The Perfect Bargain

by Jessa McAdams

  At the cottage, they all fell out of the car talking at once. Car doors slammed, and someone made a remark about getting the hell out of Gairloch. Sloane slowly backed away from them.

  “Hey, wait,” Tori said, noticing first. “Where are you going?”

  “There is something I have to do.”

  “No, no, don’t go,” Dylan said, and took a step toward her as if she feared Sloane intended to bolt.

  “I’ll be back in a few minutes.” Sloane turned, and before Dylan could reach her, she ran. She half expected them to follow her. Thankfully, the only thing that followed her was their shouting as she ran down the drive in her new sneakers.

  The pub was closed. There was no sign of life but the goats grazing under the creaking old metal sign. Sloane cupped her hands around her face and pressed them to the window to peer in, but everything was dark.

  Okay, she’d just go to his house. She started around the corner of the pub, but spotted Molly sunning herself outside the open back door. And then she heard the sound of breaking glass.

  She moved to the open door and saw Galen inside, methodically throwing empty beer bottles into the trash, one after the other, as hard as he could.

  “Hey,” she said.

  His head snapped up; his gaze swept over her, and then he tossed the bottle he held into the trash.

  “What’s going on with you?” she asked, stepping inside. “And what was that all about today?”

  Galen shrugged. “You know what it was. I did what you donna have the guts to do, Sloane.”

  “By telling everyone you’re going to marry me?” she exclaimed, flinging her arms wide.

  “Why the bloody hell did you agree to it?” he shouted back at her. “I gave you the out, aye? It’s so…ludicrous,” he said angrily. “Bloody hell, Sloane, you had no choice but to say no. Why’d you no’ take it?”

  Ludicrous. That word, so harsh in its judgment, pushed Sloane over the edge of her conflicting emotions. She didn’t even realize she’d hurled herself at him, her fists to his chest, until she hit him. She startled him, but he caught her and held her wrists.

  “Why is it ludicrous?” she shouted at him. “I thought you liked me, Galen! But maybe you just liked the sex.”

  He looked surprised. “I do like you,” he said, pushing her hands down. “And I bloody well like the sex, too.”

  “Then why do you say it’s ludicrous?” she asked, her voice rough with emotion.

  “Ah, lass.” He took her face in his hands. “We’ve known each other what, three weeks? You donna marry someone after three weeks.”

  “Be happy while you’re living for you’re a long time dead.”

  He stared at her.

  “It’s a Scottish proverb—”

  “I know what it is,” he said and smiled. “Have you been reading tea towels in the tourist shop?”

  “No, a plaque in the cottage—never mind.” She wrapped her hands around his wrists. “Am I completely wrong? Or is there something between us?”

  He sighed. “You’re no’ wrong.” He stroked her face, his eyes wandering over her. “You’re no’ wrong at all.”

  Sloane’s pulse quickened as hope rose in her, hope for something she’d never dreamed would happen when she came to Scotland. She tried to tamp it down. She knew how crazy it was, but this hope would not be banished—it actively fought her common sense. “Then why keep pretending?” she blurted. “I’m not saying let’s get married. But maybe we could just….date. We could say we’re in no hurry to set an official date and just see where this goes.”

  “Toward what end? This will never work,” he said, gesturing between the two of them. He let go of her and stepped away. “You live in America, or have you forgotten?”

  “I don’t have to. I can live anywhere.”

  “I donna want to be the one to keep you from your family and your job. I work long hours.”

  “I know. And so do I.”

  “You’d give up your job and God knows what else for a fantasy? We donna know if it would ever work, you and me.”

  “No one ever knows if it will work,” she argued. “But it could also be great, Galen. We could be partners.”

  “Partners?” He shook his head. “You’re too far gone in the fairy tale you’ve created.”

  “No, I’m not. And neither are you.” She reached for his hand and held it between both of hers. “In the last three weeks, for the first time in my life, I’ve been me. I haven’t once tried to be someone I’m not. I haven’t once tried to please anyone—least of all, you.”

