by Donna Alam
‘What are you making?’ Isobel sits at the table, an empty yoghurt pot and spoon by her open book.
‘Lunch.’ I don’t look up from searing the cut of beef. ‘And don’t ask what it is because I haven’t decided yet.’ Lies. All lies. I’ve been concocting a plan. A way to spend the afternoon. An excursion, if you like, without having to go outside.
‘Beef something, I’d say at a guess.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with your nose.’
‘No, it’s just my taste in men that needs a little work.’
As I look over, her nose is buried in her book once again, so I don’t ask if she means me or the men who came before me. And there’ll be men after you, my less than helpful mind supplies. But I won’t let those thoughts spoil my afternoon.
‘Right, that’s in the oven.’ I straighten, slapping the kitchen towel over my shoulder. ‘I’m gonna shower.’
‘Need any help?’ she asks suggestively.
Hell. This is the one time I don’t want her upstairs with me, but I can’t turn her down without looking suspicious. And I don’t want to hurt her feelings. I’ve been up for getting down pretty much since she sat on my bed and took a hold of my junk.
‘Funnily enough, my doctor did say I was’nae supposed to hold anything heavy,’ I say, making a comic grab of my crotch. ‘But I kind of need you to watch the oven. I think it’s a wee bit temperamental, being new and all, and I wouldn’t want dinner to spoil. No need to look so worried,’ I say, giving her a kiss on the head. ‘If it smells like it’s burning, give me a yell.’
Without giving her worried expression another thought, I take the stairs two at a time.
‘You’ve shaved,’ she says as I reach the bottom of the stairs less than twenty minutes later.
‘Aye, it was getting to that awkward itchy stage,’ I reply, rubbing my jaw. ‘I might also have plans.’ I add a comic wiggle of my brows, giving nothing away.
‘Intriguing.’ As I reach the dining table, she holds her hand up to my face. ‘So smooth.’
‘You like that, do you?’
‘Maybe I’ll tell you later.’ Her hand falls away. Sitting sideways in her chair, she leans back against the wall. ‘The meat didn’t burn, by the way.’
‘What? Oh, yeah. The meat. Good. I’m glad.’
‘Weird.’ She narrows her eyes, though she can’t suppress her smile.
‘Who me? Aye, maybe I am. Weird, I mean.’
‘And getting weirder by the second.’
‘Well,’ I answer, pulling her up from the chair by her hands, ‘this weirdo has run you a bath with bubbles and everything.’ On her feet, she slides her arms around the back of my neck.
‘Are you trying to tell me I smell?’
‘Aye. You reek to high heavens.’ Loosening her hands, I turn her in the direction of the stairs, smacking her arse and making her squeak a little. ‘I don’t know. You try to do something nice and all you get in return is grief.’
‘You’re up to something,’ she says, turning as she reaches the bottom of the stairs.
‘You’re right, I am. But you won’t find out what if you’re going to stand there all night.’ With a smile a mile wide, she darts up the stairs.
‘I’ve left one of my shirts on the bed for you.’
‘Thank you!’
She hasn’t exactly run out of clean clothes but is running low. Hence the loaner T-shirts and stuff. I’m not complaining because I’ve loved seeing her in my stuff. Though I wish I’d had some way of digging out her car after she’d mentioned she’d left her wedding outfit across the back seat. It’d be nice for her to have something nice to wear. But on second thoughts, she’d only ask a million questions why. Also, I wouldn’t get to see her in my shirt.
I check the contents of the oven. All good. Pulling out a bottle of wine, I’m glad and not for not the first time, that I’d brought a mixed case with me for my first trip. I wasn’t planning on drinking it all. I just thought it’d save me from bringing more later this month.
How wrong I was.
Next is crockery, silverware, and glasses. I don’t have table linens, but I did bring candles, just in case. In case of a storm, as a matter of fact. Storm Isobel. They’re only tea lights but will do in a pinch. I light them, popping them into a couple of Moroccan looking glasses chosen by the decorator. I’m pleased I’d passed the decorating onto her. The little touches have made all the difference to the place, though I doubt I’d have been playing Scrabble by myself. Her services came at a cut rate given that I’ve pushed a little work her way recently.
