Surprise Package

by Donna Alam

  ‘I dunno who Mo is and—’

  ‘Hmm.’ She folds her arms. ‘Okay. And I suppose that’s because he paid you by credit card. Do you happen facilitate your services through a discreet and anonymous website?’

  ‘I do have a website,’ I confirm. Hamley’s Interiors. I’m a bespoke cabinet maker. ‘But an anonymous website seems like a bit of an oxymoron. You can’nae sell a secret.’

  ‘Lord,’ she says, bringing a hand to her head. ‘I don’t know what you or Mo were expecting, but this isn’t happening. I know I haven’t had sex in a while, but I’m not that desperate!’

  ‘Okay, oversharing Annie. First off, I dunno anyone called Mo. Second, you’re in my bedroom. You don’t seem to grasp that, darlin’.’ Not that I’m complaining. Not yet, anyway.

  ‘So masterful,’ she deadpans. ‘Did he tell you to say that, too? It does seem like the kind of thing he’d say,’ she says, flipping her hand in a carefree gesture. It’s exactly the kind of move meant to hide the little hurts. ‘He’s always telling me that’s the kind of man I need in my life. The take-charge manly man—the alpha.’ Her eyes flare a little comically, deflecting from her pain again. ‘I just can’t seem to get it through his thick head that a quick shag or a meaningless fumble won’t solve my issues. There’s a reason I’m alone. It’s not the men I date who are at fault in the bedroom, it’s the other way around!’

  Fuck me, women can be complicated creatures. Men, we’re easy. You don’t have to do anything special to please us. You just have to turn up and look interested enough.

  ‘Darlin’, listen—’

  ‘It’s not my fault I just don’t get sex! I mean I get it, the attraction and the tingles, but when it boils down to it? Pfft! Nothing—boring!’

  ‘I think that’s the sort of thing you should talk about with your friends.’ She looks back at me blankly. Maybe she’s shocked that she’s divulged as much. ‘You know, when you have your pals around, and the lot of you are into your sixth bottle of prosecco, then someone breaks out the all-men-are-shite talk?’

  ‘Your cheeks have gone red.’ Her tone is accusing, her gaze no longer fiery but full of mirth. Or it might be more madness.

  ‘Aye, well, I don’t want you to embarrass yourself.’

  ‘Huh.’ She tilts her head to the side like a terrier I used to own. My ex-wife got him, too. ‘Well, why should I expect anything different?’ she says, her shoulders lifting and falling in a motion of futility. ‘I can’t get off in the bedroom, so it stands to reason I’d end up with the most squeamish male escort in town.’

  Oookay. We’re getting to the heart of the matter. A lack of orgasm would make me a wee bit crazy, too.

  ‘Far be it from me to interrupt your soliloquy, hen, but I’m certainly not squeamish. And I’d like to point out that you and I have never done the dirty deed. If we had, you’d remember. And you wouldn’t be over there ranting. You’d be over here—’

  ‘I bet your dirty talk game is pretty weak.’

  ‘—sitting on my face.’ My dirty talk game is just fine, thanks.

  ‘You . . . I . . . ’

  Once she realises she’s catching flies again, she closes her mouth with a snap. Her eyes do one more sweep of my person, her gaze now appearing unimpressed. But she can pretend all she likes ’cause I saw her the flare in her gaze just now. And I saw her gawking when I turned on the light. But then my mind snags on something she said.

  ‘Hang on—back up a bit. Male escort?’

  ‘Don’t try to deny it. This had Mo written all over it.’

  ‘Aye, whatever. I need you to back up a bit more. Who is this Mo, and what has he got to do wi’ it?’

  ‘Really? We’re playing that game. Fine, we’ll talk about Mo, but first you need to put your money where your mouth is.’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘Like you could make me,’ she says with a derisive huff.

  A burst of laughter explodes from my throat. ‘If I wasn’t so sure you’d escaped from some kind of secure mental facility, I might take you up on that.’

  ‘That’s rich coming from a man who has sex for money.’

  ‘Chance would be a fine thing,’ I grumble, dragging my hands down my tired face. I don’t know any single man who wouldn’t fuck someone as lovely looking as her, and that’s without the added incentive of cash—even as mental as she is.

