by Alam, Donna
As for my parents, well, Dad just wants me to be happy, and Mum loves having a movie star son-in-law. Bragging rights, I think it’s called.
Nat leaves, and we descend the grand staircase, making our way into the great hall. It is pretty great but not as big as it sounds.
‘Have I told you how beautiful you look today?’ Our son curled in the crook of one muscular arm, Dylan’s free hand drifts from the small of my back to cup my bottom.
‘Stop that. People will see.’ My words lack conviction, and for a moment, I consider dragging him back upstairs for a little light relief. Light relief, heavy on the orgasm. ‘And I think harassed is the word you’re looking for. But if harassed makes you hot, then I’m your girl.’
‘You make me hot,’ he replies, his gaze dark and liquid. ‘And that’s why you’re my girl.’
I tsk, my words coming out all husky as tiny shivers of anticipation run down my spine. ‘My mother warned me about men like you.’
‘Your mother fucking loves me; you said so yourself. I’m a good Catholic boy and from excellent stock.’ How can he make those words sound so dirty? Maybe it’s just me? It’s just as well I’m taking a break from the salon because lusting after Dylan has become my part-time job.
I clear my throat, pulling at the hem of my dress, which is a total giveaway if his expression is anything to go by. ‘And don’t forget rich,’ I add, a touch sardonically. ‘And stop laughing. Ovaries are exploding all over this room because of you.’
‘What?’ he splutters, his eyes ridiculously sweeping the room.
‘Really? You’re like sex on a stick, with your million-dollar smile and your sexy laugh. And you’re holding a baby! That’s like . . . the jackpot.’ I push to the tips of my toes to kiss his cheek. He takes the opportunity to slide his hand under my hair, making me shiver. ‘You certainly make me hot,’ I whisper. ‘But I’m surprised we aren’t suffocating in estrogen.’
‘Hot, huh?’ His mouth is just a bare breath from mine, his gaze roaming my face then dipping. ‘I have a couple of ideas how I’d like to be suffocated.’
All the tingles. Everywhere.
‘Hear that, Junior.’ I pull back the blanket from our now sleeping child as I whisper, ‘Daddy’s trying to steal your food again.’
I tremble as Dylan’s hand releases my neck, skimming down the front of my cream fitted Ellie Saab dress. ‘You look so fucking innocent,’ he says, low and huskily. ‘But I know better. And those tits were mine first. Just remember that.’
I open my mouth to answer, expelling a mild swear instead. ‘Frig! Here comes auntie Ellen.’ Talk about pouring cold water on the mood. ‘Why do people feel the need to ask when you’re going to reproduce next only five minutes after you’ve just given birth?’
So far this morning, I’ve been asked five times when am I having my next wee one. My standard answer is when technology finds a way to grow babies outside a uterus. Maybe in life-sized plastic eggs.
‘It’s so bloody rude. And why do they feel it’s okay to rub an expectant mother’s stomach, unsolicited?’
‘Who does that?’
I turn to Fin’s voice. She and Rory are here as our friends, as well as in the official capacity as godparents.
‘People in the street; people in the salon—random, handsy people, Fin! It’s invasive as hell. Oh, hello, Nigel.’
Nigel, my dog-mop-Shetland pony hybrid follows Fin, his eyes glued covetously to the canapé she has wrapped in a napkin. Nige looks very at home in the castle—very regal—and so much more suitable than when he arrived at my tiny flat a few days after Dylan moved in. We had to move—and fast—and not only because of the media furor, but also because Nigel’s travel crate was almost as big as the kitchen.
I no longer read what’s written on the internet, and not just because of the edict from Dylan’s new management team. Our reconciliation was apparently a shock to Ric, but he was already on the way out by that time. And let’s just say the man was lucky to hang onto his teeth—veneers?—once I’d told Dylan the things he’d said all those months ago. The seeds of doubt he’d planted in my head.
So no more sleazy Ric. And Dylan’s new publicist is worth his weight in gold, as far as I’m concerned. Especially after what he’s dealing with following the court case.
