? What is the point? What sort of head game are you trying to play with me?”
“I’m not,” he said, and seemed truly appalled that she would think that. He moved forward. “Sloane, baby—”
“Don’t call me that. Never call me that,” she warned him.
Adam nodded. But he kept moving toward her, slowly advancing until he could reach for her hand and tug it free of the grip she had of herself. “I don’t expect you to welcome me with open arms, or understand. I just hope you’ll listen to me. I came to say I’m sorry. That I miss you. I came to beg you to give me a chance to say a few things.”
Three weeks ago, Sloane would have been dying to hear what he had to say. But now? She couldn’t care less. She’d discovered things about herself in the last couple of weeks, and one of those things was that she didn’t need Adam to like her any more. She realized how freeing that was. She suddenly loved her walking shoes again. “I don’t want to talk about things. Especially not on my vacation. Why would you ever think it was okay to crash it? I mean, who does that?”
“Well…Dylan indicated that she thought you missed me, too, and she thought it would be okay. She said she’d tell you—”
“Since when does Dylan speak for me?”
Adam gave her a look.
“Okay, okay, whatever,” Sloane said, and pulled her hand free of him and waved him off. She didn’t care to recall how many times she’d asked Dylan to speak to Adam for her. At the time, Sloane had been so stung that she’d been overly concerned with appearing uptight and unapproachable. Dylan was so warm and friendly and everyone loved her, and she’d been so eager to help Sloane in any way she could. Sloane resolved right then and there to never be afraid to be herself again.
“So I guess you broke up with the debutante, huh?”
“This isn’t about her—”
“Did you?” she demanded.
He pressed his lips together a moment. “Yes.”
“Of course you did.” Sloane stepped around him and walked to the cottage.
“Sloane? Sloane!” Adam said, and followed her.
The girls, who had clearly been at the window watching, scrambled when Sloane threw open the door and marched in.
Adam was right behind her. “Sloane, we were good together. We were so good.”
“Then why did you leave?” Sloane asked. “Why did you end our engagement if things were so good?”
“Because things weren’t right. Something went off the rails, and I know I put a lot of it on you—”
“All of it, as I recall,” she said bitterly.
“Not all,” he said calmly. “But I can see now that I was spoiled. It really was all my fault. I get that now.”
Sloane hated Adam in that moment. She’d longed to hear him say that it wasn’t her. She’d had dreams that he begged her to forgive him, only to wake up and face another day of not fully understanding what had happened. And he chose now to set the record straight?
“Adam… God,” she said with a weary sigh. “I’ve moved on.”
Adam gave her a look of impatience. “Dylan says you rarely go out. That all you do is work.”
“First, I happen to like my work.” She made a mental note to remind Dylan she didn’t have to pass along everything she knew. “And I’ve met someone.”
Adam looked surprised. Too surprised. “You have? Since when?”
“Since here.”
“Here,” he repeated, as if he wasn’t sure exactly where here was.
“Yep.”
“You mean in Scotland?”
“Right here in Gairloch.”
“But you’ve only been here a couple of weeks, right?”
“That’s right. Met him at the get-go.”
Adam looked dubious, the bastard. “Okay,” he said after a moment. “All right. That’s great, Sloane. Good for you.”
“Thank you,” she said.
He nodded and adjusted his glasses. “So…I guess that since you’ve met someone, there really is no harm in talking through things, right? You know…for closure.”
“Closure. Adam, you dumped me. I had my dress! I had the venue!”
“And I’m here now, trying to tell you that I realize now how wrong I was. How blind, how fucking stupid—”
“Excuse me? Sloane? Adam?”
It was Paige. She had changed into jeans and a low cut top. “We were going down to the pub, right?” She was looking directly at Sloane.
“I don’t think—”
“No, really, Sloane. You really want to go to the pub right now,” Paige said authoritatively.
