Forcing a polite smile, Izzy said, “I got your messages. I’m so sorry I didn’t call you back, but I’ve been super busy with the festival. Are you entering the games this year?”
“Of course. I have to keep the streak alive.” Holt curled his right arm and made his biceps strain at his T-shirt. He had won the Laird of the Games athletic prize three years running. It was given to the man who averaged the highest over all the events.
Holt turned his focus on Alasdair, his eyes narrowing as if was assessing how far he could toss the other man. Alasdair met the semi-civilized aggression with his own brand of belligerence, his arms crossed over his chest, his jaw set. The cloud of testosterone and posturing confused her.
Darting a glance back and forth between them, she said, “Where are my manners? Alasdair Blackmoor, Holt Pierson.”
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Alasdair stuck a hand out.
Holt stared at Alasdair’s outstretched hand for a heartbeat too long before meeting him halfway for a perfunctory shake. The toothy smile that spread over Holt’s face didn’t lighten the contentious atmosphere. “Likewise. Sounds to me like you’re kin to Ms. Rose’s Scottish friend.”
“Not kin, but a mate of Gareth’s, yes.”
“Will you be entering the games?” Holt asked.
“Unfortunately, I won’t still be here.”
“Oh well.” Holt flicked his gaze up and down Alasdair. “You don’t look like you’ve ever handled a caber anyhow.”
“I can’t say I make a habit of tossing around trees,” Alasdair said as coolly as James Bond facing down a nemesis.
“Izzy and I went through school together.” Holt’s voice was oddly territorial. “We’ve been friends for years now.”
“That’s nice. How long have we known each other, Isabel?” Alasdair raised his eyebrows, the twinkle of amusement in his eyes surprising her.
“Two days?” How was that possible? Already Alasdair had planted roots in her head like kudzu.
“No one calls her Isabel.” Holt snorted. “She hates it.”
“Do you hate it?” Alasdair cocked his head and regarded her, waiting for her to confirm or deny.
She couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t been called Izzy by almost everyone. It had been her daddy’s nickname for her. “Isabel” belonged to a ballerina or a socialite who dressed to impress. Someone sophisticated. “Izzy” belonged to an awkward girl who fell off stages and too often said the wrong thing.
Except hearing her given name roll off Alasdair’s tongue in his husky brogue made her insides tingle like she’d plugged into an electrical source. “I like it when you call me Isabel.”
Alasdair and Izzy exchanged a smile that left Holt out.
“You mind if I borrow Izzy for a second?” Holt was an unwelcome insertion.
“Isabel isn’t an umbrella to be loaned, but if you’d like a moment of privacy, by all means…” Alasdair linked his hands behind his back and strolled away.
“That was rude, don’t you think?” Holt asked.
Izzy didn’t give Holt the agreement he sought. She stared at Alasdair’s broad back as he stopped to window-shop at Frannie’s Antiques and Florist. With effort, she returned her focus to Holt. “What’s up?”
A deep nervous rumble came from Holt’s throat. “I was wondering if you want to get dinner with me this week. I had a great time the other night and … well, I’d like to see you again.”
A second date. She hadn’t even been sure their first dinner had been a date until he’d picked up the check at the end. She and Holt had known each other since kindergarten. Through playground antics and acne and prom (which they had attended with different people). The transition from old friends to a romantic couple had seemed a stretch a week ago. Now, it felt downright impossible.
When she didn’t immediately answer, his voice took on a cajoling tone. “If not dinner, how about a drink at the Dancing Jig? I actually had an idea for the festival I wanted to run by you. Come on. No pressure. Please?”
Except, he was pressuring her. The Piersons were supportive of the festival and sponsored one of the food tents. She didn’t want to jeopardize that relationship by hurting Holt’s feelings, even if accepting left her with a squirmy feeling in her stomach. “Okay. A quick drink to discuss your idea. I’m slammed right now.”