Placing the tea lights in the middle of the table, I uncork a bottle of Merlot and leave it on the table to breathe, then quickly throw a couple of small salads together. I’ll grill the halloumi last minute, I think. I turn to rinse my hands under the tap, wishing I’d brought pomegranate molasses to go with the apple and watercress salad. The thought makes me smile—strange enough that I bought halloumi most people would think. But I like good food and being single has meant I’ve become a braw cook, if I do say so myself. And I do. Also, I find I like cooking for Isobel. I flick off the mixer tap, my gaze caught on something in the window.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
The snow on the roof is dripping to the ground as it melts. Along with it goes my heart. I don’t move again until I start to hear her sing. Not sing exactly, more hum a little tune, followed by the sound of water moving around the bathtub.
I make my way to the sofa, pulling out the garment bag from where I’d shoved it while Isobel wasn’t looking, my jaw tight and my mood well and truly ebbing. My trip to the bank on Monday is to speak to the business manager. Business is growing, and I need a short-term loan, maybe an overdraft, so I’d packed a suit. I thought I’d best turn up looking like the businessman I purport to be, rather than like Josh, my jean-clad apprentice.
I’m a wee bit too old to be an apprentice.
You’re also a wee bit old to be playing silly games.
‘What are you doing down there?’
Her sweet voice makes me remember the reason behind this convoluted piece of madness—the stuff of stupid rom-coms and fluffy magazines. I’m doing this for her. For the woman who needs to realise there’s a good man out there for her.
It’s just a shame that man can’t be me.
Come on, move it, fucker. And not to the stairs, and certainly not up the stairs to ask if she needs help washing her back. Or elsewhere. But the sound of her humming and the sluicing of water are so very tempting. But no, I need to get on with my plans. This isn’t about me. This is about making her feel good. And while washing her thoroughly would undoubtably make her feel very fucking good, I have other goals in mind just now.
‘Nothing,’ I call back blandly. ‘How’s your bath?’ I throw the garment back across the sofa, pulling the zipper very slowly, which, on reflection, is a bit daft. ‘How’s the water?’
‘Just perfect. You should join me.’
My dick twitches. Not helpful, pal. ‘I wish I could. But . . . my meat.’ Is rock fucking hard right now, and right now is neither the time nor the place.
‘I have just the thing for your meat.’ Her laughter is low and throaty, the water swirling again. Swirling between her soft skin and the porcelain tub. The bubbles will have disappeared by now, revealing the dusky pink of her nipples and her creamy skin.
No, down, lad. Fucking great. Now who’s the mental case? The girl in the bath or the loon talking to his knob?
‘I’m waiting . . . ’ she calls, her voice full of temptation again.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!
Chapter 18
IZZY
Whatever Greg is cooking down there smells heavenly, so I’ll forgive him for not coming upstairs to wash my back . . . and parts otherwise.
Actually, I really do feel a little bit peeved, though I’m really trying not to be. I attempt to put on a brave face, mainly because I feel a little silly. I’d put myself out there, I suppose. Pushed myself a li
ttle out of my comfort zone by calling down to him. I’m not a natural coquette by any stretch of the imagination, and I felt a little silly tempting him in, what I hope was, a sultry tone.
And what did I get for trying? More feelings of silliness, a sense of inadequacy, and rebuffed. Turned down for a piece of beef, of all things.
Stop, I silently plead with my reflection. Just stop making this all about you. Smack that internal whiny little voice and pull up your big girl knickers. You go for what you want in your professional life. It’s time you apply the same attitude to your personal side.
Especially the very personal.
The hair at the base of my skull is still damp, so I pull it up into a messy topknot before sliding on my mismatched underwear—a lacy white bra and a pair of black tanga-cut knickers. Not that it matters because it’s not likely he’ll be interested in them anyway. Stop!
