A Highlander in a Pickup

by Laura Trentham

  He touched a picture of her mid-leap, her dark red hair haloing around her, a grin on her face. “You are gifted.”

  She wasn’t sure how gifted she was, but she did feel lucky. She loved to dance, and even though she wasn’t making a living dancing like she’d hoped—on Broadway or in a professional dance troupe—she was making a living doing what she loved. How many people could say that?

  “Thanks. I don’t know where I’d be without dance. I guess I should thank my mom for that. It’s why I’m fighting so hard for Gabby. Mr. Donaldson thinks dance is about shaking your ass and attracting the male gaze, but that’s not why I enjoy performing. It’s about eliciting an emotion and making the difficult look effortless. Dance teaches discipline and instills self-confidence. Show me one teenage girl who doesn’t need more confidence.” She turned her head to find him staring at her and not the pictures.

  “And that’s the argument you should have made to Gabby’s da today.”

  Dammit. Instead of insinuating he didn’t love his daughter enough, she should have outlined the intangible benefits of dance. “You’re right,” she whispered.

  He cleared his throat and cocked his head closer. “I’m sorry, what? I must have misheard.”

  She playfully shoved his arm. “You are right and I was wrong. Are you happy?”

  He considered her flippant question with a seriousness she hadn’t intended, his finger tracing his scar into his beard in a manner she guessed was unconscious. “Happier than I’ve been in a long while, strangely enough.”

  “Why is that strange?”

  “Because it’s so unexpected.”

  A lump clogged her throat, but she managed to choke out, “Highland is special.”

  “Very special.” His eyes crinkled in a way she found undeniably appealing, and she found herself leaning closer to him.

  Jerking herself back, she thumbed over her shoulder toward the bedroom. “Let me change right quick.”

  Dressed in her uniform of a black leotard and simple wraparound skirt, she grabbed her Scottish dancing shoes and peeked through the narrow crack in her bedroom door. Iain was sitting on the couch, with his back to her. He rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck to one side and then the other.

  Her confidence grew inverse to his nerves. She plopped on the couch next to him to lace on her dancing shoes. “I talked to Izzy right before you got here, by the way.”

  “It’s late there. Is something amiss?”

  “Little Annie Blackmoor will be making her debut soon.” Anna filled him in on the conversation.

  “Isabel and Alasdair have brought a vigor back to Cairndow. A child will wake the land and bring much happiness. She’ll be the eventual Countess of Cairndow. It’s right she should take Annie’s name.” The whimsical nature of Iain’s declaration took her by surprise, but perhaps it shouldn’t have. His spirit seemed age-old. A keeper of Cairndow’s secrets and bound to the old place as much as Gareth and Alasdair were.

  “Do you miss your dad and your sheep?” She let out a sound of impatience with herself. “Not that your dad is on the same emotional plane as a flock of sheep. I didn’t mean to imply you miss them in an inappropriate way.”

  His laugh rumbled. “I never got that lonely or desperate, but yes, I miss Da. Are you ready to humiliate me?”

  “I would never humiliate you.” She rose when he did and moved to the door. “Just torture you a bit.”

  The metal staircase shuddered under their combined weight. He stopped at the bottom to examine where the staircase bolted into the brick. “You need more anchor points.”

  “I rarely have six-foot-plus jacked men traipsing up to pay me a call.” She unlocked the back door of the studio and flipped the lights on. “In fact, you’re the first.”

  She continued on to her office to sync her phone to the wireless speakers. When she turned, she flinched to find him blocking the doorway. “For a big guy, you sure can sneak up on a girl.”

  “Learned to be quiet hunting and fishing at Cairndow. Serving only reaffirmed the lessons.” He took a step toward her, cutting the space nearly in half. “Why don’t you have a bloke?”

  “You mean a boyfriend?”

  He grunted his assent.

  “I’ve had blokes. Just not for a while. The last one…” She leaned back on her desk, looked up at Iain, and shrugged. “He left town.”

  “Like your da.”