  He smiled lopsidedly. “Very kind of you.”

  “You know what I mean. What I’m trying to say is that I’m completely myself with you. I don’t have to try and be something I’m not. Isn’t that the way it’s supposed to be?”

  “What, you’ll tell me that now you believe in love at first sight, will you?” he asked, twining his fingers with hers.

  “No,” she said, with a slight shake of her head. “But I believe in the feelings I have for you.”

  Galen didn’t speak. His gaze held hers as if he was waiting for a but.

  “I’m not giving up,” Sloane said. “I won’t break up. If you don’t have the same feelings as I do, then you can do it. But if you have even the tiniest bit of the same feelings, we could turn that awkward, backyard proposal into the longest non-engagement-while-we-date in the history of the Highlands.”

  Galen chuckled.

  Her heartbeat quickened—she was getting through to him.

  “Sloane…” He squeezed her hand, then cupped her face, running his thumb across her lip. “Listen to what you’re saying, will you?” he said softly. “Donna be a fool.”

  “A fool? Who’s the fool, Galen? Think about that.”

  He sighed. “This is nothing but a story you’ve created, lass. No matter that you’ve begun to believe in it, it’s still only a fantasy in the end, aye? I tried to give you the out and you wouldna take it—”

  “I don’t want to take it.”

  He sighed to the rafters. “Good God, but you’re making this bloody difficult.”

  “Do you really want me to take that out? To end everything that we’ve started? Don’t you think there is something worth exploring here?” she asked earnestly. Her heart was beating harder against her chest, trying to wrench free of the panic that was beginning to swallow her hope.

  “Maybe another time or place, lass. But no’ this time. I willna be at the ceilidh.”

  And just like that, Sloane’s heart lost its moorings and began to sink.

  He winced at her expression. “It’s bloody madness, lass. It’s time to end the game.”

  Panic had choked out all but a tiny shred of hope. Sloane abruptly pushed his hands from her face. She was inexplicably angry with him. “You keep telling me to unbutton. Why don’t you? Whoever said that relationships have to go a certain way? So what if ours is unconventional? What is it you’re afraid of, Galen? That you’ll fall in love? Is that it?”

  His expression darkened. “Donna make this any harder than it is. You donna belong in a village like this, where there is scarcely any wifi and even less of a nightlife. There’s no shopping, unless you want to dress in wellies and aprons, and no decent dining. There are more Neddies than Adams wandering about. You’re used to finer people and finer things, Sloane. And you sure as hell donna belong with a man who gave up everything for a pub he canna keep afloat.”

  “I could live here,” she said defensively. “I could help you—”

  “How can you help me?” he exclaimed. “By polishing the blinds? The pub needs more than that. It’s hard, dirty work, aye? There are days I lose money, and when I make a bit, it’s a wee bit. It seems romantic to you now, but what will you say in six months?”

  “Whatever,” she said, and whirled around, starting for the door. She didn’t believe he didn’t want the same thing. She refused to believe it. There was something strong between the two of them, something greate
r than a lack of wifi, and he knew it. By God, she wasn’t going to throw it away just because Adam had shown up, or because it had all happened so quickly. “I am going to that caylee, whatever it is.” She paused. “What is it?”

  “Ceilidh,” he said somberly. “A party.”

  “With a band? Whisky and all?”

  Galen nodded.

  “Good. I’m wearing a dress. And you…you can wear a kilt!”

  “I told you—”

  “I know what you told me that only walleyes or something wore kilts outside of weddings, but so what? Is that a rule? Did the Queen proclaim it so?” she said angrily. Galen was being worse than a walleye. He was being a total flounder.

  “Love—”

  “No,” she said sternly. “I’m not going to let you end it this way, Galen. You know as well as I do that there really is something special here. How many times do you think something like what we have will come along in your lifetime? You’re the one who said you were going to marry me in front of the whole damn village. You can finish it however you want, but I am going to be there, with or without you.”

