by Donna Alam
Sensation blooms and bursts between my legs. I drop my gaze back to my plate, murmuring, ‘I’m not sure how to answer that.’
‘You say Rory, the blonde or Rory, the wee drunken brunette .’
Spinning. My head is spinning, his determination tying my tongue in knots. He likes me likes me. Oh, God, and I like him. More than I ought to, I know.
‘The brunette. Ivy.’ The words just spill. Like verbal soup. ‘Sister of the meathead. I mean Mac. She’s Mac’s sister. And my best friend.’
‘Got it,’ he says with a satisfied smirk.
‘Good.’ I exhale a massive breath, then picking up my fork, chase a couple bright orange beans around my plate.
‘Well, I think so.’
‘You do?’ My head snaps up, my gaze square on his.
‘Aye. You seemed awful pally back there in the gym.’
‘That’s because we are. Friends, I mean.’
‘I didn’t like it. Didn’t like him.’ His tone is gruff, like he’s reluctant to say the words.
‘And yet you left.’
‘That was before. If you tell me you feel the same, I’m pulling out all the stops.’
My fork clatters against the plate. I can feel myself blinking. Heavily.
‘You’re doing that blinking thing again, titch.’ His voice is so low and rough.
‘Can’t help it,’ I whisper. ‘This is all so much.’ So soon. Too much.
‘Tell me about it.’ With an almost rueful tilt of his head, he stabs the sausage patty with his fork. ‘One minute I’m screwing some hot piece of ass.’ I think my jaw just hit the table as he asks, ‘Like the vernacular? Thought you might appreciate it.’ He slices off a chunk. ‘I was meaning you, by the way. And the next minute I’m falling in love. You again.’
‘No. You can’t be.’ He can’t be in love, especially using that tone.
‘I know,’ he agrees, waving the fork. His throat moves as he swallows; how is that even hot? ‘That’s what I keep telling myself, but it looks like you’re stuck with me. You’ll just have to play catch up in the meantime.’
‘Rory, you don’t even know me.’
‘True,’ he concedes. ‘But that seems to have little to do wi’ how I feel. One minute, exactly like you said, I’m trying to avoid you like the plague and the next, I feel like you’ve tattooed your name across my fucking heart.’
‘I didn’t do anything,’ I half wail, sort of plaintively. I’m a little stunned. Yes, there’s his admission—which is huge—but this is also the first time Rory has cursed in my company. Well, cursed in conversation, rather than during sex. Or the lead up to sex. Dirty words are part of his foreplay.
Oh, my. He’s a gentleman. Who’d have thought?
‘And truth be told,’ he continues, ‘you don’t know an awful lot about me. And the bits you do know aren’t entirely accurate.’
I imagine it’s not very gallant to lie.
‘What?’
‘I may have told you a couple of wee fibs, but I figure that’s okay.’
‘Why would you think that?’ I ask carefully.
‘ ‘Cos I figure you haven’t been entirely honest, either. Are you gonna eat that?’ I shake my head and Rory leans over, spearing the sausage on my plate. ‘Lorne sausage is ambrosia from the Gods. Pity they’re all heathens down south.’
Thirty-Five
Rory
‘Down south,’ she repeats, doing a fair impression of a small, blonde, blinking owl.
God, those eyes. Almost lapis when glazed with passion and green-blue the rest of the time.
Her gaze is steady, like she knows what I’m thinking. I wish she could, then there’d be no need for this conversation. ‘Aye, where I live. Mostly.’
‘Oh.’ Short and high, her reply resembles a hoot. ‘I assumed you lived in Scotland, given your accent and all.’
‘And I’d assumed you weren’t from around these parts at all until you put me right.’ Away an’ boil ye’ heid she’d said in a pretty convincing accent. I lean my elbow on the table, my other hand still holding my fork . . . which I seem to be using like a conductor’s baton. ‘So what does that tell you?’
‘Honestly? I’ve no idea.’
I laugh then. Heartily. If nothing else, this girl makes me laugh. She also sucks cock like a champ.
‘It tells me we’re both hiding things.’ Oh, fuck, that’s not good , I think, watching as the colour almost bleeds from her cheeks. ‘Don’t stress it. I’ll go first.’