  “Nothing like my dad. I was ready for this guy to move on. He left because our relationship was going nowhere.” She didn’t add that none of her relationships had gone anywhere important.

  “I see.”

  What did he see? Was it good, bad, or pathetic? She was voting for the latter.

  Before she could ask, he retreated. “How do we start?”

  Thrown off her mojo—which she pictured as a multicolored unicorn who liked to curse—she fumbled with her playlist and accidently hit an Usher song. A dirty, sexy song about tangled sheets and sweaty bodies.

  Her body flushed. The sugared beat actually suited her plan to teach him the steps at a slower pace than the actual dance. Her heart matched the pulse of the bass. She faced him and invaded his personal space, putting her left hand on his shoulder and holding her other hand up for him to take in a classic waltz position. He took her hand in his and clasped her waist with the other, stiff and unyielding.

  “The St. Bernard’s Waltz is a bit different than a traditional waltz although it is in three-quarter time.” She demonstrated the first counts of steps, which were fairly simple, yet he still stumbled. She shook his shoulders. “Loosen up. You’re as hard and stiff as a piece of wood.”

  Red flared on his neck, but if she had to put her finger on his mood, he wasn’t embarrassed as much as fighting a burst of laughter.

  “This is serious, Iain. We have to dance in front of the town, and I can’t become a laughing stock right before I make a run at mayor.”

  He cleared his throat and tamped down some of the twinkling in his eyes. “My apologies.”

  “You’re having problems because you’re getting inside your own head and losing the rhythm.”

  “I can’t lose what I never possessed.”

  “I call BS. You can play the guitar and sing.”

  “That’s different. I don’t have to think about playing. It just happens. My arms and legs are on a delay when I try to dance.”

  Attempting to teach Iain a formal dance before he had relaxed and found the beat was doomed to fail. “Let’s go for something a little less structured.”

  “What do you mean?” Suspicion darkened his voice.

  She grabbed his hips and tried to force him to sway with her, but he was rooted to the floor like a tree. “You must have spent some nights in clubs getting your groove on.”

  “I’ve been known to hold up a wall or two in my time.”

  “Please. Girls had to have been all over you.” Her gesture encompassed him head to toe.

  “Not so much. Seeing me in a dark corner generally inspired fear in the lasses.”

  “Are you serious?” She didn’t expect an answer to her incredulous, knee-jerk question, because she could see he was serious. Even more, she could see it bothered him, and she understood why. His natural state wasn’t an aggressor, but a protector.

  He raised both eyebrows at her this time. “I scare you, don’t I?”

  She made a pishing sound. “When we first met, I was cautious in the way any woman alone with a strange man might be, but that was before I got to know you. Now, demonstrate please.” She nudged him toward the wall. “Stand like you would have in a club or pub or whatever.”

  With a small shake of his head, he did as she asked. Crossing his arms over his chest and propping a shoulder against the wall between the two massive mirrors, he let his face fall into a grimace.

  “I get it now. You have resting bouncer face. You look like you’re ready to toss someone on their butt.”

  His shock quickly morphed into a smile. �
�I didn’t know that was a thing.”

  “It is now.”

  “What sort of face do you have?”

  “I have resting ‘bless your heart’ face.” At his quizzical look, she said, “‘Bless your heart’ is a backhanded way of telling someone, ‘you’re an idiot but a harmless one.’ See?” She graced him with a sample of her sarcastic face and was gratified to earn a rumbly laugh.

  The song looped on repeat. Anna sashayed toward him and gave him her sultriest look from under her lashes. “I saw you from across the room. Wanna dance, Highlander?”

  He didn’t immediately answer. She pulled his arms apart and drew him toward her.

  “I don’t know.” His voice was barely audible.

  What did he not know? What they were doing? How he was feeling? She wanted to tell him to join the club. Instead, she whispered back, “You don’t have to know. You just have to feel.”

  This was simply a dance. For Anna, though, a dance was an emotional experience. She couldn’t dance and not be vulnerable. Which made dancing with him dangerous. She didn’t heed the warning and wrapped her arms around his neck, her fingers finding their way into his hair.