But Sloane didn’t want to go to the pub. She couldn’t spring Adam on Galen unawares. What Sloane wanted, what she really wanted, was to go up to that little cottage in the hills with the sheep and the horses and the crumbling fence and the sound of rain on the roof. She wanted to sit in the chairs outside Galen’s house and gaze out over the sea to the Isle of Skye and wave at bike groups as they went by.
But Paige had grabbed her wrist and was pulling her. “Come on, you have to change. We’re all starving.”
Chapter Twelve
The night with Sloane set Galen back on his heels.
Not only because of the sex, which was fantastic, but because it had all felt so natural and easy. It had felt…right.
That scared him a little.
He’d loved listening to her laugh at the things he said. He’d loved her observations about golf after he’d admitted that’s where he went some mornings, strapping a set of clubs to his back and riding out to a little course to play nine holes before work.
“What kind of sport is all about getting a low score, and then making even that impossible?” she’d asked. “Give me Putt-Putt any day.”
Sitting under the stars and sipping whisky, Galen had felt himself falling down a rabbit hole with Sloane, had heard himself opening up in ways that he had never in his life opened up to a woman. To anyone, for that matter.
He had told her how he’d been moved by how some bad decisions had led to his father’s property losses, and how that had driven him to become a solicitor, specializing in agricultural law. “I wanted to help farmers, but I knew as soon as I started practicing law that I’d taken on the wrong career. I hated being in court. I hated all the bloody paperwork. I realized what I’d loved about life with my da was the farming, aye?”
He confessed that one of his favorite films was Dazed and Confused. It was an old one, a silly one, but Sloane had gasped with delight and sat up. “I only came here to do two things,” she said, imitating a man as she quoted the movie. “Kick ass and drink some beer. And we’re out of beer.” They’d laughed like children.
And they’d made love, had utterly abandoned themselves in each other. They were a swirl of arms and legs and breath, their mutual pleasure in each other filling his ears and eyes and mouth. He’d loved being inside her, and had rediscovered the sexual stamina of a teenage boy, not that of the overworked, overburdened thirty-one year-old man he’d become.
Galen had thought about Sloane all day, trying to make sense of his growing infatuation, regard, attachment—whatever it should be called. She was a true breath of fresh air in his life, a bright spot in the days that had become all too routine. He tried to talk himself out of it, too.
As he’d worked on the refrigerator, he’d silently tried to convince himself that he was caught up in her scheme, nothing more. That he was having a laugh, enjoying a summer fling. How could it be more than that? He’d told himself to get hold of his thoughts, to rein them in. He’d applied all the arguments that usually worked to keep a woman at arm’s length, but this time, he kept coming back to the same thing – he liked Sloane. A lot. More than could ever be justified or was even reasonable after such a short acquaintance.
But then, he’d never felt quite this way about a woman.
Not quite this way.
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And then his raging ego rudely jolted him into understanding just how much he liked her and just how far he’d fallen down that rabbit hole when Sloane and her friends had arrived at the pub.
The place was full—the entire village seemed to have come out on this warm summer night. Galen could scarcely keep up with the demand for drinks, and at first, he hadn’t even noticed they’d come in, not until Paige appeared at the bar.
“Hey, Galen.” she said brightly.
“Ah, I was right. I knew that of all of you, you’d be the one to hurry back for a whisky.” He winked.
Paige smiled. “You’re very perceptive. And I’m going to need a lot of it. We have a new addition to our little American party,” she said, and put her hand on the arm of a man beside her. Galen looked at the bloke. He was definitely an American. A wealthy, urban, American from the look of it.
“This is Adam Fentress.”
That name stunned Galen. Sloane’s Adam was the last person he thought he might meet tonight, and his reaction was instant and fierce. He felt the swell of egotistical pride rise up in him like a storm tide.
“Hello,” Fentress said congenially, extending his hand across the bar to Galen.
“This is Galen,” Paige said. “Sloane’s boyfriend.”