In the case of Duffy versus Dynamic Entertainment, we were able to prove the person selling the tape was one part of a two person team of thieves. It turns out Melissa, the dog walker, had helped herself to several things while looking after Nigel. After copying some of our filth, she’d passed one such recording to a friend. A friend who subsequently claimed the video not only as hers, but also as something she’d recorded with Dylan’s consent. Basically, she pretended to be me—the dark haired girl getting a really good seeing to from Dylan. On tape.
It seems Melissa and her friend were expecting to get rich from the proceeds of the sale.
But we now have a court order blocking its release, and Dylan’s heavy hitters have promised to rain down lawsuit hell if there’s ever a whiff of it going public.
In the real world—with my family and friends—I’ve played it down as something saucy and laughable, rather than hardcore. And no one ever mentions it, thankfully, not in front of us, at least. They have more tact, with the exception of Nat, who lives to tease me about it, I’m sure.
Nigel slinks off once Fin has shared her piece of high-brow haggis. Because I wasn’t allowed to serve just vegetarian food . . .
‘They’re just wishin’ you congratulations, hen.’ Rory leans in, kissing my cheek before preceding to do the bro-shake-hug-thing with a one-armed Dylan before greeting his godson. ‘Hey, little man.’
‘What? Oh, the rubbing,’ I answer coming back to the discussion at hand. ‘ Then why did no one rub Dylan’s, you know . . . ’ I make a gesture in the vague direction of the area in question, an area I know is hanging loose and free. I wonder if it’s easier to hide a hard-on in a kilt? Christenings require formal attire, and in Scotland, that can mean a kilt. A kilt, a pristine white shirt, a dark vest, and jacket, plus all the trimmings. All the trimmings I can’t wait to peel him out of. ‘What was I saying . . .’ Dylan smirks—total provocation—having followed the path of my gaze. ‘I was saying . . . yes; if it’s okay to rub a pregnant woman’s bump, why is it not okay to rub the father’s—’
‘Because, without an invitation, I think that’s called assault,’ Dylan purrs.
‘Ocht. There they are!’ We all turn to the sound of June’s voice. A little less clear than it once was, but still all June.
‘And there’s ma’ girl!’ Rory swoops in with a smacking kiss. Hands curled around the armrests of her wheelchair, he studiously ignores the delicate white handkerchief she holds to the left corner of her mouth. June’s stroke left her with some paralysis down one side of her body, and while she acknowledges she’s lucky to be alive, she’s still coming to terms with her partial paralysis.
‘Cheeky.’ June pinches his cheek with her good hand.
‘Hey, Sam.’ As Fin greets June’s day nurse, Rory makes a very Scottish noise. Neither Dylan nor Rory are overly keen on the man, often making disparaging comments regarding his taste in scrubs and his man bun. Sour grapes, I’m sure, as the man is as lovely natured as he is looking. ‘Nice kilt. Is that your clan tartan?’
Before Sam has a chance to respond, my less-than-lovely aunt is indeed upon us.
‘There you are. Weel, if this isn’t such a lovely picture. I was only just sayin’ to your mother that you’re lookin’ braw now you’ve lost the baby weight, Ivy.’
Yeah, so during the latter part of my pregnancy I might’ve become a little round. Contentment, I think it’s called. Beside me, Dylan stiffens because this isn’t the first of her observations she’s blessed me with today.
‘I kinda like my wife with a few extra pounds. It’s just a pity she can’t seem to keep them on for all the bedroom exercise we get. That’s sex, by the way.’ His green eyes sparkle as
he slips his free hand around my waist, tugging me close.
I think my mouth is agape, and I’m not sure whether I should be laughing or smacking him when the June express rolls into crazy town.
‘Cock! C-c-cock! Cock!’ Bright blue eyes shining under her newly pink dyed bangs, she beings rocking in her wheelchair. ‘Cock!’
‘Oh, goodness me,’ splutters my annoying auntie. ‘I-I-’
‘Cock!’
‘I think June wants another swing around the gardens,’ says Rory, trying not to laugh. ‘Was it the peacocks you were after seeing again, hen?’
‘C-cock!’
