Claire hesitated a moment. Lachlan would be cleverer than her parents about tracking her. Still, she was on borrowed time already. I’m somewhere thinking. Somewhere safe.
You’d better be thinking how great it’s going to be to partner up to run the distillery. I have gobs of ideas to market to blokes my age.
She and Lachlan—mostly Lachlan—had talked about how they would take over Glennallen from the old guard when they both came of age. Lachlan had turned twenty-five two years earlier and claimed his inheritance, which consisted of a percentage of stock. Without her throwing her support behind him, though, he wouldn’t have enough power to accomplish anything.
Their plans had sounded good when she was twenty and twenty-five seemed a lifetime away. That lifetime now consisted of a few scant weeks.
Her fingers held over the keyboard before they put into words her fears. What if I don’t want to run the distillery?
Why the bloody hell wouldn’t you want to? Do you not like money?
Money might not buy happiness, but as she’d learned the last few months, not having any was miserable.
“Whatcha doing?” The whispered question came with a puff of breath along her cheek. She let out a squeal, which drew everyone’s eyes toward her. Exactly the sort of attention she tried to avoid.
Holt Pierson was hunched behind her, his chin nearly on her shoulder. Her hood had hidden her from over-curious, prying eyes, but also masked his approach.
“You scared the dickens out of me. What are you doing in a library?” She managed to close her email, which left the online newspaper up. She laid her arm over the keyboard and half turned, hoping she was blocking most of the screen from his view.
The man in the next cubby tossed a disgruntled look in their direction, closed his textbook with a snap, and vacated the space. As if taking the silent admonishment to heart, Holt straightened, but he kept his hand on the edge of the cubby desk. She tilted her head back to see him, and her hood fell to her shoulders.
Sweet Jesus, after her windy ride then being stuffed under the hood, what did her hair look like? It shouldn’t matter. She shouldn’t want to appear attractive for Holt Pierson or anyone else. Yet her hand rose of its own accord to tuck her hair behind her ears and smooth the stray waves in the back. Growing out her pixie cut was a test of patience she wasn’t sure she would pass.
“I can read. And write, when I put my mind to it. Shocking, I know.” He winked. The tease in his voice was like a favorite shirt he wore with ease. Did the man ever get defensive or ruffled?
“That was badly done of me. Pardon,” she said stiffly. “I shouldn’t have assumed just because you look like you do, you don’t possess a decent number of brain cells.”
His eyebrows bounced up and his smile took on a wicked crook. He leaned down, and she caught the scent of fresh laundry and shaving cream. The slash of tanned skin between his collar and his jaw beckoned her closer. What would his skin feel like against her lips?
“A decent number of brain cells? You’re making me blush,” he said. “But I’m more interested in what I look like in your eyes. Do tell.”
He looked like a delicious decadent treat she wanted to devour. Her gaze shot to his, and she immediately regretted locking eyes with him. Could he read her mind? She bloody well hoped not.
“You look like a … Viking?” She wanted to kick herself. Vikings spent their days conquering villages and seducing women. They were dead sexy.
“Do you like Vikings?” He took the empty chair from the vacated cubby and shifted to face her. Still too close for comfort but far enough away for Claire to gather a few of her scattered wits.
“Vikings were a dirty, foul lot who pillaged innocents.” That was better. Much less complimentary than calling him a sexy beast.
He steepled his hands and pursed his lips as if really considering the comparison. “I can be foul and dirty depending on what chores I’m finishing up on the farm, though I try to avoid pillaging innocents. But you aren’t an innocent, are you?”
Blast and damn. The heat radiating from her cheeks was answer enough. No, she was far from innocent, especially where it pertained to fantasies about him. Foul and dirty was an understatement. Her dream the night before skated on the edge of depraved.
“What I am or am not is none of your business,” she said primly.
“True enough.” He leaned the chair back on two legs and rocked, his legs spread wide. “Catching up on news from back home?”