‘With what?’
‘The first item on the agenda.’ I wave over the waitress and ask her to take away the plates when it becomes clear Fin won’t be eating any more than the few mouthfuls she’s managed so far. ‘I wish it was a wee bit later in the day. I could’ve taken you to the pub.’
‘That sounds ominous.’
‘Believe me, alcohol might’ve helped. Pay attention,’ I say, with gravitas. And then a laugh. ‘What I’m about to tell you sounds like it was lifted from a gothic novel.’
‘Cool, a story. Should I get comfortable?’ she asks, though she’s clearly at a loss.
‘Absolutely,’ I say, patting my knees. She frowns, so inhaling deeply, I begin. ‘So, me. I have the accent, but I didn’t grow up in Scotland, unless you count boarding school, and while I’m definitely a Scot, London is my home.’
‘That’s not so scary, though I’m surprised you haven’t had your passport revoked.’
‘Surprised?’
‘Well, your accent is certainly a little finer, even if you can lay it on.’
‘You’re angling for a skelped arse,’ I say all gravelly, though it’s not a tone I use for effect, but rather because the image of her hand-warmed arse flashed into my head. ‘When I’m angry, or excited, it just shows a little more.’ And skelping her arse definitely left me excited. ‘But you’d know that, yeah?’ I add, using the same tone, throwing in a knicker dropping smirk for good measure. I let my gaze slide over her body before starting again. Not that I particularly want to, but I sense the only way to get her to trust me is to be honest with her myself.
‘That aside, you could say my roots are here in this very village. More specifically, over at the big house, as you call it.’ I curl my fingers against the urge to smooth the crease from her brow. ‘It was sold just recently. I don’t know if you’re aware. It took an age to go through probate after the owner died and left it to a charity.’
‘I’d heard,’ she replies softly.
‘The thing you won’t have heard, in fact, the thing that almost no one knows is, the dead guy? He was my dear old dad, or as I like to call him, the sperm donor.’
‘Oh, that’s . . . wow.’
Shooting her a tight smile—the best I can manage while speaking about the monumental prick—I carry on. ‘Yep. We used to come here for our summer holidays. Mum, me and Kit. We stayed at the cottage, you know, the cottage from our first night?’ Fuck me, blushing looks good on her. ‘Funnily enough, the auld bastard left us that house in his will.’
I sniff, turning my gaze to the café window. We weren’t worthy of the Tremaine House, just the cottage it seems, for his bastard sons. His only sons. Hidden away from the rest of his life until he saw fit. Fuck that . By the time he’d wanted us, neither Kit nor I were the least bit interested.
I realise, at that point, that I’m chewing the inside of my lip.
‘We used to visit him, but no one ever mentioned who he was. Just a family friend we were told. Then, his wife died—she was disabled and had been for a long time. They never had children. Kit and I were accidents and our mother, his slip from married grace.’ The sanctimonious shit. I can’t help my bitter tone; I thought I’d be fine—be able to wing it, though it now seems not. The whole situation is fucked up and something I’d prefer no one else to know, but I have to do this. I have to get her to open up. ‘So, after his wife’s death, he decided he could make room for us, presumably no longer weighed down by guilt. Kit and I were about twenty-thre
e and not the least bit interested. It was too little too late and we told him so.’ The last time we came up for a holiday we basically told him to get fucked.
Stunned. She looks fucking stunned. Christ, why did I let my mouth run off so much? I should’ve stuck to the bare facts. I’m so fucking stressed, it takes me a moment to realise she’s reaching across the table for my hand.
‘Oh my. That’s just . . . terrible. What about your mom? How did she feel?’
‘I suppose we’ll never know. She was killed in a car accident the year before.’
‘Oh, Rory. I’m so sorry.’
‘Not your fault,’ I reply gruffly as, grasping her fingers tight, I press them between both my hands.
‘It’s just such a shitty position to be in. Losing your mom and having to deal with your father, and then being sent to do work on the house that’s rightfully yours. It’s not fair. Couldn’t you have refused the job?’
For a split second I’m lost, still basking like a cat in her warm gaze. In her empathy . ‘Ah, well, that brings us to item number two,’ I reply, resisting the supreme urge to run a hand through my hair. ‘The big house. I don’t suppose I’ve told you my name—my surname?’ She shakes her head as I touch my chest and say, ‘Rory Tremaine.’