They firmed up the time. Izzy walked away feeling like she’d made a bargain with the devil. After only two days, Alasdair knew more about her than Holt did, which was disturbing on multiple fronts. Why was she allowing herself to get close to a man who was leaving in days? Or was that exactly why she felt safe enough to share with him?
“What did your erstwhile suitor want?” Alasdair asked when she joined him in front of Frannie’s, the explosive display of flowers and greenery beautiful.
The admission she’d agreed to meet Holt for drinks got stuck in her throat, though she couldn’t say why. Alasdair wouldn’t care, and she wasn’t interested in Holt anyway. She and Alasdair might even share a laugh over it. Nonetheless, the not-date felt like a breach of a trust—a breach that was wholly in her imagination.
“The Piersons have been festival sponsors for years.” Nervous heat flared at her non-answer.
“Isn’t that nice,” Alasdair said in not very nice voice.
Unable to read the situation and feeling uncomfortable, she shifted and restarted their stroll. It was times like this when her mouth ran away from her brain. Not this time though. She consciously steered them to a different topic. “You know, if you keep growing a beard, you and Gareth will look like father and son.”
It took her two steps to realize he’d stopped in his tracks.
“Why would you say that?” The tension pulling his mouth into a frown gave her the impression of anger. But why?
“I don’t know. Mr. Timmerman got me thinking about how much you favor Gareth.”
“Gareth is not my da. My da is dead.” His voice was flat and emotionless.
“I know. Sorry I brought it up.” She waved toward the white steeple soaring behind them to stabilize the shaky ground she found herself on with him and gestured toward the truck. “Let’s head over to the church and get the centerpieces and stuff.”
The church sat behind the main thoroughfare on an oak-lined street. Built in the late 1800s, the church was a picturesque white clapboard building set with stain-glassed windows and a tall steeple. The deep red front doors were bright and welcoming against the white, but she bypassed them to circle around back to the bricked two-story extension added in the seventies to accommodate a growing congregation.
She parked close to the utilitarian doors of the entrance and let down the tailgate to make loading easier. As promised, the church was unlocked. The white concrete-block hallway was oppressively quiet and Izzy found herself tiptoeing.
The storeroom’s dark gray metal door stood ajar at the end of a dim hallway. This part of the church smelled like crayons and cleaners. As a kid, she had spent every Sunday morning in one of the rooms learning Bible stories. Since she’d started writing, she skipped church in favor of working on her manuscript, showing up sporadically and only at her mom’s prodding.
“I’ll pull the stuff we need into the hall if you want to load it in the truck bed.” She kept her tone brisk and brief. The mood between them had shifted and she didn’t know how to get them back to their earlier ease.
With the door wedged three feet open with a wooden triangle, she slipped inside the crammed room, jamming her toe on the doorstop. She pulled the chain of a single light bulb swinging from the ceiling to reveal a catchall of items. Paper and pens and glass votives and silk flowers. Christmas decorations took up one corner and Easter another. An entire shelf was dedicated to the glory of tartan.
She squatted and pulled a cardboard box from under a length of fake garland, opening it to verify the contents. Red and green tapers lined the box. A deepening shadow cut across the room and spun her around. Alasdair was fully ins
ide, examining a figurine stashed on a shelf. The door was swinging shut, gaining momentum as it strived to make fools of the unsuspecting.
“Don’t”—she barked the word and scrambled for the knob, finishing on a whisper of dread as the clang of it shutting faded into silence—“let the door close.”
Chapter Six
“What’s the matter?” Alasdair shifted away from a nativity scene made up of people and animals in tartan.
Izzy jiggled the knob and pushed, already knowing it was useless but needing to try. “The door is notorious for getting stuck closed. That’s what the wedge was for.” The one she had knocked cattywampus. Not that she planned to admit this was her fault.
“Here. Allow me.” In his voice was a manly confidence she hoped he could back up with Herculean strength.
She stepped back and made a “be my guest” flourish with her hands. The top of her head knocked the dangling light bulb. It pulsed light as if gasping its last watts. Alasdair dueled with the door. He twisted the knob and set one shoulder into the door, grunting with the effort. His back muscles put on a show under his black T-shirt. Yet, the door didn’t budge.