  ‘Oh. Are you one of those gigolo types who only dates for cash? No,’ she adds quickly, answering her own question. Because why on earth would she need me for a conversation? ‘That wouldn’t make sense. You wouldn’t be in naked and in my bed. Besides, why would Mo book—’

  ‘Fuck Mo,’ I growl, throwing back the bedding. Her eyes widen, and she stumbles back. So much for her big talk. If the prospect of seeing cock has her clutching her pearls, she can’t handle male escorts, fake or otherwise. And what kind of man climbs under the covers wearing pyjama pants when he’s expecting a woman to join him? If I’d known she was coming, I was more likely to wrap a ribbon around it. ‘I dunno about you, but I need a drink.’

  ‘Oh, Lord.’ Her pale dainty hand spreads across her chest. ‘You had me worried for a minute there.’ Her fingers pressed against her skin seem to remind her of her somewhat underdressed state, her hand hovering ineffectually over her pink and black bra before she swings around to face the wall.

  ‘Dinnae fash,’ I mutter as I brush past her on my way to the stairs, trying not to inhale any more of her floral scent than is necessary. ‘Your modesty’s safe with me just now.’

  Chapter 4

  IZZY

  ‘Come on, Mo. Pick up the phone.’

  I’m wearing my sweater once again—I can’t believe I had that whole exchange without realising how I was dressed. Or undressed. And of course, he didn’t think to point it out to me. And why would he? I’m sure he’s seen women in worse states of undress. Why does the thought make me shiver? Ridiculous, because me standing in front of him in my bra probably didn’t even register on his scale of illicit, beyond the whole jiggling jibe, that is.

  With my head full of grumbling thoughts, I pull my still slightly damp hair up into a loose bun, then sweep the run of mascara from beneath my eyes, ignoring the bumps and thuds and grousing drifting up from the floor below.

  What the hell is going on right now? I think as I swipe my phone from the dresser and select Mo’s number.

  The call connects, and it rings. And rings.

  ‘Come on, you flaming pink pain in my rear end, pick up the damn phone!’

  ‘Is he no’ asleep?’ comes a voice from downstairs. ‘Normal people tend to do so during the wee hours, so I’m told.’

  ‘Thank you Captain Obvious,’ I mutter, ignoring the heavier emphasis on the word normal as the ring tone dies, the call connecting.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ comes the gigolo’s reply.

  You’ve reached the message box of Mo, and darling, it’s the only kind of box I’ll ever be in. Leave your message after—

  ‘Urgh!’ I end the call, throwing my phone onto the mattress, but then pick it up immediately. I dial Mo’s number once more and take myself and the phone off into the bathroom, closing the door behind me. Like the rest of the cottage, this room is compact, stylish, and functional, and just like the bedroom, the rafters are exposed, and the walls a mixture of stone and pale tile. A glass shower enclosure takes up one entire wall, and a square basin sits above a dark cabinet. Not that I’m here to admire how the room has been finished, as my call connects once more.

  ‘Mo, you devil, what have you done?’ I whisper harshly. ‘I didn’t think for one minute your surprise package would be a dick! An escort, for goodness’ sakes? What were you thinking? I know you loved hearing how Will and Sadie fell in love while he pretended to be an escort, but you seem to forget that Will was only pretending! I’m sure had he really slept with women for money, Sadie wouldn’t have been so keen on marrying him, let alone sleeping with him!’ I can hear my voice getting loud, even
while whispering. ‘And yes, I know before you even say it . . . he could’ve made a fortune in that line of work because the man got more arse than a toilet seat, but that’s beside the point! What—he—I can’t believe you did this to me!’ Annoyed and frustrated, I hang up. But as I catch a glance of my flushed expression in the mirror, I call back immediately.

  You’ve reached . . .

  ‘Yes, yes. Get on with it,’ I mutter. ‘Ah, Mo. It’s me again. It really is a nice package from what I can tell, so thank you. Though I’m not sure if the plan was yours or his for him to greet me in bed, but it was a little forward, don’t you think? I know your heart’s in the right place, even if your mind is in the gutter most of the time. God knows where he’s going to sleep, and yes, you can take that to mean there won’t be any copulating. It’s just not worth it for me. I’ll call in the morning.’

  And then I hang up. Again.