‘Nah, it’s more likely the sight of all these kilts,’ says an amused Natasha, coming up from behind my stricken face aunt. ‘She wants a keek underneath a few. You’ll no doubt have heard the joke,’ she says, turning to Dylan. ‘An American lassie asks Jock, Is anything worn under the kilt? And Jock responds, Why don’t you stick your hand under there, hen, and find out. Oh, sir, says she, ‘tis gruesome! And Jock replies—’
‘Hen,’ interjects Rory, beating her to the punchline. ‘If you stick your hand under there again, you’ll find it’ll have grew some more!’
My aunt makes a small sound; a strangled squeak. ‘I-I can see Father Murphy. I need to have a word with him.’
‘Now that we’ve gotten rid o’ that busybody, I’ll have a wee cuddle of my boy,’ says a completely coherent and now none rocking June.
‘Ah, June I did’nae know you cared!’ Rory replies, pretending to climb onto her lap.
‘Away with your sauce!’ June responds, slapping his arm. ‘Before I smack your bum.’
‘She’s serious,’ adds Nat. ‘Just ask Sam.’
Sam ducks his head, flushing the colour of June’s pink cardi, but doesn’t confirm. Not that he needs to.
‘You’re aff your heid,’ Dylan says, chuckling and laying his accent on thick.
Off your head. Crazy! This lot? Absolutely.
Filming in Scotland has left my husband toying with all kinds of dialogue, including Scot Gaelic. Mo chridhe. My heart. Tha gràdh agam ort. I love you. It’s all very swoon-worthy.
Shaking his head at our crazy clan, Dylan lays our sleeping bundle in June’s lap, his dark downy head cradled by her good arm, and his mouth a trembling rosebud pout.
‘Milk drunk,’ she says softly. ‘We can tell where you’ve been.’ Dylan and I exchange glances over June’s head, heat crawling up my neck at what I can see in that piercing gaze. ‘My braw boy,’ she coos, smitten. ‘Hello, my wee Alisdair.’
‘That’s a good name,’ agrees Rory. ‘A strong Scots name.’
‘And I’m sure the next one will be just a lovely. I see a June in your future,’ adds . . . June.
‘The next one what?’ I ask, perplexed. ‘Summer?’ The month of June is ages away.
‘Why, the next bairn,’ she replies, her blue owl-like gaze blinking back up at me.
‘We’ve no plans for extending our family just yet,’ I begin but am cut off by Nat.
‘And y’ can’t call a baby June in this day and age!’
‘Why not?’ June’s tone is uncharacteristically sharp. ‘What’s wrong with my name?’
‘For a start, it’s no good for a boy.’
‘June Euphemia is a lovely name,’ she continues, ignoring her granddaughter.
‘Yeah, maybe we’ll see in a few years,’ replies Dylan. ‘But we’re planning on spoiling little Al here as an only child for a while.’
‘You’re sure?’ She purses her mouth—well, as best as she’s able—her gaze falling to the general vicinity of my midsection.
‘No!’ My hands fall to the flat plane of my stomach—a stomach I’ve been working hard at since Alisdair’s birth. ‘I can’t be—not after all the burpees and yoga, and Pilates!’
‘And sex,’ whisper-coughs Nat, covering her mouth with a fist. ‘Bunny central over here. What?’ she asks all faux innocence. ‘Who knew castle walls were so thin?’
Dylan’s mouth falls open, but before any of us have time to process, comment, or in my case, run for the hills screaming, a commotion from the other side of the room draws all our attentions. There, next to the bar set up for today’s momentous occasion, Rory’s mirror image stands . . . wrapped around Bea, Fin’s friend and former roommate—Doctor Bea! And if that’s not shocking enough for someone who keeps his cards so close to his chest they’ve practically become skin, Bea attended the christening today with her long-term boyfriend. A long-term boyfriend who’s just stormed out of the room.
The great hall is almost silent, the five-piece band playing background music coming to a sudden halt, and the waiting staff frozen in their places. But the pair currently the focus of attention don’t notice, wrapped so deeply in themselves.
‘What’s comin’ for ye, will no’ pass you by,’ whispers a smitten June to our son. ‘Best be getting ready to share your toys, little Alisdair, because I see twins arriving soon.’
