“I couldn’t figure out the table numbering.” She swallowed. “I hope I didn’t offend. I didn’t mean to, but to be fair I’ve never heard of Robert the Bruce.”
“No offense taken. I knew who you were talking about, but I assumed you would have done a bit of research on Scotland before you came.”
She blew out a breath. “I did. Basic geography. Points of interest, that kind of thing.”
“Ah, Corporate, you have so much to learn.” He shook his head. “Thanks for this.” A warm smile curled his kissable lips.
That buttery feeling washed through her. “You’re welcome.” She glanced around the room. “What are you going to do for tonight?”
The smile turned into a frown. “We’ll figure something out. Ellie, our backup waitress, can’t come in. Her daughter’s sick.”
“Tell you what. If you have a word with the hot water system, I’d like to make use of that huge clawfoot bath tomorrow. In exchange, I can come back and help.”
A smile that must be stolen from the gods lit his face. “Done. I’ll speak to Willy. He’s the ghost that hangs around the pipes.”
She grinned. “He has a name?”
“Aye.”
“Well in that case, I’d like to have words with your Willy.”
She stilled.
Callum grinned.
Every time I’m around this man, I swear he must think I’m punch-drunk or horny.
Well, there was that.
Heat flushed throughout her body.
Please let the ground open up and swallow me whole.
Nope, she was still standing on terra firma, and Callum’s twinkling eyes were aimed in her direction.
I could fall in deep with this man and ruin everything.
Before returning to the pub to help out with dinner service, Georgia grabbed a quick shower, changed out her boots for flats, and donned dark jeans and an emerald sweater that her friend Grace said made her eyes pop. She wasn’t admitting to herself that she caught the glances Callum sent her way when he thought she wasn’t looking. She hoped she was reading appreciation on his handsome face. It was nice being appreciated by a man like Callum MacGregor, who would tick every living female’s boxes. Even nuns, she suspected, would sneak a second glance.
So why wasn’t he taken?
Tall, built, and possessing a quiet confidence, Callum was the kind of guy you wanted around if there was any type of disaster. She bet he was a natural leader, and very much liked by the people in his town.
It was going to take all her negotiating skills to get him to change his mind. Callum MacGregor was not going to be her first official failure. She had a 100 percent success rate, and the awards to prove it. In nine days’ time, she’d be climbing the walls to leave here, a signed agreement in her back pocket and a ticket booked to her next destination.
Please let it be somewhere warm, with beaches and sunscreen.
In her daydream, a man who resembled Callum was walking toward her with his hand outstretched and a twinkle in his gorgeous brown eyes. The unmistakable smile on his face sent her ovaries into overdrive.
Huh. Must be jet lag.
She walked out into the backyard, and fed a bleating Delilah some of the bread from lunch and an apple she’d found in the pub’s kitchen. She hugged the goat who leaned into her, nipped her fingers, and trotted back to her bed of straw. Georgia found a can of cat food for Hello Kitty, and washed out a white ceramic bowl with black cat paws on it. Soon the black cat was circling her legs, purring.
From the people she’d served at lunch, she’d learned Callum’s mom was the local palm reader, and an accurate one at that. Callum had a serious girlfriend while at college. Most figured they’d marry and come back here, but she was on a corporate path. He was close with his mother, liked around the town, and more than a couple of people had said every girl in the area would drop everything if he glanced her way.
Not quite the info she needed, so she’d be going directly to the source.
She walked back into the pub. Callum was leaning on the bar, talking to a stunning redhead. She faltered, then faltered again when Callum sought her across the sea of people. A tiny jolt to her heart sent her scurrying to the kitchen.
What am I doing? I don’t scurry.
Breathless, she walked into the kitchen, heart hammering.
“That smells delicious.” Her mouth watered at the aroma of rosemary, garlic, onions, herbs, the bitterness of lemons mixed with sweet honey, and a hint of cinnamon.