  “Without me,” he said low.

  Sloane fled the pub then, unwilling to look back, certain if she did she would lose her resolve and her composure.

  By the time she reached the cottage, she could hardly breathe. She was on the verge of falling to her knees to drag air into her lungs. Or sob. Her emotions were roiling and the last person she wanted to see was Adam.

  Shit. Here he was. He walked out of the cottage as she came up the drive and waited for her just outside the garden walls, his hands in his pockets.

  “I was just leaving,” he said when she reached him.

  “Well…see you.”

  She started to pass him, but Adam caught her arm. “Sloane…don’t you want it back? What we had?” he asked, pulling her around to face him.

  What nightmare was this? Not five minutes ago she was practically begging a man for the possibility of a future, and now she had to deal with her past? She looked at Adam’s hand on her arm. He dropped it, and Sloane unthinkingly rubbed her arm where he’d touched her. “I did want it back,” she answered truthfully. “I never wanted it to end. You know that. But it did end.”

  “I know, and I owe you an apology,” he said, his voice rough. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. I was such a jerk.”

  “Jerk? You were a complete asshole,” she corrected him. “You broke my heart.”

  “Yeah.” He reached for her, but Sloane stepped back. “This is all I can do,” he said, casting his arms wide. “I’ve come all this way to make my plea, and I haven’t even told you about my new job.”

  She was confused—why did he think she would care about his job?

  “I’m the new community relations manager for DuPont,” he said. “We’re doing a lot of charitable endeavors this year, and I think…no, I know how much good you and I could do together.”

  This wasn’t making sense. Her emotions were too tattered to follow a conversation at that moment.

  “Think about it. DuPont, the Chatfield Foundation. I can see you and I working together to make things happen. We were always good like that, you know.”

  A warm, sickly feeling began to swirl in the pit of Sloane’s belly. It was all beginning to make sense. Adam didn’t want her back. He wanted the Chatfield name. He wanted to show DuPont the sort of connections he had. That was so like him, she realized. “We were never good like that,” she said calmly. “You never cared about my work.”

  “Sure I did. But what matters is that we can do it now,” he said, brushing aside her comment. “The point is that I love you, Sloane. I always have. Even if I’ve been an asshole, I never stopped loving you.”

  It was hard to hear those words now, after so desperately wanting to hear them for so long. “But I’m cold, remember?”

  “No, you’re not. That was me, making excuses.”

  “And I don’t excite you in bed, remember?”

  “That was more my issue than yours, trust me,” he said apologetically.

  “I didn’t have an issue, Adam, not until you gave me one. I tried everything, and you made me feel like a cold, dead fish. And now I am standing here wondering why I ever wanted any of that back.”

  Adam pressed his lips together as if he were trying to keep from saying something.

  “Go home, Adam,” Sloane said dispassionately.

  She moved to pass him, but Adam grabbed her and suddenly kissed her. He kissed her passionately, trying to arouse something in her.

  What he aroused was a memory of how much she had once loved this prick.

  And the recognition of how that desperate love didn’t come close to what she was beginning to feel for Galen.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The next two days flew by in a whirl of activity. There was indeed to be a ceilidh that Friday at the Black Thistle. Whether or not it would be Galen Buchanan’s engagement party remained to be seen, but the whole village was speculating.

  In the little cottage on the hill above the pub, the conversation was no less intense. The four women debated Sloane’s feelings and intentions endlessly after Adam left.

  On Tuesday night, in spite of Sloane’s private misgivings, the four of them had gone to the pub. Galen, with his tousled hair and misty eyes, had greeted her as if they’d never had that conversation in the back room. “Hello, hen,” he’d said, and kissed her, quite tenderly. “You’re still here, then?”

  “Yep,” Sloane said, still defiant, still clinging to hope. “I’m not going anywhere until you admit you’re wrong about us.”