Claire turned back to the computer and exited the browser. “Indeed I am. Ms. Meadows doesn’t have internet access.”
“Not surprising. I personally couldn’t survive without it, but her generation lived a simpler life.”
“I’m sure you’d find it difficult to live without your porn.” She bit the inside of her cheek. Why had she said that? Not only was it insulting, but now she was imagining what sort of things Holt got up to while watching porn.
His reaction was one of delight and not outrage. He tsked and thickened his Southern accent even more. “Why, Miss Claire, I do declare. And you call me foul and dirty?”
“I … you … sorry,” she mumbled.
“For your information, since my parents took off to discover America in their RV, I’ve been reduced to watching cooking videos.”
Surprise squashed a portion of her earlier embarrassment and steadied the conversational footing. “What was up with all the frozen food the other day?”
“I haven’t actually graduated from watching videos to making anything. Anyway, cooking for one is depressing, but so is eating frozen pizza night after night.” He’d lost his smile, which made Claire feel a bit chillier than when she had basked in his teasing humor.
Holt was lonely. It was strange to think a man so enmeshed and integral to Highland could be lonely. They had more in common than she’d first supposed. Loneliness she understood.
“You should host a party.”
“I’m a little old to be throwing a kegger in my barn,” he said wryly.
“What’s a kegger and why do you want to toss it around?”
“A kegger is a party featuring a metal barrel filled with cheap beer. Everyone gets trashed.”
“That sounds … terrible actually. No, I meant a dinner party for your friends.”
“A dinner party?” He sounded like she’d suggested he go full Monty at the local exotic bar. In her limited travels around Highland, she hadn’t seen an exotic dancing bar. That sort of deviance was probably outlawed.
“My parents used to have them all the time growing up. It gave my father a chance to wear his tuxedo.” Why had she offered that revealing tidbit? It was only after she ran away from home that she realized most men didn’t own tuxedos, they rented them.
“The best we can do around here is a Canadian tuxedo. Or a fancy kilt.”
The memory of Holt competing in the Highland Games flashed into her head. His kilt had been utilitarian. A sporran and jacket would have been in the way. Like the director of a movie reel, she panned in on the slash of muscled thigh he’d exposed tossing the sheaf or throwing the hammer. It had been strangely titillating.
Her gaze fell to his thighs, sadly encased in denim at the moment. “Fancy kilts are good too.”
He rocked the chair on two legs and crossed his arms. “Maybe you’re onto something. I could have Anna and Iain over.”
He didn’t say her name. And why should he? She cleared her throat and stood. “I should leave you to your planning then.”
The chair banged to all fours and he stood too, shoving his hands in his pockets. “How’s the bike?”
“A delight. If I didn’t know any better, I would say Wayne switched it out with a new one.”
“Glad to hear it.” He fell into step beside her.
She cast a glance toward the circulation desk. “Does the library only carry physical books or do they have a section for audiobooks?”
He scratched the back of his head. “I don’t know, but we
can find out easily enough.”
She tried to grab his sleeve but he was already striding toward the intimidating-looking lady at the desk. Claire scurried to catch up.
“Hey there, Ms. Coburn. How’s the book business?” Holt leaned an elbow on the chest-high portion of the desk and sent one of his smiles toward the woman.
Ms. Coburn was a stereotype. Stern disapproval transmitted like radio waves. Her hair was scraped back into a tight brown bun, and her severe gray dress was buttoned halfway up her neck and at the wrists. She could have been cast as evil headmistress of an all-girls school or housekeeper of a creepy gothic castle.
Claire should have known not even a nunlike villain could resist Holt Pierson’s charm. Ms. Coburn still possessed X chromosomes after all.
The woman’s face turned from stone to pudding. “Business is brisk. Although I must say I’m surprised to see you in here.”
Claire turned from Ms. Coburn to Holt and lifted her brows. So he wasn’t a regular who happened by when she was there. Was that a blush creeping up his neck?