‘I don’t think I understand.’
‘And the house is rightfully mine now. At least, the mortgage is.’
‘The mortgage? You . . . bought it?’
‘We did. It went up for auction and Kit and I snapped it up. Two point four mil . . . and a few hundred grand to fix it up.’
‘I must be in the wrong business.’ She looks stunned, words simply falling from her mouth. ‘Do gardeners get paid that kind of money?’
‘Which brings me neatly to number three, is it?’ I haven’t been keeping count. ‘Aye, number three. A gardener, yes ,’ I say, drawing the word out, attempting to restrain my expression. ‘Kit prefers the term landscape architect. This is my brother, the landscape architect.’ She doesn’t smile at my take on his pompous-ass tone. ‘But jointly, we also own a fair bit of property and a couple hotels. And that sounds more monopoly mogul than it actually is.’ My laughter seems hollow, especially as she tries to retract her hand.
Tries. Doesn’t succeed.
‘You lied—why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Well, I’m no’ in the habit of telling virtual strangers my net worth. And then there’s the wee matter of you saying you wouldn’t screw a rich bloke. I’m no Rockefeller, but I do all right. I wasn’t going to let that little fact put you off that night.’
‘Even though you thought I was a whore?’ Her lips quiver; I’m taking it as an embryonic smile—counting it as a win.
‘I did not. But in my defence, that first night, you weren’t making a lot of sense.’ Who brings up the topic of money when talking about fucking, other than a hooker, maybe?
‘So you lied.’
‘Basically.’ I accompany this with a brief shrug. ‘More like stretched the truth.’
‘You’re so brazen,’ she says on the breath of a laugh. A stunned laugh. She’s definitely still processing, but now is the time; I strike quick.
‘Guilty as charged. But my guess would be . . . this truth stretching? I don’t think I’m alone.’
As she levels her gaze on mine, she no longer looks stunned, but eerily calm, her expression as blank as any mask. And as unnerving as all fuck.
‘Trust me,’ she says ominously. ‘You really don’t want to know.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong.’ I squeeze her hand a little tighter. Hopefully, it conveys reassurance, rather than a kind of I’m-gonna-break-your-hand-if-you-don’t-spit-it-out-now . ‘But I can wait. When you’re ready, I’ll be here.’
Thirty-Six
Fin
Rich, handsome and solvent.
There has to be a catch knowing my luck. Rich, that’s the catch, according to my experiences.
Why the hell didn’t I ask him his surname? Because I was too busy trying to convince myself this was nothing but sex.
Hella successful, Fin.
I should be angry—should be pissy—but I know my secrets are bigger than his. As we walk along the damp sidewalk, I make a mental note to google the shit out of him. Shit. He could do the same—how long will using my maiden name hide me then?
Dating and widow. Two words that shouldn’t be said together aloud.
I am going to tell him. Probably not today, but soon, I promise myself. I’ll tell him I’m not newly divorced, but rather he’s boning a woman whose husband isn’t yet cold in the ground. That is, if he’d been available for burial.
Oh, please shut up, I tell my brain. I’m not ready to say those words.
I’ll also have to tell him that he’s the reason I married at all. Or rather, he was the catalyst used by a very naive and inexperienced girl. Maybe I should mention I had blue hair; see if that rings any bells. I’ll also have to tell him that it looks like I’ll be moving to London in a few weeks, if yesterday’s call from the event company is any indication.
He lives in London. Yes, I know. It’s a big place.
‘You’re very quiet,’ Rory says, pulling on my hand. Holding hands. Out in the daylight for all to see.
I try to pull it back, to make a show of putting it in my pocket while complaining of the cold, but it seems that idea’s a no-go.
‘Gimme it back,’ I say, sort of whiney. ‘It is cold.’
With a cryptic smile, he feeds my hand, still in his, into the pocket of his jacket. ‘Better?’ The real answer is both yes and no. ‘So, we’re going to the hair salon and then we’re heading where?’
‘Work, I suppose.’
