Ten Days with the Highlander (Love Abroad)

by Manning, Hayson

He slid his fingers around her waist and took her hand, a beautiful smile lighting his face. “Come on, I’ll show you the church.”

  A small balloon deflated in her chest. She wanted to crush herself against him and kiss him all over again, touch his face, feel the contours of his jaw, sneak her hands underneath his sweater and trace over his muscled everywhere.

  They walked in silence down a path, Georgia’s mind a rollercoaster of emotions. The ride was about to finish and she’d hop off, and the world would be righted. She wanted so badly to touch her fingers to her lips to hold in the tingle for a little longer, but that would give her away.

  She barely noticed where they were going until Callum stopped.

  A hiccup of emotion hit the back of Georgia’s throat. She tried to stop the tears burning the back of her eyelids from making an entrance, but they spilled down her face anyway.

  “Georgia? What’s wrong?”

  Chapter Eight

  Jesus. What the hell am I doing?

  Callum dug his hand through his hair. He didn’t believe in the mystic laws of The Grotto, but he couldn’t deny the facts. Every person who’d married here had stayed married until death parted them. He’d only planned to bring her there and show her the beauty of the surroundings, but he’d fallen under the spell of the moment, and he’d be a lying man if marrying her didn’t feel right, which shocked the shite out of him.

  A sniff brought him back to the present. Callum startled at the tears falling from Georgia’s misty green eyes. He was hopeless with tears. Having never had a sister, the whole female dynamic was lost on him. When girlfriends cried, he patted their hands, pulled them into awkward hugs, and made a joke out of it, but the wistfulness on Georgia’s face tugged hard at his heart.

  What the fuck am I doing apart from fucking this up more than it already is?

  He dragged his hand through his hair, closed the distance between them, and pulled her into a hug. “Corporate, I’m sorry.”

  He wasn’t, though. If he could replay that kiss, he’d conjure up a time machine and redo that kiss over and over. Her soft, startled lips below his that had softened, her hand buried in his hair, the moan he’d swallowed…that one was better than any coffee or bread-dripping-in-jam moan. It had gone straight to his dick, which pulsed into life, then throbbed.

  She pulled back from his embrace, swatting at her face as if embarrassed.

  “I’m sorry. I never cry.” She waved at their surroundings. “The Grotto, the church is so beautiful. The wishing well, the stark countryside. It’s like stepping back in time.” Her lip wobbled. “This place is just so perfect. I can imagine a bride walking down these stone steps to her groom. It’s so magical. Like fairies built it. Where wishes come true.” She turned her face away.

  He pushed his hands deep into his pockets. “The Grotto has been here for as long as anyone can remember. The ecosystem here is fragile. The rocks are old, and the structure is delicate.” In his mind, he could see hordes of tourists draining the well, laughing at his town’s beloved superstitions, clambering over the rocks to get the best picture, mocking what they held dear. Taking what was precious.

  Cold sweat hugged Callum’s chest in an unpleasant grip.

  “You can’t see people trying to take stones from here? Fill water bottles from the well? Trample down the aisle of the church without caring about the damage they’d leave behind before they jumped into their bus to hit another sacred destination?”

  She turned a slow circle, hands in her pockets, eyebrows down in corporate mode as if the kiss had never happened. “We could put signs up, asking people not to take the water or the stones. We’d make sure that the guide had an eye on the visitors.”

  “That didn’t work for Stonehenge. People carved their initials into the rocks. ‘SM waz here’ until they roped it off. Some people don’t show respect.”

  Her forehead creased. “We could work this out in the negotiations.”

  He blew out a lungful of air, shaking off his mood. Let her think there would be negotiations. As far as he was concerned, their negotiations were done.

  Georgia walked toward the crumbling structure, dressed in dark jeans, a sweater, and a lightweight jacket, but nothing could mute the sway of her hips or her delicate steps. A weak sun broke through the clouds, highlighting the copper and gold streaks in her hair.

  He followed her like a lemming.

