A Highlander Walks into a Bar--A Highland, Georgia Novel

by Laura Trentham

  A lump of regret and heartache grew in her throat choking back her words. Her mind had erased Holt as soon as she’d laid eyes on Alasdair. Holt was nice and kind and good looking in a wholesome Georgia country boy kind of way, and he deserved someone who appreciated all of his excellent qualities. The part of her who craved easy wished she could appreciate him. But it was too late.

  Nothing besides friendship would exist between them, even if Alasdair hopped a flight to London tomorrow never to be seen again.

  Still holding Alasdair’s hand, she turned to Holt. “I’m so sorry. I have to go.”

  “Have to go or want to go?” A belligerent frown was aimed squarely at Alasdair. Holt could have been a linebacker homing in on a quarterback with the football.

  “Both, actually.” She lightly touched Holt’s biceps, tense and bulging with static tension. She wasn’t sure if she offered comfort or a warning to stay away from Alasdair. Either way, she didn’t have the words to make it right, because it wasn’t fair to Holt.

  Holt shook free of her touch and pointed at Alasdair. “Will I see you on the field or are you afraid of a little competition?”

  “I’ll be there, mate,” Alasdair said with equal aggression. It was like the two of them had agreed to duel at dawn.

  Holt stalked away without a backward glance at the two of them. The hum of conversation restarted with the pub’s attention still focused on their dark corner, which meant they were the hot topic for the evening. Not that she could blame them.

  “You look”—her gaze wandered down his body and back up—“ridiculous.”

  He tugged at one of the leather cinches at his hip. “I walked out of the Dapper Highlander like this. I’ll change back into my clothes.”

  When he took a step back, she grabbed his T-shirt like a drowning woman. “Don’t you dare. I meant ridiculous as in ridiculously hot and sexy and … and … lickable.”

  His eyebrows quirked along with the corners of his mouth. “Lickable?”

  It might have been the two gin and tonics, but she couldn’t deny the truth. She wanted to run her lips and tongue all over his body—and she meant everywhere. Owning it, she raised her chin and said, “Yeah, I said it. You want to get outta here?”

  His eyes flared, almost black in the shadows, and he gave her hand a tug. “Let’s go.”

  She followed in his wake, enjoying the view, a smile on her face and laughter bubbling up from the sheer joy of surrendering to what she wanted. Anna spun around on her bar stool to follow their progress and made a thumbs-up, but there was a question in her eyes. If being dragged out of the Dancing Jig by a sexy Highlander wasn’t what she wanted, Anna would jump in to save her.

  Izzy returned a thumbs-up. The last thing Izzy saw was Anna giving her a slow clap on her way out the door.

  He continued across the street toward his rented silver car, but then pulled up to a sudden stop, patting his hip. “My keys are in my pants.”

  As if summoning them, the door to the Dapper Highlander opened and Gareth stepped out, her mom peeking over his shoulder. “Here you go, laddie.”

  He tossed the keys. Alasdair caught them, gave Gareth a salute, and opened the car door for Izzy. She hesitated with a foot on the floorboard. “Hey, Mom.”

  “Hey, honey.” It was clear by the way her mother’s jaw worked that she wanted to say more and no doubt, Izzy would face an interrogation in the morning, but it was hard to care, considering what she had to look forward to with Alasdair.

  “I’ll see you back at the house.” Izzy slipped onto the sleek leather and Alasdair closed the door, quick-stepping around the car to join her.

  “Where can we go?” she asked more of herself than of him.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Mom and Gareth are right down the hall. Isn’t that going to be awkward?”

  The corner of his mouth ticked up. “You’ve never brought a bloke home before?”

  “No.” Nerves set roots in her belly but barely made a dent in her anticipation. “You think I’m a weirdo, don’t you?”

  He pressed a kiss on the back of her hand as he deftly steered with his free hand. “I think you’re sweet.”

  “That’s a nice way of saying pathetic.” Words continued to spew out like from a shaken Coke can. “I’m not some innocent country bumpkin. I had fun in college, but living at home with my mom doesn’t exactly boost my prospects in Highland. What guy wants to get it on with a girl’s mom down the hall? Plus, I love her to pieces, but she’s traditional—or so I thought before Gareth came along—and I fell back into old habits like I was still in high school.”