  As I can’t get any answers from Mo, I’m unsure of my next move. I mean, I know what I can’t do. I can’t leave, certainly not in this weather and at this time of night. Where would I go? It’s not like I could sleep in the car, unless I want to die of hypothermia. Besides, I paid for this place. If anyone should leave, it should be him. And surely sending him home, sans sexy times, would be a bonus to him—sort of the same as me being paid for a day’s work but only staying until lunchtime. I’d be doing him a favour, wouldn’t I?

  One thing is for certain. I can’t hide up in the bathroom for the rest of the evening. Also, hiding in the bedroom could be seen as an invitation, so I’ll have to go downstairs. Feeling at least a little more resolute, if not stronger, I straighten the hem of my sweater and slide away a few errant wisps of hair before opening the bathroom door.

  ‘Here, I poured you a wee dram,’ he says from the kitchen as I reach the bottom of the staircase. He’s added a white T-shirt to the navy plaid pyjama pants since he’d made his way downstairs. I suppose the fact that we’re both fully clothed can only benefit our continued exchange. Not that I can’t say I’m disappointed because that is a whole lot of man standing in front of those kitchen cabinets.

  ‘What are you smiling at?’ he asks, his own mouth half curled in amusement. His eyes are the colour of chocolate, I realise.

  ‘Nothing. Nothing at all.’ Because I absolutely wasn’t imagining whipping off my sweater again while uttering some corny porn-worthy dialogue in an attempt to see what’s under his T-shirt again.

  Gosh, it’s so hot in here. I think we should take off all our clothes.

  And from there, my mind skips to crazy town.

  I wonder what kind of kisser he is?

  Soft lips and strokes of tongue?

  Would he be generous?

  Commanding? Demanding?

  Good Lord, stop!

  As though there’s a chance he can read my thoughts, I keep my gaze from his as I make my way to the countertop where he places my glass, before backing himself up against the sink on the other side of the kitchen. Feet crossed at the ankles, he appears to be contemplating the inch of amber liquid in the glass he holds in his hand. I don’t know whether it’s a trick of the light or the reflection of his drink that brings out the amber tones in his still sleep-mussed hair.

  ‘Thanks, er . . .’ God, this is so embarrassing. What was his name again?

  ‘It’s Greg, hen,’ he supplies in a much kindlier tone than I would’ve were the circumstances reversed.

  ‘Sorry,’ I murmur, my cheeks immediately heating. Sorry for forgetting your name, Greg the Giglio. I almost giggle at the thought, rolling my lips inward instead. ‘That’s the second time you’ve called me hen.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Yes. Why?’ Is it because I’m cute or he enjoys ruffling my feathers? His answer dashes those thoughts, PDQ.

  ‘Because you’ve been peckin’ my head since you arrived.’

  ‘Oh.’ Hmm. Well, I know where I stand, I suppose. And I know I am a little full on, a little demanding, but it comes with the job.

  ‘So Greg,’ Greg repeats, touching the glass to his chest. I can’t help but notice his expression is curiously indulgent. ‘And it seems there’s a Mo, which just leaves you. And you are . . . ?’

  ‘Oh. Isobel,’ I supply, grasping the tumbler from the counter. ‘Izzy, actually.’

  ‘Hmm. I can’t see it,’ he says.

  ‘I’m pretty sure that’s my name. At least, that’s what my parents have been calling me for almost thirty years.’ The way I look at it is, under thirty-five is closer to thirty than forty. Therefore, I’m almost thirty if anyone asks. If they take that to mean I’m not yet thirty, which I suppose is technically twenty-nine, that’s not my fault either, is it?

  ‘Really? You don’t look a day over twenty-five.’ Oh, this man is good. Compliments and whisky delivered in pyjamas. ‘But I meant you don’t look like an Izzie. Definitely more an Isobel.’ I’m not sure if it’s his tone or the way his eyes roam over me that heats more than just my cheeks this time as I bring the glass to my lips. And come up spluttering.

  ‘Oh, Jesus. Whisky?’

  ‘Well, it wasn’t likely to be juice, was it?’

  ‘You might’ve warned me! I was expecting something nice, like amaretto.’

  ‘She thinks amaretto’s nice?’ He sounds more than a little mildly disgusted. ‘It’s like marzipan in liquid form—and you can’nae get drunk on cake,’ he protests.

  ‘So you’re trying to get me drunk?’