I pull on my skinny jeans—jeans are good for several days of wear as far as I’m concerned—before sliding my arms into Greg’s white business shirt. Given the remote setting of the cottage, a button-down shirt seems to be an odd thing to have, I consider, as I fold the sleeves to the elbows, though I suppose he might’ve brought clothes for every eventuality. Or maybe just for storage.
Or maybe this place isn’t really his, and it’s really been your holiday cottage all along.
I push away that because really, why would that matter right now? If it weren’t for Greg, I’m not sure what I would’ve done. It’s a good job he brought both adequate clothing and food stuffs plus all the little luxuries like rum, chocolate liqueur, and wine, and I should thank my lucky stars for it—and for him—even if I’m in the right place and he’s not. Or whatever.
In the dressing table mirror, my complexion is flushed, but I think that’s from the bath rather than from still being cross with myself. Get over yourself, Izzy. I shake my head in exasperation, then make my way down the stairs.
‘The roast beef smells delicious, but you know it’s not Sunday, don’t you?’
As I reach the bottom of the stairs, I swing a little on the pine newel post, coming to face the kitchen and a vision in a jet-black suit. My heart does a little pitter-pat, because yes, Greg works the hell out of the rugged look, but who knew he scrubbed up so well. The suit, the shining black oxfords, and a white shirt open at the collar. If I thought he wasn’t quite catwalk material before, I was wrong. He’d certainly give David Gandy a run for his money, and that’s without the bonus of his accent.
‘You’ve dressed for . . . dinner?’
‘I’ve dressed for you.’
Oh. My. God. Does that mean I get to undress my gift, as well?
‘I’m only sorry I hadn’t packed my kilt.’ What! Imagine that kind of package—I mean, present!
‘And does a Scotsman wear anything under his kilt?’ I ask oh-so sweetly.
‘If I did, it would’nae be a kilt, it’d be skirt.’ So many interesting sounds in that last little word. With that accent, it’s no wonder he has such a dexterous tongue . . .
‘I feel a little underdressed,’ I reply, touching my hand to my chest with a shy smile. He dressed for me? But why?
‘You’re a wee bit more overdressed than I’d counted for. I thought I’d hidden your jeans,’ he replies pointing at them as his other hand rubs his smooth chin.
Dimple alert! Dimple alert!
‘These were under the bed,’ I reply with an amused half frown as he stalks towards me. Actually, that’s not right. There isn’t enough space between us for me to receive the full stalking effect. ‘Remind me to ask you to walk for me outdoors sometime, would you?’
‘And why?’ As he reaches me, it’s his turn to look bemused as he takes my hand and slides it into the crook of his arm.
‘Just humour me.’
‘Right,’ he answers. ‘Like I haven’t spent the past few days doing just that.’ He leads me over to the dining table and pulls out my chair.
‘My, aren’t we formal.’ I chance a look at him, my little Grinch-y heart filled to the brim. Whatever the reason, he’s gone to such an effort. The suit. The candles. The delicious smell coming from the kitchen. The radio playing softly in the background, a station playing something other than the dreaded Christmas music. ‘This is so lovely.’ I catch his hand, giving it a squeeze before he retreats to the other side of the small table.
‘Well, it’s not quite the hotel you were meant to be staying at today.’ He picks up the wine, weighing his answer for the minute as he studies the label. ‘I was sorry you missed your friend’s wedding but I’m not sorry you’re here.’ His smile is a little wicked as he begins to fill my glass. ‘I din’nae regret that one little bit. Not for one minute. And while I can’t make it so you could see your friend get wed, I can make it so that you’ve a date for the day.’
‘You’re my wedding date?’ My words come out in a sort of strangled squeak.
‘Of course. No singles table for you, darlin’. However, I’m also the chef and the waiter, so if you’ll just give me a minute, I’ll go grab the first course.’
The food is gorgeous—halloumi on a bed of peppery salad, and though he complains about not having the right components, it’s bloody delicious. Tender beef and tiny roast potatoes served with jus or gravy, as Greg called it, and tender broccolini. Better than the food is his delightful company. He’s a lovely man to begin with, but this afternoon, he really does take us both on a trip to charming town.