  One of his hands slid to the middle of her back, his thumb grazing the bare skin exposed by the low scoop of her leotard. The other gripped her hip and scooted her even closer, so their feet notched together naturally.

  Their size difference was emphasized. The top of her head barely reached his shoulder, and his hands branded her with their strength. But there was a gentleness in his touch as if he were handling something breakable.

  She raised her face to his and shook her hair over her shoulders. He bowed over enough to rub his bristly jaw against her temple. And then lower until his hot breath near her ear sent an aroused shiver through her.

  “Is this okay?”

  She hummed and closed her eyes. Okay? It was incredible.

  “Am I on the beat?” His lips skimmed the shell of her ear.

  What was he talking about? She pulled away only enough to see his face, their noses brushing. He had extraordinary eyes. Like rich dark chocolate with caramel sparking from his irises. He wasn’t a sexy snack, but a big, scrumptious dessert.

  “Oh, the music.” She blinked to refocus and said incredulously, “We’re dancing.”

  “Aye. That we are.” His rumbly brogue did something to her insides doctors would never be able to explain through science.

  Her heart ached and bled and tried to claw its way out of her chest. Her bones melted. Her hips tipped into him and her back arched. The flannel of his kilt was soft on her inner thighs. He shifted and drew her up on her tiptoes. Their faces were close.

  Anna wanted more. She had never been shy about taking what she wanted, but it felt different with Iain. She felt different. With a hesitancy unlike her, she brushed her lips across his in the lightest of touches before retreating and staring into his eyes.

  Time passed. Enough to prepare herself for rejection. Was it hours or milliseconds?

  With a suddenness that was shocking, his mouth came down on hers with none of her tentativeness. His kiss was hungry and demanded appeasement at the same time he offered satisfaction.

  She rocked higher on her toes and tightened her grip in his hair, needing to get closer. With a growl, he grasped her bottom with both hands and pressed her against the wall between the mirrors. Her feet were off the ground and her only source of stability was Iain himself. She was stuck between a wall and a very hard man.

  She pulled his bottom lip between her teeth and was rewarded with a chesty rumble. Oh, she’d come to enjoy his grunts and grumbles and groans. They communicated more than most men’s polite, superficial words.

  “Is this your way of loosening me up, lass?” His lips never lost contact with her skin.

  “Is it working?”

  She could feel his laugh all the way to her toes. “Actually, I’m as hard and stiff as a piece of wood.”

  Her earlier assessment of him flooded back, and she understood now what he’d found amusing. Instead of feeling embarrassed she hadn’t been in on the joke earlier, she kissed him again with her lips curled into a smile.

  She was putty against him, and if he’d asked nicely (or even not-so-nicely), she would have taken him to her bed. Instead, he acted like kissing her was the culmination of his need. She didn’t know how long she’d been locked between him and the wall, but eventually, his arms loosened, and she slid down like goo, her feet back on solid ground, but her world was officially rocked. She was both satiated and frustrated.

  “What are you doing?” she asked breathily.

  “Leaving.” The word held a finality that brought reality crashing down.

  Why was she shocked? Thank God, she had only made out with him. She gave herself a mental “bless your heart,” because she was an idiot.

  “Yeah, of course. This was a mistake. Merely a product of the music. Damn Usher’s sexy beats.”

  A door closed on Iain’s expression. “A mistake.”

  Had that been a statement or a question? His brogue made it difficult to tell. “So we agree.” She put the slightest of lilt onto the end, making her own intentions questionable.

  He didn’t deign to clarify.

  “Next time, we’ll stick to bagpipes and the waltz.” She grabbed her phone and silenced the music. The vacuum of sound sucked out any remaining sexual vibes. “Let’s call it a night, shall we?”

  “Aye. That’s probably for the best.”