“Avian and Ale night.” Ainsley bumped the industrial oven closed with her hip. “Basically it’s bird and beer. Tonight is chicken with Lovesick sauce and roasted root veg.” At Georgia’s raised eyebrows, the attractive blonde laughed. “Lovesick sauce has been handed down to the eldest female of each generation in my family, going back centuries. Everyone who eats it will fall in love with the person they’re meant to be with. They might not know then, but when they see the person, it will burst into their heart.”
“Wow, that’s quite a claim.” She was drawn toward where a huge pot bubbled on the stove. She leaned in, inhaling the aromatic sauce.
“Would you like to try some?” Ainsley cocked her head, a teasing smile on her face.
“I’m not the ‘fall in love’ kind of girl, but I’ll take some to go.”
It wasn’t that she didn’t believe in love. For other people, absolutely. The sentiment alone sent a cold wash throughout her body and had her wanting to pack her bags and head for the nearest exit.
But she could see Callum with a couple of kids, a dog, and a woman she’d instantly dislike.
“Who’s the redhead at the bar?” she asked, trying to sound like she didn’t want to know when she did.
“Heather Cameron.” Ainsley ladled a cup of the sauce into a glass jar then, using a cloth, tightened the lid and handed it to Georgia. “My thanks for helping out earlier. I was at the market and couldn’t make it in to help Callum.”
“Thanks,” Georgia murmured, wondering how she could ship this to California and her best friend, Grace, the endless romantic who was always searching for her man. Her plan of settling down and having her first child by the age of thirty was in danger of failing. She’d be into the Lovesick sauce and would be spreading it all over little crackers and handing them out at large public events.
“Heather Cameron was a serious girlfriend,” Ainsley added. “She’s from here and couldn’t wait to get away.” Ainsley leaned in and stirred the sauce, whispering in a language Georgia didn’t understand. She stirred six times clockwise, then six times counterclockwise.
“Gaelic, the secret language of love,” Ainsley said by way of explanation. “Heather’s a corporate lawyer and travels the world. She finds this town stifling. Some do. I never thought Callum would come back—he couldn’t wait to get away—but he returned battle-scarred. I think buying this place saved him. Then there’s his mum, who needs his help more than she’d care to admit.” She fitted a lid on the pot. “Heather, though, wanted out as soon as she could walk.”
“Sounds like me.” The words popped out of Georgia’s mouth before her brain had thought them through.
“You know, I used to think she wouldn’t come back here, but the way she looks at Callum, I think if he gave her any indication, then she might. I think she’s still in love with him.”
Love. That sticky word Georgia had never uttered. On their last margarita girls’ night out, Grace claimed Georgia sabotaged relationships, bolting before she became attached. Georgia had rolled her eyes. She wasn’t sabotaging anything—she just hated the thought of hurting someone when she inevitably left, so she ended things before they got attached. Not the other way around. It really was an “it’s not you, it’s me” thing.
“You really don’t believe in love?” Ainsley tilted her head to one side.
“For others, but not for me,” she stated. “I don’t get attached.”
The only people Georgia was attached to were Grace, Indian
a, and their parents. If not for Grace battling her way into Georgia’s life in college, not taking “maybe next time” for an answer, the list would be even smaller. Her friend was now a fixture in her life, even if they rarely saw each other.
Her sister might as well have been Georgia’s complete opposite. Indy had set down roots the second she moved out and hated leaving the elementary school on the military base in Fort Jackson where she taught.
Their parents still flitted around the country on a whim. Georgia had inherited her wanderlust from them. If Grace wanted to point fingers, that’s where she should look.
“What about you?” Georgia let her gaze drop to the pot, then back to the cook, whose cheeks were splashed with scarlet.
“I was married once, living the dream, but my husband never made it back from Afghanistan.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry.” Damn her and her questions. Unshed tears pooled in Ainsley’s eyes. She reached out and squeezed the woman’s hand.
“Thank you.” Ainsley shifted, suddenly all business, and starting slicing an onion like a ninja, her head down. “The old proverb is true, though. It’s better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all.”
“Georgia, can you give me a hand?”