He braced both hands against the door and leaned all his weight into the push. The seams of his pants strained, and his T-shirt edged up exposing a strip of skin. The dip along his spine was flanked by muscles and absolutely no fat.
He straightened, shuffled his hands through his hair, and linked them at his nape, giving the door a meaningless kick. She sidestepped around him and spent fruitless minutes banging and yelling. No one else had been parked in the lot. Preacher Hopkins had probably gone for food or to visit a sick parishioner. They were alone and stuck.
“Why did you follow me in? I said I would hand everything out to you.” Misplaced or not, her frustration boiled over. The small space kept them within two feet of each other at all times.
“Oh, this is my fault? How was I to know the door was crafted by Satan’s hand?” He leaned against the door, crossing his arms over his chest. The light cast harsh shadows over his face.
“It wasn’t made by Satan; just installed by him.” She rubbed her temples. “The door is a known menace. The choir director got stuck after practice one Wednesday night and her husband didn’t notice until morning, which raised all sorts of questions as to how he spent his evening.”
His lips twitched but a smile didn’t crack through his irritation. “You might have warned me volunteering to help you would lead to my untimely death in a church cupboard.”
“No one is going to die.” The closet was getting stuffier by the minute. Either the air-conditioning didn’t extend to the small room or the vents were being blocked by boxes. “Probably.”
“Probably?” This time a hint of exasperated amusement was reflected in his raised brows. “Do you have service on your mobile?”
Izzy couldn’t look him in the eye. “I sort of left my phone in the truck. Blame fashion designers.”
“What does a bloody designer have to do with your mobile being in the truck?”
She patted her hips. “No pockets. Women need pockets as much if not more than men do.”
He banged his head back against the door a few times.
“That’s really not loud enough to get anyone’s attention, Alasdair.”
He pinned her with his gaze. “How long before someone finds us, do you think?”
“Lots of people know where we are. The preacher. Dr. Jameson. Mom. I think I even mentioned it to Millie, didn’t I? Before dinner, for sure.” As if on cue, her stomach rumbled. Her blackberry jam and toast for breakfast seemed a long time ago.
They stood in silence for a few minutes. Nervous energy invaded, and she turned in a slow circle. “There’s got to be a couple of chairs stashed in here. We might as well get comfortable, right?”
“Right,” he said unenthusiastically.
She pushed Christmas wreaths and garlands aside to search for folding chairs. Movement stilled her. A giant black smudge skittered up a piece of garland straight for her throat. Or at least it felt that way.
Her yelping scream echoed around her as she lurched backward. Her heel caught on the corner of a box and she windmilled to catch her balance. She hit a shelf with her hand and made a grab for stability, but her weight only popped it up and sent everything skidding off. Plastic forks scattered along with a pack of paper plates. A box of ribbons upended and covered everything like confetti at the end of a party.
Not that they had a chance to enjoy the colorful display. The back of her head smacked the light bulb. It popped, the sound electrical and physical, plunging them into darkness. The aftermath was silent. A sliver of light showed from under the door.
“Alright there, Isabel?”
She took an inventory, her finger catching on a piece of glass in her hair. She picked it out and tossed it away. “I’ve got some glass in my hair, but otherwise I’m okay.”
“What’s next, do you suppose? An invasion of rats? A flood? Or the plague of locusts Millie promised?” Unbelievably, she heard no anger in his voice. In fact, something that sounded like amusement rumbled under the surface.
“I don’t know, but we’re trapped with a giant man-eating spider. Let’s hope it stays in the garland.”
“Indeed.” His warm hands grasped her shoulder, and he pulled her toward him. “Let’s see about getting the glass out of your hair before you accidently open an artery with a shard.”
“Har-har.” She didn’t protest when he skimmed his hands to her neck. His solidness was comforting in the dark.