  He’d tweaked her nose and said, “I’m no’ wrong, and you know it.” And then he’d gone about his work.

  Sloane managed to smile through that night, but privately, her heart was aching. Contrary to the playful couple they appeared to be, she could feel the shift in Galen, the distance building, brick by brick. She wasn’t going to let that happen. She insisted on helping him behind the bar. She told the regulars that he’d threatened to put a hammer in her hand so that she might repair the roof. He laughed and kissed her temple, and Sloane thought she saw things in his eyes. Warmth. Happiness. Affection.

  Or did she? Was she so desperate to see it that she was imagining it?

  Whatever the truth, she and Galen were locked in a silent battle of wills.

  Later that night, she confessed to her friends that she was uncertain, because she feared he might be having second thoughts.

  “Well, personally, I think you should grab the brass ring,” Paige said. “Why not? It’s not as if guys are beating down your door in Chicago.”

  “Gee, thanks for that,” Sloane said. “And need I remind you that not three days ago, you were firmly against it?”

  Paige shrugged. “I guess that Galen and this village have grown on me. It’s better than that stupid spa resort you found on the internet. Now that was a total waste of my time,” she said, referring to the jaunt she and Dylan and Victoria had made over the hills that day.

  Dylan gasped with surprise. “I loved it! I thought it was so charming!”

  “There was no one there,” Victoria pointed out. “It was just a hotel, not a resort. And the championship golf course was a nine holer.”

  “So?” Dylan protested. “Who doesn’t love a castle?”

  “I prefer my castles to be more than a heap of stones,” Paige snorted.

  “I don’t know what it is about you guys that you can’t see the beauty in things,” Dylan said grumpily. “I agree with Sloane—life is too short to pass up something like this. If I could get a job here, I would, in a heartbeat.”

  “If you do stay, I will miss you so much,” Tori said to Sloane. “But then, look on the bright side. We’ll have a place to hang out in Scotland.”

  “Are you kidding? I’m not hanging out here,” Paige scoffed. “This thing with Galen and Sloane is the only thing going on in this whole town. Believe me, once the happy couple set
tle down and start having babies, it will be dead as a graveyard around here.”

  “I don’t think you need to worry. He’s not going to show up on Friday,” Sloane said.

  “Yes, he will,” Dylan said. “He’s crazy about you.”

  But the very next day, Galen abruptly disappeared from Gairloch.

  “Mr. Beattie said he had to go to Glasgow to get a refrigerator,” Tori reported when she came back from her run.

  Sloane’s heart dropped; a swell of nausea rose up in her. “He did?”

  “He didn’t say anything to you?” Tori asked.

  Sloane could only shake her head as fear swirled in her.

  Tori exchanged a look with Paige. “It doesn’t mean anything,” Paige said calmly. “It’s Wednesday. The party isn’t until Friday.” She smiled gamely at Sloane. “It will be fine.”

  No, it wouldn’t be fine. It would be anything but fine.

  …

  The refrigerator died sometime in the night. Galen discovered it Wednesday morning and kicked it twice for good measure. Then he called Lazlo and asked him to run the pub for a day or two while he drove down to Glasgow to get a proper industrial cooler.

  He next phoned his mother and asked if she knew anyone with a small lorry he might borrow. Of course she did, and then she bubbled on about the ceilidh.

  Galen squeezed his eyes shut and braced his arm against the wall. “Mum, listen to me, will you? It was a joke. That’s all. A laugh.”

  “What? No,” she said, disbelieving.

  “I’ll be over in an hour or so to pick up the lorry.”

  As he trudged back to his house to gather a few things for the drive to Glasgow, Galen realized that the death of that fucking refrigerator, which he scarcely had the money to replace, was the perfect ending to the turmoil of the last few weeks. And it infuriated him.

  To be fair, his lack of sleep, his loss of appetite, all contributed to the fury that had been pumping through his veins since Sunday. He was angry with Sloane for ever having entered his pub, for ever having approached him with her asinine idea.