She jumped, so caught up in Ainsley and her own head she hadn’t heard Callum’s approach. His smoky, spicy scent stole around her like a warm blanket on a cold night, and her nipples tingled.
Oh, dear Lord, not now.
“Sure, coming right up.”
He glanced down at the jar of sauce. “Be careful. That stuff apparently works.”
“You believe in this?” She stared down at the jar.
He scoffed. “I believe in old-fashioned wooing.”
“Wooing?” She laughed. “What century do you come from?”
“A not too distant one in a galaxy far, far away.”
She grinned and shoulder bumped him. “Show me your wooing skills later?”
“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”
Chapter Six
Callum closed the pub door. It had been more than a busy night. A lot of the locals, mostly men, had come in to check out the hot new American waitress. He’d given up trying to persuade Jock of the “Dungaree Dudes”—as Georgia had christened them in her notes—that the bonny lass wasn’t Callum’s, but here for only a short stay.
He smiled at the pile of notes his new waitress had left on the bar. “Toddler Moms” had Guinness with a shot of raspberry, which Georgia had written gross underneath. “Dart Throwers” required pints of “Black Fries.” He’d pulled pints of Black Friar. Lots more of “That Bruce Guy” with a smiley face. “The Grunters” required cocks that walked, with an unhappy face drawn on the pad. He’d laughed out loud and poured “Cock O’ The Walk” for the brothers, who employed a grunting language only they understood. He’d called time, and the last stragglers had finally left. A cleaning crew would come in later. The till was in the safe with the daily takings, now all he had to do was collect his temporary waitress and walk to the hotel.
Speaking of.
Wearing a smile that shot sparks through his body, Georgia emerged from the kitchen, clutching a jar of Ainsley’s sauce. He shook his head. What some people believed would find them love at times floored him. Robert and Harriet married six months after Ainsley’s sauce, and swore by it. So did Allison and Caleb, who’d both been too shy to approach each other until Ainsley had stepped in one Tuesday, and if you believed the folklore, they were wed five months later.
He didn’t believe in the sauce, but he believed in love.
He walked toward the coatrack by the front door and gathered their jackets. He pulled the beanie from his pocket and placed it on Georgia’s head, tucking her hair behind her ears. The strands were so silky and soft, he let his fingers stroke down to the ends. He sucked in a breath at the goose bumps cascading down her neck.
His gaze dropped to the jar then back up to her mouth, her face. “Are you looking for love? The whole settling down thing?”
“No.” She stared him straight in the eye. Her direct approach was growing on him. “I’m corporate through and through. Being in one place without seeing what else is out there, the adventure, the anticipation, would suck the soul out of me.” A faraway look washed over her features. “I’ve never lived the life you have. I couldn’t imagine it. Our family moved on a whim. I love that. It fuels my blood.”
“Ah, family issues. Makes sense.”
“No family issues. I love my sister and my parents. We’re not together that often, but there aren’t any drunken brawls.” A teasing glint replaced the faraway look. “What about you? Daddy issues?”
“Daddy issues resolved,” he lied. They weren’t, and to his father they would never be until he waltzed back into the firm to become the workaholic his father was.
Dear Old Dad. He’d never make him proud no matter what he did.
“Mommy issues?”
“I love my ma. She’s good people.” She loved him no matter what he wanted to do in life. He could hang out with trolls under a bridge and she’d love him regardless. Free-spirited, she hadn’t found someone she didn’t like. She’d adopt Georgia on the spot.
“Brother or sister issues?”
“Nope. Only me. Living out my life here, surrounded by people I care about, with a goat, a pub, and a lifestyle I love.”
She shuddered. “I couldn’t stand it.”
“That’s where you and I are fundamentally different. I’ve lived your corporate lifestyle. I didn’t realize how much it had sucked the life out of me until I came back here. It was like breathing for the first time. This place pulls me. Everything I want is here.”
“Not even a holiday to somewhere warm?” She shivered, pulling on her coat. The tips of her fingers were turning blue and she tried to blow warmth into them.