I don’t know whether to laugh, cry, or run for the hills.
Acknowledgements
Thanks, as always, go to my family. You’re a strange and unusual bunch but you’re my bunch. Just remember; never look over my shoulder when I’m on the internet . . .
Thanks once again to Natasha Harvey. You’re a fabulous sounding board, a fantastic side-kick, and just an all-round good egg. You talk funny, but that’s okay. And you also fit into the ‘strange’ category with my lovely family, but all the best people do. And speaking of strange, Aimee Bowyer; thanks so much for your eagle eyes. Two Wrongs wouldn’t have been as tidy without your eye-bizzles. Yes. Strange, by your own admission. But also lovely.
Thanks to my author village; to the lovely Lambs. Long may you continue to read and enjoy my stuff, and thanks for keeping me entertained. To Kelsey, Jess, Brii, Nan, Vickie, Eli, Mae, and anyone I might’ve forgotten!
Finally, thanks for reading, whoever you may be. Without you, I’d be talking to these voices in my head in some looney bin, probably.
One Dirty Scot
Book 3 of the Hot Scots Series
By Donna Alam
Copyright © 2017 Donna Alam
Published By: Donna Alam
Copyright and Disclaimer
The moral right of this author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the express permission of the author
This book is a work of fiction. Any reference to historical events, real people or real places are used fictitiously. All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 Donna Alam
Chapter One
KIT
‘You know what your problem is?’
I raise my eyes from my laptop to where Rory, my twin and mirror image, stands. It’s gone eight o’clock on a Friday evening; I thought everyone had left for the day.
‘Feel free to keep whatever it is to yourself,’ I mutter, looking back at my laptop.
‘Seriously, Kit. You can’t keep blowing off dates with my fiancée.’
He steps over the threshold, almost throwing himself on the oxblood leather sectional on the far side of my desk. But I don’t answer—not immediately. My fingers are poised over the silver keys as my mind snags on his particular phrasing balanced against the lack of accusation in his tone. This is one of those moments when you’re pretty sure you’ve misunderstood what’s been said but aren’t one hundred percent. Ridiculous. I breathe out, even and slow, lowering my fingers to the keyboard as Rory pulls out his phone. It’s almost amusing that he doesn’t realise how close he’s just come to stumbling over the truth.
My truth.
And even with the realisation, I still can’t help but respond.
‘I wasn’t aware you were interested in sharing t
he lovely Fin.’
Okay, so I don’t answer so much as I goad him. My truth isn’t that I’m interested in screwing his fiancée. She’s cute, but no. My truth is more that I prefer to manage my sex life by three rules.
I’m only interested in sex, not in a relationship. I’m always upfront about that.
I prefer my sexual partners to be emotionally attached to someone else. It helps with the above.
I’m not averse to said sexual partners bringing their significant other to my bed.
Yeah, I’m a sharer like that.
So, while I am a firm believer is the adage two’s company but three is a really cracking result, crossing swords with my brother is a step too far. Even for me.
I may be into a lot of freaky things, but incest doesn’t do it for me.
‘Fuck you.’ Rory replies to my taunt without even looking up from his phone. ‘You know exactly what I mean. You were supposed to meet us for dinner tonight. And you ‘ken that just fine.’
Threesomes aside, I do ‘ken—or rather, understand—and shrug lightly as my fingertips begin moving lightning quick over the keyboard again. ‘Can’t make it tonight.’ I keep my tone even. ‘I have plans.’ Really dirty plans.
‘Yeah, so your text said, knob head.’
‘I’m doing you a favour,’ I reply, ignoring his sulk and insult. ‘You don’t want me third wheeling it and spoiling your night.’ Not that there’s anything wrong with being a third in certain circumstances.
But again, incest. Society—and Kit—say no.
He rakes one hand through his dark hair with an air of frustration. ‘Do you ever listen, or is your ego so fucking large it takes up all the space between your ears?’
‘That’s rich coming from you,’ I mutter before looking up and offering him the appearance of my full attention. And my neutral face. ‘Look, something just came up at the last minute.’