  The church should have fallen down centuries ago, but somehow God and the ground kept it upright. The architect in him always admired his ancestors who’d hauled stone up here to form walls. No mortar needed. Each stone was held together by compressional forces of the interlocking stones. Although the roof was long gone, the altar with the same tribal designs that graced the well still stood. Stone pews had withstood war, weather, and the groaning earth below, forever shifting, stretching tired tectonic plates like weary muscles. The earth didn’t move a lot, but the land moved with the ebb and flow of time.

  No one knew with certainty how old the church was. Centuries, he’d guess. The weird thing was that the people who had walked down this aisle were still married. James and Anne, celebrating their fiftieth anniversary next month, still held hands like teens. Jock and Eloise were about to celebrate their thirtieth.

  One day, he hoped to drink from the well, stand at the end of the aisle in the church, and watch his bride walk toward him, the love in her heart and eyes only for him.

  He mentally smacked himself, pissed that he’d already done it and wasted the moment.

  Callum picked thistle, plucking the sharp prickles, not feeling the thorns skimming his flesh. He walked toward Georgia, who seemed locked in a trance, standing at the foot of the church.

  “Every girl should have flowers on her wedding day.” He passed her the thistle.

  “Thank you.” She walked down the aisle, turned, and gave him a smile that stole his breath. She indicated with her head that he should be standing next to her. He walked toward his fictitious bride, something pinging his insides.

  He stood beside her, pulled her to his side, and laid a soft kiss on her temple.

  He hadn’t noticed she’d pulled her phone from her pocket and was busy taking shots of them.

  His stomach twisted into a hard knot.

  Not for them. For the brochure that was never going to happen.

  And just like that, the corporate girl stood in front of him, and that tiny hopeful bit of his heart that she saw the beauty and majesty of this place withered and died.

  Delilah trotted into view.

  “Perfect,” she said, in a soft peaches-and-cream accent.

  He jammed his hands into his pockets and started walking away.

  “Callum, a group shot with Delilah?”

  He turned, scanning her face. “Is it for you or your boss?”

  “My boss. Why else would I…?” Her face reddened.

  He had his answer. Nothing about this place had affected her. Nothing about him had changed her mind. Nothing about their kiss had charmed her. He thought he’d seen the girl behind the corporation, but in a flash, she’d become the woman itching to jump online and check out her profit and loss.

  He was one dumb bastard.

  He shook his head and walked back to the Jeep, stopping at the well to put back the heavy lid. Georgia joined him a few minutes later. Delilah eventually meandered over and announced her presence with a thud and a bleat.

  The journey back to the hotel was filled with the haunting strains of Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto no. 3. His plan had backfired in spectacular fashion.

  He’d have to redouble his efforts.

  They arrived back at the hotel, a black cloud on his horizon that he’d have to shake off. He slid out of the driver seat and opened the door for Delilah, who headbutted him in a show of love, then trotted to his neighbors.

  “You don’t lock her up?” Georgia asked, coming to stand beside him. He inhaled her Malibu scent and thoughts of a warm summer evening flashed through his min
d. He was lying on a beach with a cold beer, and a woman in a black bikini walked toward him. Wait. Damn it, she was his Malibu and Fijian fantasy all rolled into one, with a smile that could dim the sun—and dollar signs in her eyes.

  Irritated, he grumbled, “You don’t lock up the ones you love.”

  She looked at him startled.

  He let the line hang like the loaded gun it was. “Everyone here looks out for each other. She knows the way home, same for the cat. No one locks their doors here. I’d hate for that to change.”

  Silence.

  A misty rain started to fall between them.

  “Oh, I thought it had cleared up,” she said, looking skyward. “Just what I need when I’m out and about today.”

  He scrubbed his hands over his face. “You’re driving?”

  “Yeah, I want to see some of the countryside.”

  Her rental was on the street. “Park up here.”

  “I have to manage to park on my own eventually. I can’t have you being my savior every time I come here.”

  Her call, but he’d still move the cars so it would be easier for her later.