Her breath caught. A shiver shot through her that had nothing to do with fear of giant spiders. He speared his fingers through her hair, his touch deft on her scalp. She sighed and tilted her head back, holding his waist. Pieces of glass plinked to the floor. He touched every inch of her scalp and finger-combed her hair. She could almost pretend his touch was meant for seduction and wasn’t a mission of mercy.
A throaty hum of pleasure escaped, snapping her back to reality. “Um. Thanks. I’m good now.”
“Of course.” His jagged voice sounded like it too had been a casualty of her clumsiness.
They remained touching, her hands on his waist and his laying on her shoulders, his thumbs tracing her collarbones in a pseudo-caress. The darkness lent a dreamlike quality to the moment, but what happened here would have consequences.
She dropped her hands, but there was no retreat from the warmth of his body. Her knees were wobbly and she fought the urge to lean into him. “Do you think it’s safe to sit on the floor?”
“Let me check for glass.” He squatted down. “Seems safe enough.”
She lowered herself to the floor, tucking her skirt around her legs for protection as much as possible. “At least the concrete is cooler.”
He didn’t answer, but joined her, shoulder to shoulder, leaning against the door. He heaved a sigh.
“We’ll be found soon,” she said as much to reassure herself as him.
Time passed. It might have been five minutes or fifteen. As Alasdair shifted, the crinkle of cellophane broke the silence.
“It’s not much, but I picked up a couple of peppermints at Bubba’s. Want one?” he asked.
“Sure. Thanks.”
Alasdair felt for her hand with both of his and laid the piece of candy in her palm.
The smell of their shared peppermints helped relax her. She closed her eyes since there was nothing to see anyway and let her mind wander.
She patted his thigh. “You can eat me, Alasdair.”
He made a strangling sound, drawing his knees up, the strangle turning into a hacking cough. Izzy pounded his back until she heard him take a breath and relax back against the door.
“I swallowed my peppermint.” After a beat of silence, he asked softly, “Did you offer to let me eat you?”
“Yeah, in case we’re stuck in here for days or weeks. You’d be too tough.” She poked his biceps.
His shoulder moved against hers. Was
he choking again? Anxiety jolted her, and she put her arm around his shoulders, preparing to perform the Heimlich. Laughter rumbled from his chest. The kind that left him breathless and fighting snickers even after he got himself under control.
“What’s so funny?” she asked, tightening her arm around his shoulders.
“You. You make me laugh.” He slipped his arm around her shoulders, so she leaned against him more than the door. “Why would I be too tough?”
“Because of your muscles. You must maintain a serious workout schedule.” She walked her fingers across his chest to squeeze his biceps. “See, too hard to be tender.”
“Most women wouldn’t complain about an appendage being too hard.” More laughter vibrated his voice.
“I’m being serious, Alasdair. I would make a more pleasant meal.”
“I have no doubt you would be delicious.” His brogue had thickened with a sexy tease, and the conversation finally registered in a different context.
Her blush could have started a forest fire. “I wasn’t talking about … that kind of eating.”
Another laugh emerged from him. This one she could feel to her bones. When she tried to pull away, he resettled her so her back was tucked into the nook of his arm. He grounded her in the darkness, and she didn’t pull away in spite of her embarrassment.
More silence took root. Their position would have been unthinkable an hour before, but trapped in the darkness, she felt strangely at ease. He wrapped his arm around her chest to hold her other arm, and she grabbed his forearm with both hands, letting her head loll back on his chest, tucked under his chin.
“Tell me something most people don’t know about you,” he said. “Something your alfalfa farmer doesn’t know.”
“Holt farms soybeans.”
“Whatever. Tell me a secret,” he commanded.
She could tell him about the time she’d shoplifted a book out of the used-book store, but that didn’t seem deep or important enough for the mood.
“I want to be a writer. No, more than that, I want to write the next great Southern novel. Like To Kill a Mockingbird.” She shrugged. “It’s not going that great though.”
A Highlander Walks into a Bar--A Highland, Georgia Novel Page 10