Destination: bed, hopefully.
‘That was so good.’ Leaning back from the table, I consider the remains, which amounts to barely a gravy or jus stain on my plate. ‘I bet I’ve put on five pounds in the past few days, and I really don’t care.’
‘I wouldn’t think so. Not with the amount of horizontal exercise we’ve had.’
‘That’s the key to your physique, is it? Lots of sex?’
‘Manual labour, mostly,’ he answers. ‘And the odd trip to the gym. You’re no slouch yourself, buns of steel.’
‘Thanks to my twice a week spinning class.’ I slap my hip rather than my bum, it being otherwise engaged keeping me in my seat.
‘Pity you eat so much rubbish.’
‘Not all of us can be gastronomes, Greg. I’m in the office for seven most mornings and rarely out before seven the same day. I’m time poor. Where did you learn to cook, anyway?’
‘The school of hard knocks that is life.’ I wait for him to elaborate, though the pause seems pregnant somehow. ‘I was a latchkey kid. My parents were always working, trying to keep a roof over our head. Marie, my sister, started me off by teaching me how to make cheese on toast and that kind of stuff when I was about ten. Better than potato waffles and cheap sausages, she’d said. It turns out she was right, and from there, it just blossomed. I like to eat decent food, so I had to learn to cook for myself.’
‘You could’ve gone into the restaurant business.’
‘Nah, that life wasn’t for me. Too high pressure. I work to live, not the other way around.’
‘So what does Greg do in his downtime?’
‘When I’m not doing you, you mean?’ His dark eyes positively shine in the candlelight, lustrous with dirty thoughts. I want to know all of them, intimately, but I’m also greedy for knowledge of him. His daily life, his dreams. All of it.
‘Yes, when you’re not making me, how did it go again?’ Picking up my glass, I stare at him over the rim. ‘Sigh with your kisses, beg for your tongue, and scream while we fucked.’ My cheeks might be burning up a storm at my boldness, but Greg appears to be lapping it up, judging by his smile.
‘I think you might have paraphrased, but that was the general idea.’ He hooks his arm over the back of his chair, his posture one of careless confidence.
‘You didn’t answer.’
‘Are you asking if, when I’m not doing you, am I doing other women?’
‘No . . . and yes, I suppose.’ I really just wanted to know how he spends his downtime, but if he’s in sharing
mode, who am I to complain?
Well, I’m not a monk,’ he says, picking up his wine glass. I watch him contemplate the blood-red liquid, the heat in his dark gaze catching me off guard as his gaze lifts. ‘But I’m not a whore, either. Except where I play one for you.’
Need floods my body, hot and swift.
‘I think I might’ve mentioned you could make a fortune in that business, but you’re more the knight in shining armour type. You’ve certainly taken care of this damsel in distress.’
‘It was my pleasure.’
‘You’ve opened my world to that, too. Pleasure, I mean. I just wish there was some way to thank you.’
‘You have. A thousandfold. But if you want to thank me again, you can let me have this dance.’
I pause. The radio is playing so quietly at first, I don’t recognise the song. But then I do. A song I haven’t heard in a long while.
Death Cab for Cutie. I Will Follow You Into The Dark.
I don’t know about following him into the dark, but I do place my hand in his and follow him into the living room. He takes my right hand in his, kissing my fingertips before pressing our joined hands to his chest over his heart. It feels so familiar, like we’ve done this a thousand times as I bring my free hand to his shoulder and Greg places his low on my spine as he pulls my body flush with his.
Cheek to cheek, we sway to the almost haunting melody without a word spoken between us, so much feeling but nothing said.
I open my eyes as the final note rings out, Greg’s fingers tilting my face to his. His kiss is soft and delicate but not tentative.
‘You’re so beautiful.’ His dark eyes stare down at me, his words reverently whispered against my lips.
It’s perfect. So bloody perfect. The meal. The wine. The dance. His kiss. I don’t ever want the experience to end. But as with all good things, endings must come. Ours in the form of the next song the radio plays, a happy, clappy beat breaking the spell.