  He pulled the car over into a grassy area on the side of the gravel lane leading to Stonehaven and turned to face her. Had the deluge terrified him? Any sane, well-adjusted man would hightail it out of the country ASAP.

  He leaned over the black leather console and kissed her. Their eyes were open and locked on each other. He pulled back slightly, but didn’t make a move to keep driving.

  “What was that for?” she asked softly.

  “It was a reminder.” At her questioning brow scrunch, he said, “A reminder of the funny, kickass, confident heroine who conquered the dragon Loretta and escaped the dungeon of the church and lured a hot, sexy, lickable traveler”—he ticked off her earlier compliments on his fingers with a barely suppressed laugh—“into her castle. The only question is what are you going to do next?”

  She did what any self-respecting heroine of a fantasy would do and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, pulling his mouth to hers. He cupped her nape and deepened the kiss. When his tongue touched her, her eyes closed. The seclusion was welcome, but the lack of square footage grew her frustration with each brush of his lips. He was too far away. If they’d been in her truck, she could have climbed on top of him or he could have laid over her on the bench seat.

  His reminder had hit home. She had never tried to hide herself from Alasdair. Whatever she was—dragon slayer or fool—she was enough for him.

  “We’d have more privacy in the barn,” she murmured against his jaw.

  “I’m yours to command.” After pressing one last kiss against her lips, he settled back into his seat and goosed the gas so hard the tires spun out on the gravel.

  He pulled up to the side the barn, and she fumbled with the unfamiliar car door handle in the dark, finally finding the latch and pushing at the door with her weight behind her just as Alasdair made it around the side of the car to open it for her.

  The lack of a counterbalance threw her off-balance. She teetered on the edge of the seat before tumbling out in the least graceful way possible. Her shoulder and one palm hit the combination of weeds and gravel. Her legs were twisted on the floorboard and instead of attempting to right herself, she let her body roll out, her legs in the air. Her purse, which she wore crosswise, got caught in the small of her back, the strap tight across her throat.

  “Bloody hell, are you alright?” Alasdair squatted next to her and wrapped a steadying hand around her forearm. The position gave her an unimpeded view straight up his kilt. She blinked and forced herself to look away, too embarrassed to enjoy herself.

  Her palm stung and her shoulder throbbed from the impact. Her pride was officially roadkill. “Run over me a couple of times and put me out of my misery.”

  “Come on, then, love.” Laughter lightened his voice.

  He’d called her “love,” which was probably like an American calling someone “dude,” but nevertheless an electric thrill quickened her blood and helped allay her embarrassment.

  On a self-depreciating laugh, she said, “I can’t be trusted in romantic situations, Alasdair. We got locked in a closet. I ran off with your clothes. I got bit by fire ants. And now I literally fall at your feet. I’m a joke.”

  He brushed her hair back from her forehead. “I’ve been serious all my life. Always doing what’s expected of me. I want to have fun and laugh and take a risk. With you.”

  Somehow Alasdair kne
w the magic words needed to unlock her defenses. More than anything, she wanted to gift him with a heartfelt response. Instead what came out was, “You’re wearing underwear. I thought Scots went commando under their kilts.”

  He threw his head back and laughed, a rumbly, pleasant sound, then tilted his head and regarded her with raised brows. “I notice you’re wearing knickers too.”

  It took her a hot second to realize he was talking about her underwear and not a pair of short pants her great-grandfather might have worn. She lifted her head. Her position had left her shirt-dress riding high on her thighs. Her laugh joined his even as she pushed the hem down.

  “Maybe we should do something about our pesky underwear.” While she wasn’t used to pre-sex banter, based on his wolfish smile, she was doing okay.

  “Most assuredly.”

  He had her back on her feet in a blink, but instead of sweeping her into his arms and carrying her into the barn to do naughty, X-rated things to her, he examined the palm she’d fallen on.