  “Hey, I have a project I’m working on. Can I show you tonight?”

  “Another presentation?” He didn’t try to hide the boredom in his words.

  “Yes, but a different one. I’ll make extra strong coffee, so you won’t fall asleep.” A smile pulled at her lips.

  A muscle deep in his jaw spasmed, and he gritted his teeth. “I’ll be working late at the pub.”

  Her expression smoothed. Miss Corporate was back in control. “I’ll wait up, but I’ll see you before that for whatever dinner it is tonight.”

  Since today was Wednesday, it was whatever Ainsley wanted to cook. “Potluck and Pilsner.”

  “Great.” She walked toward the hotel, stopped, then turned. “Thanks for today. It was perfect.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck, then headed toward the pub before the skies unleashed. Something stirred in him, something he didn’t like. Kissing Georgia had been one hell of a big mistake. It would take a while before he could wipe her soft lips from his memory, or the way she’d molded against him. Melted, more accurately. He needed to forget the way her startled eyes had fluttered closed and she’d kissed him back. The moan he was going to have to forget was still circulating through his body, throwing curveballs of hunger to vital organs.

  He’d deal with it the way he dealt with everything: bury the shite out of it in the filing cabinet in his head, and throw away the key.

  Chapter Nine

  Wow.

  The word didn’t cover it. No word did, but the word spun through Georgia’s mind anyway. Now that she was alone and could actually think, her brain wanted to deconstruct the afternoon in a calm and logical manner since there had been nothing calm or logical about what they’d done, but her subconscious was screaming for an instant replay.

  Let’s get straight to the kiss, it hollered.

  Oh Lordy, the kiss.

  First of all, the setting had been perfect, and she’d be lying to herself if she didn’t get a tiny bit wistful at the beauty of the little church and the wishing well. Saying Callum’s name while he said hers with a smile curving his gorgeous scruffy face… Her heart fluttered then tried to burst out of her chest at the memory.

  But the kiss itself… Jesus. Yes, it had been a long time, but surely a girl remembered how to kiss. Thank God she’d snapped out of her shock. His mouth had been demanding, but gentle, like he knew it had been a while. He’d coaxed her to open to him like an expert, deepening the kiss like a lover. Her hands had been in his hair, his hands that had cupped her face with such exquisite gentleness had then moved to cup her ass in a possessive way she liked. Damn it, but she enjoyed it a lot.

  He’d hesitated, and she’d tried to haul him back.

  Ugh.

  Then the ragged breathing had stopped, and he’d backed away and apologized.

  Holy hell, that had hurt, burning straight through to her sluggishly beating heart and carving it neatly in two. Instead of letting her body crumple in on itself when he hugged her, she’d taken a step back.

  Reality had then slammed into her, brutally, whooshing the air from her lungs.

  It had been for show, to throw her off.

  The healthy face of competition.

  Nicely played, Callum MacGregor.

  She walked down the aisle because it would be the only aisle she’d ever walk down and, yeah, wistfulness had settled over her like snowflakes.

  Why she’d gone all misty-eyed and cried was a mystery.

  Yeah, a mystery that starts with the letter C and ends with the letter M.

  He had thrown her off her game. Completely. So, she’d slipped into corporate mode—her safety zone—standing there and pretending the kiss hadn’t ignited her. Pretending she didn’t want to kiss him again. Pretending she didn’t want to do more. Much, much more.

  Because if she admitted to wanting any of those things, she’d have to run to the nearest exit, jump on a plane, and forget this man existed.

  As if she could.

  She was a shaken can of soda about to explode. She had to get control, and she would, she always did, because people were relying on her to do her job. Good people who needed a paycheck. Georgia had never let her boss down, and she wouldn’t start today.

  After he’d finished his shift and she’d stuffed herself with potluck and pilsner, she would blow Callum away with her revamped presentation. She’d incorporate the pictures from their trip to the Grotto in the presentation, and she’d use the pictures she’d been taking of the hotel, so there was no way he wouldn’t surrender to her idea.