He cleared his throat. “I’m wondering if you can help my friend. She’s interested in audiobooks. Do you carry them?”
Ms. Coburn turned her attention to Claire, who tensed expecting a stony assessment. Instead, the impression was one of intelligence and kindness. “Indeed. You’ll just need to fill out some paperwork for a library card, dear.”
“Oh, not for me. I’m staying with Ms. Meadows, and she has a hard time reading print books anymore. I thought she might enjoy an audiobook. She gets tired of the telly.”
Consternation drew Ms. Coburn’s brows down. “Gail used to be a regular patron. I’m embarrassed to say I hadn’t thought about her in quite some time. I should have…”
Ms. Coburn didn’t finish the thought but turned to her computer and typed with a speed and efficiency that was impressive. Her gaze darted over the screen. “It looks like I can simply reactivate her card if she wants to come down to verify her address with a utility bill.”
“She has a difficult time getting around, I’m afraid, and doesn’t drive anymore. Is there any way I could take her one to try?” Claire asked with a smile she hoped looked trustworthy.
“We have some CDs on the shelf, but most are digital these days. I can give you instructions on how to sign up online and download one to an electronic device, but she’ll still need to bring proof of residence to reactive her account.” Ms. Coburn riffled through a stack of papers.
Frustration built inside of Claire. Had an evil fairy gifted her with roadblocks when she was a baby?
“Ms. Meadows doesn’t have a computer or a smartphone or a car.” Holt didn’t seem bothered by the difficulties. “But this conversation has left me with a hankering to listen to a rousing tale of murder and mayhem. I think I’ll check one out. My card is still valid, isn’t it, Ms. Coburn?”
She tapped on her keyboard again. “Look at that. It is, Holt. Why don’t you and your friend go pick one or two audiobooks out?” She gave them a wink before turning to a stack of books waiting to be checked in.
With a hand on her back, Holt guided Claire to the stacks to the right, where he pulled out an audiobook with a spy-thriller-type cover. “Do you enjoy murder and mayhem?” Claire asked.
“Not particularly, but considering Ms. Meadows enjoys threatening men with guns, I assume she’ll eat it up.”
Claire put her hand on his arm before he could sidle farther down the aisle. “Thank you.”
He shrugged, his gaze still on the gun-toting spy on the cover. “The least I can do. I feel bad about the way my family has treated her all these years.”
“It’s hardly your fault. You were young when they fell out.”
“Yep. But I’m not young now and haven’t been for a while. If I was a regular at church, maybe the preacher would have nudged me.”
“You aren’t a regular?”
“Not for a few years now. Don’t have anything against it, just don’t feel called to attend. Maybe that will change as I get older.”
“And closer to death? That seems to be a great motivator.”
He barked a laugh. “Ain’t that the truth. How about a classic Agatha Christie?” A Miss Marple audiobook found its way into her hands.
“Perfect.” Claire turned her attention to the shelf. None of the books were recent releases, but she found a historical fiction book that had been a bestseller a decade earlier to add to her cache. Surely among the three choices, Ms. Meadows would enjoy at least one of them.
She turned back to head toward the checkout, but Holt stepped in front of her. “Hang on, do you know if she has a way to play CDs?”
She hadn’t even considered it. Her shoulders slumped with her gusty sigh. “I haven’t seen one, but she might have one stashed under her bed or out in the shed.”
“My dad has an old one in his office to play his collection of Motown CDs. I’ll drop it by. I need to check on the big house anyway. Haven’t even cracked the door open in a week.”
“I thought you lived on the farm?”
“I do, but not in the main house with my parents. I moved into a cabin on the edge of the property after high school. Didn’t want to be one of those guys who was thirty and living in my childhood bedroom.”
What did his cabin look like? She imagined rustic tranquility. Was he messy or neat? Was his furniture sophisticated or homey? Did animal heads or paintings hang on the walls? How big was his bed? Her wandering thoughts got stuck on the last question.