  “You’ve scraped yourself. A wash and antibiotic spray are next,” he said.

  “I’d rather do something about our respective underwear. Like shred them into confetti.”

  “I promise you can rip my underwear off and look under my kilt as soon as we see to your hand.”

  “I won’t die from a scrape, but I might die if we don’t … you know.”

  “If we don’t what? Share a pot of tea before bed?” Although his face was tilted down examining the palm of her hand, good-natured teasing hummed in his voice.

  “You aren’t at all funny.” Except she was smiling so widely her cheeks hurt.

  “Five minutes of first aid and then you can have your wicked way with me.”

  She allowed him to guide her toward the house but stomped her way inside like she’d been deemed too short to ride the fastest, best roller coaster. Alasdair went straight to the cabinet holding their first aid supplies and rummaged through the assortment of medicines while she washed her hands with soap, biting her lip at the sting.

  After he set out a box of Band-Aids and antiseptic spray, he put his hands at her waist. “Hop up.”

  Once she was sitting on the counter, he put his hands on her knees and pushed them apart, wedging his hips in between. The added height put them face-to-face, and the hem of her dress inched toward indecent. Her sugared pulse set a sensual rhythm through her body.

  He blotted her scraped palm with a paper towel, handling her with the care and concentration of a man tasked with diffusing a bomb. His mouth was in a firm line and his brows drawn low. His dark hair waved over his forehead, and her free hand itched to feel the strands between her fingers.

  The black T-shirt emphasized the taut planes and the bulge of muscle across his shoulders. Topography she wanted to chart in great detail. She would be the Lewis and Clark of Alasdair’s body. “You work out a lot, huh?”

  His gaze flicked up then returned to the task of cleaning her cut, but his mouth had relaxed into an almost smile. “Work and exercise kept me busy in London. And when I traveled, I usually found myself in the hotel gym when I couldn’t sleep.”

  “That sounds bo-ring.” She emphasized the last word in a singsong voice.

  “I suppose it was,” he said thoughtfully, any tease gone from his manner.

  “You used past tense. Are you going change your ways when you go home?”

  He didn’t speak for a long moment, her hand taking more concentration than a little scrape merited. “I don’t think I’ll have a choice. I won’t be returning the same man. Highland has changed me.”

  The moment seemed charged, and she kept silent rather than say the wrong thing. He sprayed her palm with the antiseptic and used two Snoopy Band-Aids to cover the deepest of the scrapes.

  Giving up the fight to touch him, she shuffled her good hand through his hair and curled her fingers around his nape. “Will I survive?”

  “In my expert opinion as a risk assessor, you will indeed survive.” He brought her palm to his mouth and pressed a kiss over her boo-boo. He looked up at her through his lashes, his gray eyes gleaming. “Unless we don’t…’you know’ within the next ten minutes.”

  “Are we destined to keep hurting ourselves when we’re together?” The question was meant as a joke, but landed with the weight of a ten-ton grenade.

  His gaze searched her face, his mouth taut. “I don’t want to hurt you, Isabel.”

  “You won’t,” she said simply. “I know you’re leaving. It’s okay. I want this for however long you’re here.”

  Izzy finally understood why her mom had brought Gareth home and had grown closer with him even though it was all temporary. A Highland fling. Knowing she and Alasdair had an expiration date made things both easier and harder, but Izzy would take what pleasure she could with him both in bed and out and worry about the aftermath later.

  Their lips met halfway. This kiss didn’t begin with a sweet prelude; it launched into a fugue of sparring tongues and limbs. He grabbed her hips and pulled her into him, then edged his hand under her skirt until his palm branded her butt. More of her weight transferred to him and she wiggled to get even closer, pulling his shirt from his kilt.

  Desperation drummed in her heart. The minutes it would take to get to the barn and situated with a blanket in the loft seemed an eon. Too long. Her room, with a mattress and pillows and clean sheets, was right above them if only they could teleport.

  “My room.” She gasped the words between kisses.

  “Are you sure?” He sucked her bottom lip between his teeth, muffling her “Hell, yes” response.