“Boyfriend!” Ned had managed to pop up like a gopher the moment he spotted Paige. “Galen, ye devil. Ye’ve no’ said so.”
“Have a bevvy, Neddie,” Galen said, and poured him a whisky. “And for you, Mr. Fentress?” he asked, holding up the bottle of the cheap whisky Ned drank.
“Ah, no, thank you,” Fentress said, holding up his hand. “I’m not much of a drinker.”
A definite mark against him. What sort of man didn’t have a drink with the lads? “Aye, but you’re in Scotland now, lad. It’s the national law.” Galen poured a double shot of whisky that was certain to make the man’s belly spin with his head, and set it down before the slender American. As Fentress studied it, Galen saw Sloane walk in with the rest of her friends. She paused when her gaze met his, and she smiled. But she seemed…dark. Her eyes didn’t have the usual sparkle. She was wearing the yellow dress, her hair down around her shoulders and, he noticed, some impressive trainers on her feet, blindingly white in their newness. She walked over to the bar, sliding in next to Paige.
“Hey.”
“Hello, hen.” Galen leaned across the bar and kissed her, and the lass sighed with longing. Or was that him?
“What does hen mean?” Tori said behind Sloane.
Galen merely smiled. It was what his father had always called his mother. He’d never used that endearment with a woman, not until Sloane Chatfield had marched into his life and hogged his wifi. “You look bonny,” he said. “You look Scottish.”
Sloane’s smile deepened.
“Well,” Fentress said, maneuvering Paige out of the way so he could stand next to Sloane. A purely male move, a purely proprietary move. He angled his body toward Sloane and asked, “Where’d you two meet?”
“Where do you think?” Sloane asked, her gaze still on Galen.
“You didna mention more company,” Galen said. “You’ve doubled the population of Gairloch.”
“I’ve also doubled the consumption of whisky in this town. You should thank me. But I didn’t know I’d be having this much company,” she said, without looking at her ex.
“My bad,” Fentress said, lifting his hand. “I surprised her.” He smiled at Sloane as if she were his little sister. Fondly. Paternally.
“Lad, do you mind?” Galen asked. “I’d like a word with Sloane.”
“Oh. Sure. Don’t let me interfere,” Fentress said, and picked up the whisky Galen had poured him and followed Dylan and Tori to a table.
“What’s the hold up!” a patron shouted at Galen.
“Hold your horses!” Galen shot back.
Sloane touched his hand, and a tiny shock ran up his arm, straight to his heart. “I know how this must look—”
“Aye, it looks strange. But I canna speak now. The pub is full.” For once in his bloody life, the pub was full, and patrons were thirsty. “Go and join your friends now—I’ll find a moment to come say hello.” He moved down the bar to Bradley MacIntosh before the man helped himself to the whisky.
The next hour or so passed in a blur. Galen didn’t have enough hands. He tried to reach Reeny, but her phone rolled to voicemail. He could scarcely find a moment to breathe, and the few times he did, he caught sight of the Americans. They were seated around his best table, laughing together, knocking their pints together. Sometimes, he would see Fentress lean into Sloane, his dark head bent to say something in her ear. It made his gut twist.
The worst of it was that he could see them as a couple, her in her cardigans and pearls, and he in his skinny suits and ties.
Galen tried not to lose his good humor. This had all been for money, he reminded himself. But he knew it had gone well past that, and honestly? He didn’t want her fucking money.
At some point during the crush, he was at the end of the bar, gathering up ales to carry out to a table of octogenarians, when he turned about and almost knocked Sloane over with them.
“Give them to me,” she said, gesturing for the ales.
“Sloane, move aside. Can you no’ see how busy I am?”
“Yes. Everyone can see it. Give them to me, I’ll take them out. To the blue hairs?”
“To the what?”
“Q-tips,” she said, gesturing to her head. Galen had no idea what she meant. She rolled her eyes. “That table,” she said, pointing to the six of them.
“This is no’ the time,” he said, and tried to move past her.