  There was that stubborn streak of his, but stubbornness would give way to flat-out logic.

  She walked up the stairs to her room, flicked open her laptop, and wrote emails that, when the service finally kicked in, the messages and proposals to her boss would be on the woman’s laptop.

  Then she emailed her best friend.

  To: Grace Forever-the-Romantic Robinson

  From: Georgia The-Face-of-Corporate-America Paxton

  Subject: Still working on what’s under a Scotsman’s kilt

  Bestie,

  How are you?

  How did your date with Must_Love_Dolphins go?

  I’m in Scotland. It rains a lot, and I think I may be the trigger. Every time I walk outside, a weather bomb hits. The hotel is gorgeous and more than I’d hoped. Turns out that Callum MacGregor isn’t seventy with a pipe, but a very stubborn Scottish Thor who has a goat named Delilah that I adore. You are going to love this. At the pub, the cook has this special sauce, a special Lovesick sauce, that she claims works! I got a jar for you. Will you bail me out when I hit customs when I eventually get back to the U.S.?

  I’ll write soon.

  Should I be planning a porpoise costume as your bridesmaid? Is it SeaWorld themed?

  Love always and forever,

  Georgia.

  P.S. A sloth is powering the internet, I don’t know when you’ll get this.

  There was no point mentioning the kiss because Grace would want to analyze every second of the encounter.

  Georgia emailed her sister next, the message along the same lines as Grace, but not mentioning the eBay auction, because she’d be as crushed as Indiana if she didn’t win the bid. She then sent a chatty but surface email to her parents, having no idea where they were. They’d fire up their laptop, hogging or stealing wifi from a Starbucks or a mall somewhere like normal, and read it together. She could see it.

  Darryl, Georgia’s in Scotland. Did you know that? Pass me the elderflower tea, would you? My aura needs more purple.

  Georgia’s in Scotland? I hope she visits with the Druids. Good folk. Got her wanderlust from us. Too bad Indiana didn’t. Still, she’s happy, and her aura is healthy. Fiona, I can see your aura is off, but I think you need more pink. Try the lemon sage and spearmint tea, and those crystal beads did wonders for my sciatic
a.

  From the day she was born, they’d traveled town to town on her parents’ whim. Sometimes they stayed a month, and she and Indiana would have to enroll in school. It sucked being the new kid, but Georgia had learned not to make friends or get too close to people because it hurt when her parents moved again. Blistered, even, especially when she’d made her very first best friend in Missouri. Hailey’s black hair and green eyes flashed into her mind. She was always popping HubbaBubba. They’d met in fifth grade and were inseparable. After three weeks of best friend bliss, Georgia’s family was on the move. Again. She’d pleaded with her parents to stay, but it didn’t fit with their moon cycles or their auras.

  Georgia had sobbed for days, feeling itchy and angry and restless. She’d wanted the connection, the same teachers, the same friend. Was that too much to ask?

  Something clicked in her the day they left. Clicked on or off, she didn’t know. The itchy restlessness never went away. If anything, it got worse.

  Georgia was her parents’ daughter.

  She worked her tail off to get her GED, then worked even harder for two years at Santa Monica Community College before transferring to UC San Diego for the final years of her communications degree. That’s where she’d met Grace. It was also the longest she’d lived in a single place, and it had nearly killed her. Like all the previous times before, that restless feeling crowded in. Before she knew it, she was packing, and then once graduation rolled around, she was off again, no matter how much she’d have liked to stay with Grace.

  Instead of fighting it, Georgia decided to go with her internal flow. Following her aura, her parents said, very pleased with themselves. The constant movement suited her, and soon, the restlessness faded.

  Now here she was, living her dream.

  She logged off, grabbed her coat, and stuffed Callum’s hat onto her head. In the kitchen, she grabbed some fruit. As much as she’d love another ploughman’s lunch, if she kept eating them she’d split her jeans. Plus, she wasn’t ready to face Callum. She patted Hello Kitty, who lay curled on a chair. She opened one eye, purred, then went back to dreaming.