“It sounds lovely.” Her voice came out breathy, and she cleared her throat to get a handle on her imagination.
“It’s all right, I guess.” It didn’t sound all right. He sounded as unhappy as she felt.
She would give up her firstborn—not that she was likely to ever bear one—to plant her roots in a home. Not merely a house, but someplace warm and welcoming and comfortable. A home where she could be herself.
Her posh childhood had not been jolly. The freedom she’d achieved by running away hadn’t satisfied her either. What would make her happy?
She wasn’t sure, but since deciding to lie low in Highland, a mirage had appeared on the horizon; in it, she walked down a street that looked remarkably like the street outside, and she wasn’t alone. A man with a smile to melt all the snows across the Highlands was by her side.
“Will your mum and dad be home for Christmas?” she asked to change the subject.
“I don’t know. They’re going to take in the sights and a few shows in New York City—Mom loves musicals—and then who knows? Florida maybe. Someplace warmer than here.” He shrugged. Affection warmed his voice when he spoke of his parents, but she could also sense a tinge of hurt feelings.
“Let me guess … only child?”
The distance between them had closed inch by inch while they’d been whispering as if unseen forces were ratcheting them together. He was tall and broad and his scowl might have intimidated her if she didn’t know him better. Her shiver had nothing to do with fear. Which was scary. She took a step back, but the shelves precluded a true retreat.
“What does being an only child have to do with anything?” he asked suspiciously.
“You’re used to being the center of your parents’ attention and you resent them for leaving you the entire responsibility of your family farm while they gallivant around having fun. Without you. If you had a brother or sister to share the burden—and attention—with, you might not be so resentful about their leaving.”
She tensed, waiting for his reaction. He had every right to tell her to mind her own business. Instead, he opened his mouth and then closed it with a self-deprecating chuckle. “You didn’t just put me in my place, you shoved me there with a well-aimed kick to my ass.”
“You aren’t angry?” She wanted to stuff the question back in her mouth when he narrowed his eyes on her and his smile diminished to a mere shadow.
“For telling me what you really think? Hardly. Most men appreciate the
truth.”
A guffaw escaped before she could muffle it.
“I take it your experience has been different?” His voice had softened even further, and he leaned closer with his whisper.
The silence in the library felt cathedral-like, and as if she were in a confessional, she answered him. “Quite different. Opposite, in fact. Men will say anything to get what they want, and after they do, they discard you like rubbish.”
“Sounds to me like you’ve known all the wrong men.”
“I can’t argue with that. Musicians are notorious for bad behavior. It’s one reason I wanted off the road.” It wasn’t a lie, but her father had been the first man to disappoint her.
“There are good men in the world.”
“Are there?” Her voice lilted up into a question. A week ago, she could have said good men were close to extinction with a surety she now lacked, because the man standing in front of her was strong evidence to the contrary.
“I’ll prove to you good men exist.” His jaw had firmed with a stubbornness that was undeniably attractive.
She faked a lighthearted laugh. “I’m a lost cause. It would be like trying to convince a bairn who had seen Saint Nicholas take off his beard that he was real. In short, it will take a miracle.”
His smile was slow and sexy and made his blue eyes dance. “You’re in luck. Christmas in Highland is the perfect place for a miracle.”
Chapter Five
Holt plucked the audiobooks from Claire’s hands and strolled toward the checkout counter to hand them over for scanning, leaving Claire looking decidedly bemused. If their meeting in the library had proved anything, it was that the connection he felt wasn’t one-sided. He’d only taken a half dozen steps toward the door when her shoulder brushed his arm as she fell into step beside him. He stole a glance down at her without tilting his head.
Slowly—very slowly—he was chipping away at her defenses, but if he probed too far, she would scurry back into her hidey-hole. What had made her so squirrelly? At least one asshole was involved, but her wounds cut deeper and wider than a couple of bad relationships. They went back to childhood.
A Highlander is Coming to Town Page 6