‘Nah. I’m done over there. My vote would be a pub, or better still, a hotel. One with a huge bath. Yeah,’ he adds, sliding his heated glaze my way. ‘Hotel fucking would definitely warm you up.’
‘You might be done, but I’m not.’ The rest? I’m not touching that.
‘You said it yourself, you make your own hours. But if you’re insistent, it’ll be a night in a cold stable block and an even colder shower later. I can’t be letting you have the hot water two mornings in a row.’
‘When are you heading back? To London, I mean.’ Change the subject. Away from sex.
‘Salon first. Then hotel fucking.’ Okay, I tried . ‘Then maybe a spot of lunch, because you ate only enough dried bread to feed a wee sparrow this morning. Then later, logistical planning. You know, future stuff.’
Logistics. Planning. Future stuff. Big scary words. I’m not ready—oh, shit. I think I’m having a panic attack. The lump of fear in my stomach expands until it’s filling my throat. I can feel myself shaking, my feet getting slower, shuffling against the pavement until I grind to a halt.
I’m suddenly spun around, Rory’s hands on my shoulders. ‘Breathe,’ he says gently. ‘We don’t need to rush. When you’re ready, we’ll talk.’
Folding me into his arms, he kisses my head when a door nearby opens, a familiar tinkling preceded by June’s excited tone.
‘Away inside a’fore the heavens open. The sky’s as black as the Earl of Hell’s waistcoat!’ The door chimes again as it closes.
‘We’ve been busted,’ Rory says, laughing softly into my hair.
‘Are they still watching?’ I so don’t want to look.
‘Well,’ he says, tilting his head. ‘It looks like your blonde friend, the one with the big rack, is doing a sort of ceilidh through the shop.’
‘That’s her victory dance.’
‘It’s a very nice dance. Ow, watch my ribs!’
‘Then don’t watch my friend’s rack.’
‘How can I not? It’s just so . . . Aye, come on,’ he adds, taking my hand as a large drop of rain hits me in the centre of the forehead. ‘Let’s go face the firing squad.’
‘Ha!’ Nat calls out. ‘Wait ‘till I tell her. I knew there was something else keeping you over at that hoose!’
‘Leave Ivy alone,’ I cou
nter. ‘At least until she’s home.’
‘We won’t have long to wait, hen,’ adds June, patting my arm kindly as she passes. ‘She’s flying home at the end of the week.’ Tipping her head, she gives Rory a kindly look.
‘Already?’ I ask, spinning on my heel, my questioning gaze seeking Nat.
‘Aye, apparently, she’s come to some arrangement with her old boss. She says the problem’s all taken care of and she’s coming home.’
‘And I’m that glad,’ says June.
‘I can’t say I am,’ adds another voice.
‘Fin, this is Ted, the new stylist.’ I note Nat’s lack of enthusiasm, which is strange given that Ted looks just her type. And by that, I mean he has some kind of small furry creature attached to his face.
‘And I’m Rory,’ says the man himself. ‘Excuse Fin’s lack of manners, but she had a hard night.’
I turn on him, agog, just as the door chimes again.
‘Hello again!’ Just what I need; damned Malady. I can’t catch a break . ‘Just in time,’ she says, shaking the drops from her umbrella, her inane chatter continuing as she turns. ‘As I left the house, I thought, I’d better go back and get my brolly. Turns out I was right—just look at it coming down now! Oh, hello! Natasha said a new stylist would be here this week, but I didn’t expect you to be so—so . . .’
‘She seems to have developed a bit of a twitch,’ whispers Nat.
‘Mmmmmasculine,’ she almost sings, Shirley Bassey style, as she sidles up to Rory, eyeing him like he’s the cake boss of all cream cakes.
‘I’d get in his chair,’ mumbles Ted and Rory begins to laugh. ‘He can shag me anytime. What?’ he adds. ‘It’s a haircut.’
And now I realise why Nat isn’t so impressed, though he’s so inappropriate, I expect they’ll end up the best of friends.
‘Well, Mal—Melody, my wax pot is a-heatin’,’ Nat says. ‘What say we go take care of that bad boy?’
‘Pardon?’
‘Your bush isnae gonna tidy itself.’
Malady flushes, beginning to stammer some protestation of only needing her nails painted while still following Nat to the treatment room.