“I’m not that inflexible that I won’t take time off to see the world. Two weeks in Fiji, hell yeah.”
The picture of Georgia in a black bikini walking toward him on a Fijian beach fired his blood, which headed south fast.
He shook the image from his mind, pulled gloves from his pocket, and handed them to her.
“Thanks. I’ll get some tomorrow.”
He opened the door and the cold hit him like a sledgehammer, as did a misting rain. “Keep them, I have more.”
Georgia shivered beside him. “Holy moly, it’s freezing.”
He locked the door and reached for her hand.
She lifted an eyebrow. “Really?”
He shrugged. “You never know when Leonard is going to come around the corner on his tractor.”
“At one thirty in the morning?”
“Aye.” He wasn’t going to wonder at the protectiveness that powered through him when she slipped her hand into his. He owed her for today. He’d have been up shite creek if she hadn’t been the trouper she was, and he’d loved the notes. He’d be keeping them when Georgia was only a memory.
Damn. She’d only been here a day, and her smile, her cheerful nature, her everything was refreshing.
Well, that was all he was going to admit to.
He pulled open the door to the hotel.
“Could you start the fire in my room, please?”
Surprised, he turned.
“I have a report I need to finish. As soon as any type of signal appears, I am sucking the juice out of your network. There are emails that I have to get ready to send.”
He shook his head. “You are the original corporate girl.”
“Yes, I am, and proud of it.” She paused. “You know, if you had a booster here you’d have way more guests. Are you truly happy with how you are here?” She cocked her head to one side, a temping grin on her lips, her eyebrows raised.
The lack of internet was a concern. In fact, it was being brought up at the next council meeting. None of the large telecommunication companies were big on spending money on a booster for a small community.
“You hav
e a point on the internet. It is fickle, and no one knows if we’ll get a signal, but we’ve survived without it for a while. I’m good the way I am.”
She yawned. “What’s on the agenda for tomorrow?”
“Big plans, Corporate. Plans that will change your mind about what makes this place so special and unique. Plans guaranteed to change your mind about ruining it all.”
“Well, Sofa, I’m looking forward to whatever it is, because nothing will convince me that my plan will ruin anything. I have the best plans for this hotel and this town.”
He bit back a retort. She had no idea what was right for his hotel and the town, but he kept his opinion in lockdown and followed her up to her room.
Damn.
A wispy white bra lay strewn across a chair, along with another in purple. A matching pair of boy-cut underwear was on the floor. Jeans, T-shirts, shirts, and socks lay in a pile.
“Sorry,” she said, red-faced, then ran around the room picking up the offending items.
His gaze lingered too long on the bra, imagining her breasts pushing against the lace. He was a hot-blooded male, and biology kicked in and delivered him a boner.
Jesus.
He moved to the fireplace, sat on his haunches, and built the fire. The zipper of his jeans pushed on his dick, but he stayed sitting until the logs sparked, then pulled the fireguard across the hearth. Her scent of coconut did nothing to deflate the bulge in his pants. He stood to find Georgia sitting cross-legged on the bed, computer open, her fingers tapping, a grin on her lips.
He shook his head. “Good night, Corporate.”
“’Night, Sofa,” she said in that soft drawl that only made him harder.
He’d have to add a few Hail Marys when he next took his mum to church. Having Georgia’s soft curves plastered beneath his hard body flashed into his mind. That wasn’t going into the confessional.
It wasn’t the 1812 Overture that pulled him from a dreamless sleep, but Bruno Mars singing about being locked out of fucking heaven. The word “fucking” hadn’t been in there, but at six a.m. he’d inserted the word. After a long, painful ten seconds the song died. Not that he had anything against Bruno—Callum loved his stuff, hummed along to the car radio whenever he switched from his usual favorite classical music station—but not at six a.m. He burrowed back into the bed, trying to recapture a dream about tan lines, sunscreen, and smoky green eyes.
Ten Days with the Highlander (Love Abroad) Page 5