  ‘If it’ll make you shut your trap,’ he mutters. ‘Upstairs, I didn’t say I need cake, did I? I said I. Need. A. Drink.’

  ‘Need a drink?’ I repeat a little sharply.

  ‘Aye, and I’ll be needing another one right after this one.’

  ‘Do you have a problem?’

  His eyebrows draw together as he replies, ‘Aye. I’m lookin’ at her.’

  ‘Look,’ I begin in a friendlier tone, ‘I think we have a few things to straighten out.’

  ‘Absolutely.’ He places his glass down, then folds his arms across his chest. ‘First things first, this is my place. I own it.’

  ‘How can that be? No, absolutely not. I paid to stay here for the next few days. I have a wedding to attend over on the Isle of Lewis. I booked my stay months ago.’

  ‘A few months ago, this place wasn’t fit for the sheep that wandered in and out of the place. It was a midden—a ruin, y’ken.’

  ‘No, I saw photographs of the interior,’ I reply evenly. Even if I can’t remember every detail, the place looks familiar. Apart from the bath in the bedroom but that’s a small thing to overlook.

  ‘Face it. You’ve come to the wrong place.’

  ‘No,’ I repeat firmly. ‘You’re wrong. The navigation system brought me here, right to the front door!’

  ‘Because those things have never been wrong before, have they? Especially in the Highlands where some roads don’t even have actual names.’

  ‘And the cottage name was on the fence post—and the key was exactly where the letting agent said it would be. And I also recognise the interior as the place I booked!’ I think. Maybe? ‘This is definitely the right place.’ It has to be.

  ‘Think what you like and say what you like, but this is my house.’ His accent renders the word hoose, his tone firm. ‘And I haven’t rented it out.’

  ‘Okay, fine. Prove it,’ I retort.

  ‘I don’t need to.’

  ‘Maybe because you can’t?’

  ‘See this food,’ he says, turning to the produce littering the benchtop, gourmet and otherwise. ‘I brought this with me earlier today. See that throw on the arm of the couch? Mine.’

  ‘You have exquisite taste.’ It’s definitely cashmere; I brushed my hand against it as I passed.

  ‘Aye, well, that’s the decorator’s taste you commend. The rest I did myself. But the whisky you hold in your hand? The glass? All mine.’

  I attempt another sip of my drink at his reminder, my second attempt going down much more smoothly tha
n the first. ‘Okay, well, if I’m wrong, I’m wrong.’ Even though I know I’m not. ‘It should be easy enough to confirm, just let me see your driver’s license or a utility bill.’

  ‘Not that I have to show you—’

  ‘Oh, you do,’ I answer sweetly. Sweet with a sting in its tail. ‘That is, if you want me to leave.’

  ‘—but I can’t.’ My responding expression is a might smug. ‘This is the first time I’ve stayed here. I don’t have anything official with me, nothing with the address, anyway. Not that it matters, because this place? It’s been in my family for generations.’

  ‘What a pity you don’t have generations of proof.’

  ‘Ocht, it’s been abandoned since the sixties, so of course, I don’t have any proof. I mean, I do. There are plenty in the village who know me. The solicitor has paperwork and stuff.’

  I don’t reply but for the sceptical rise of one brow. Taking another sip of the burning liquid, I relish in the heat it sends to my extremities this time.

  ‘Fine. Where do you keep your coffee mugs?’

  ‘I don’t drink coffee,’ he answers instantly.

  ‘Then why is there a bag of beans behind you?’ His expression hardens, but it doesn’t deter me. ‘Come on, where do you keep your drinking receptacles?’

  ‘What for?’ Whit fir? ‘You have a glass already.’

  ‘I just want to know where you keep them. That is, unless you don’t know.’ As his mouth becomes little more than a thin line, a bark of laughter breaks free from my chest. ‘Ha! I knew it. You don’t know where they are, do you?’

  ‘It doesn’t mean anything,’ he mutters.

  ‘No, nothing at all. Except what kind of person doesn’t know where they keep their cups and mugs, for God’s sake!’

  ‘There’s nothing for it. We’ll have to wait until the mornin’ to sort this out. If you behave yourself, I might let you stay.’

  ‘I think you mean if you behave yourself, I might let you stay. And just so we’re clear, I’m not sleeping with you, escort or not.’