  He carried her clinging to him like a spider monkey until he reached the stairs. Her feet touched down on the first stair and instead of forging ahead to her room, she worked his T-shirt up and off, tossing it over her shoulder.

  Magnificent. There was really no other word. He might have stepped out of a book on ancient Scotland, bare chested with his kilt riding low on his hips. A warrior.

  His skin beckoned and she ran her hands up the crisp dark hair on his chest, the Band Aids hampering her need to feel every inch of his skin. His shoulders were muscled and his back smooth. He put some space between them to work the buttons of her shirt-dress open. He looped her purse over her head and dropped it.

  “I’m glad your back isn’t hairy.” The thought wiggled past her internal editor.

  His smile gleamed in the dim stairway. “It probably won’t stay that way. Have you seen Gareth without a shirt on?”

  She tilted her head. “What does Gareth have to do with your hairless back?”

  Alasdair’s hands stilled on the third button down. “Just Scottish men in general.”

  Before she could reorder her thoughts, he scrambled them again with a kiss. Cool air hit her shoulders as he worked her shirt-dress down to her waist, her arms caught at the elbow. His big hands ran up and down her back, spreading warmth and leaving a trail of delicious sensation in their wake.

  “I’m glad your back isn’t hairy either.” His breath was hot in her ear before he nipped her lobe between his teeth.

  Unfiltered joy spread from her chest and through her body, her response coming on a breathless laugh. “Uh-oh. Have you seen my mom?”

  His laugh rumbled alongside hers. They scrambled a few steps higher, closer to her room and her bed before another distraction stopped them on the landing. He pushed her against the paneled wall with his hips and pinned her wrists over her head with one hand. If she wanted to pull free, she could, but being captured by him only heightened the fantasy of a conquering Scottish Highlander.

  “Your skin is so pale and soft.” He dropped a kiss on the delicate skin on the inside of her elbow as the fingers of his other hand skittered up her torso.

  She was exposed and at his mercy, but had no urge to cover herself. She arched her back, inviting more of his touch, almost as if the two of them had stepped from the mortal world into fae lands under a spell.

  Finally, his hand
cupped her breast. Not expecting the turn of events that had brought her to be pressed against a wall by a shirtless, kilt-wearing Alasdair, she hadn’t chosen her underwear with any foresight. Her bra was white, utilitarian, and padded and covered more than it revealed.

  “Sorry,” she mumbled.

  “What are you sorry for?”

  “I didn’t choose my underwear tonight for seduction purposes.”

  She could feel the laughter he kept confined to his chest. “I guess that means I’m not a poor substitute for Holt the squash farmer.”

  His voice was tinted unmistakably green? “Are you jealous of Holt?”

  “Are you surprised?” He bit the soft juncture between neck and shoulder.

  “Yes. Because you’re … beautiful.” It was only when he lifted his head to look at her that she realized how odd it sounded. Yet, it was true.

  “No. You’re the beautiful one, Isabel. Inside and out and everywhere in between.”

  She let herself believe him. Why not? The night was her adventure. Her fantasy.

  Speaking of fantasies, she wanted to get back at it. She wiggled her hips against him. Was that his…? She gasped. It was. And it felt as impressive as the rest of him.

  She pulled out of his hold, grabbed his hand, and stumbled up the rest of the stairs into her room. He kicked her door closed and pressed her up against it. Searching to the side, she found the lock and snicked it into place. Finally, they were locked in a room with a bed, and Izzy planned to take full advantage. She fisted her non-injured hand in the soft cloth tartan of his kilt and pulled it higher.

  “Are you tryin’ to discover what’s under my kilt, lassie?” His Scottish brogue was an octave lower and rough, sending a shiver through her.

  “I could feel what was under it pressed against me on the stairs. I want more.”

  Alasdair muttered a curse tinged with awe. “I didn’t peg you for a dirty talker.”

  “You think that’s dirty? You’d be shocked to hear what kind of foolishness goes on in my head then.”

  “I can’t wait be scandalized.” His hand crawled up her back to fiddle with her industrial-strength bra strap. “Jesus. You’re not wearing a chastity belt requiring a key too, are you?”