“I’m trying to help, you stubborn mule. Why can’t you accept a little help?” She put both hands on the mugs he was holding in one, and pulled them free. When she had them situated in her hand, she said, “Now the rest. Don’t you have a tray? Most bars and restaurants pitch in for a couple of trays so they can carry more than one drink at a time.”
“Do you no’ understand by now that a Scottish pub has no use for fancy things?”
She smiled.
Old man Cameron was yelling at Galen for a pint; Galen reluctantly let go of the mugs and watched Sloane deliver them to the couples seated around that table. She said something that made them all smile as she handed out the mugs.
By the time he poured Cameron a drink, Sloane was back. “They want sandwiches now. I’ll just stick my head in there and tell Lazlo.”
“You donna have to do this,” he said. “Go back to your friends.”
“I don’t want to go back to my friends. I would much rather help you, and God knows you need me. No argument from you, Braveheart,” she quickly added when he opened his mouth to respond. He was going to say thank you, but she didn’t give him the opportunity; she disappeared into the back. When she returned, she was carrying two baskets of sandwiches with crisps on one arm. “You know you should really consider a pass through where that old mirror is,” she said, pointing with a red basket.
“You intend to haver about structural changes now?” he asked in disbelief as he handed her two whiskies.
“Maybe now in the moment you’ll see the brilliance in my ideas.”
“Now is the moment I see empty glasses all around. The couple in the very back, aye?” he said, and handed her the drinks.
“Aye, aye, captain,” she said, and with a wink, carried them out.
And so the night went, Sloane bringing in drink orders and carrying out sandwiches and pints. Galen had to admit, she was a big help. Her presence freed him to stay behind the bar and keep the drinks flowing. He was almost giddy with the thought that he might have made a decent bit of money this evening, which would mean two nights in a row he’d turned a bit of a profit. That had been unheard of in the last year.
When things at last began to settle, and people began to leave, Galen could breathe. He watched Sloane’s friends go out, but she stayed behind. She came around behind
the bar without asking and began to run hot water in the sink to wash the bar glasses that had stacked up during the rush.
Galen locked the door after the last patron left, then joined her behind the bar. “Let me do that,” he said. “I thank you for your help, but you should be with your friends.”
“That’s the second time tonight you’ve told me where I should be. Will you stop? I want to help. I feel responsible—my friends are sots and at least half of these glasses are theirs.”
Galen wrapped his fingers around her wrist to stop her.
“That’s not helping—”
“You’re avoiding your ex.”
Sloane didn’t say anything.
“Look at me,” Galen said.
With a sigh, she turned her head toward him, her pretty eyes on his.
“You’re avoiding him,” he said, and stroked her face with his knuckle. “Just as you’ve avoided the truth with your friends.”
She shrugged. “Maybe.”
He nodded. He twined his fingers with hers. “Why’s he come?”
A muscle in her jaw clenched. “Well, he says he wants to reconcile. That it was all his fault.”
Galen’s pulse ticked up. He felt his neck go cold, as if the blood had drained out of it.
“Likely story. And it doesn’t matter. I don’t want to.”
“Sloane—”
“I don’t, and for God’s sake, don’t tell me what I should do.” She yanked her wrist from his grip and began to wash glasses. “I know what you’re about to say, and I don’t want to hear it.”
“Aye, you’re right,” he said. “You donna want to hear that you canna keep pretending—”
She threw up a soapy hand to him. “Don’t.”
“Too late. I’ve said it. What is it you want, Sloane?”
“I want to help—”
Galen abruptly took her by the shoulders and made her face him. She wouldn’t look at him, so he slipped two fingers under her chin and forced her head up. Her green eyes were swimming in some emotion—frustration, hurt—he wasn’t sure. Whatever it was tugged at his heartstrings. “I’m asking, what do you want?”
She grimaced. She closed her eyes and rubbed her temples a moment. “I don’t know,” she said quietly.
The Perfect Bargain Page 14