  Probably? Why had he thrown in a qualifier? She didn’t have the energy to suss out his intentions, and she didn’t have the time for a relationship even if it was only about sex. Tomorrow, she had classes to teach plus calls to make, and in the back of her mind lurked worry over Izzy and the birth of her goddaughter.

  “When is our next lesson? Tomorrow evening?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. I’m busy. I’ll be in touch.” A phrase that should have encompassed hands or lips inserted a distance she wasn’t sure they could overcome. Had a kiss ruined newly found accord?

  He stood another moment before nodding brusquely and turning to go. She didn’t stop him, even though her hands twitched to grab the folds of his kilt and pull him to the floor with her. The door banged shut.

  It is for the best. She cursed the platitude and whoever wrote it, because what was for the best made her feel like the worst.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Two days, but more importantly, two nights had passed without even a sighting of Anna. She’d become as elusive as the Lock Ness Monster, and he’d become as obsessed as a Nessie watcher. Iain channeled his frustration into his work. The pens for the husbandry exhibit were almost done. He worked now on organizing the barn and making a welcoming, walkable path for the visitors who would descend on Stonehaven.

  Along with the work for the festival, he’d been contacted by a half dozen Highland residents for small jobs—various pieces of furniture, a wheelchair ramp, a fancy chicken coop. The list was growing, and Iain wasn’t sure he could finish the projects before the festival, which would mean turning them down or staying on in Highland for a bit after the festival, which would leave his da upset.

  While he had nothing pressing drawing him back to Scotland, he had nothing to keep him in Highland either. Soon, Rose and Gareth would return to Stonehaven, and he would be expected to vacate the guest room.

  He’d received word from his da that Annie Blackmoor had entered the world squalling with a full head of black hair and the Blackmoor gray eyes. Isabel and Annie had come through the surgery with the highest of marks while Alasdair had almost passed out. Iain had already sent his congratulations to Alasdair along with a fair amount of teasing. Alasdair had floored him by calling to ask him to be Annie’s godfather. Iain had no experience with babes or how to guide them, but he had readily agreed to the honor.

  Strangely, even as he added another emotional tether, Cairndow seemed a world away. Iain drove to town with the windows of the pickup d
own, returning the waves of several new friends. Even the heat and humidity had become a mere nuisance instead of an unholy trial of survival.

  After loading up the bed of the truck with hay for the animals, he stopped by the hardware store for sandpaper, screws, and a sundry of items he needed to replenish. Parking close to Maitland Dance Studio, he avoided the front door, circling around to the back like he was a burglar casing the building, except instead of a crowbar, he held a drill. Music pumped out of the speakers, and he could hear Anna counting down the start of a dance.

  As stealthily as possible, he climbed the rickety stairs leading to her flat, stopping at the first loose anchor point. Using the fittings he bought at the hardware store, he drove anchors into the brick and screwed the staircase into the wall. At the bottom, he gave it a shake. It didn’t budge. Satisfied Anna would be safe for years to come, he slipped back around the building to the truck and retreated to Stonehaven.

  After working in the barn all afternoon and into the cooling evening, the gloaming drove him inside for a shower and food. As he was examining the meager contents of the refrigerator, a perfunctory knock sounded on the front door, followed by a familiar voice calling his name.

  Anna hadn’t waited for him to answer the door, but barged inside. She wore a flirty skirt and white blouse and held two plastic grocery sacks.

  “You,” she said. The word held a wealth of emotion, but he couldn’t tell how much was accusatory.

  Bereft of a response, he backed out of the entry hall. She brushed past him and set the bags on the kitchen island.

  “You fixed the stairs to my apartment.” She leaned against the counter and crossed her arms over her chest.

  “Aye.”

  “That was…” Her gaze floated to the ceiling, searching for a word.

  He searched for his own and came out with, “Overstepping,” the same time she said, “Sweet.”

  “Sweet?” he repeated dumbly.

  She turned to the bags and unpacked a variety of items, including bread, bright red tomatoes, and a packet of bacon. She paused, but didn’t turn to look at him. “It’s been a long time since someone took care of me. You’ve done it twice now.”