Hot Scots Christmas

by Donna Alam

  ‘A mouthful,’ Nat counters with a snort. ‘What, with a mouth the size of yours? Get a glass like everyone else.’ She chuckles at her own joke. ‘But if you see a waitress, get me a glass, yeah?’ I sense rather than see Natasha’s gaze following the path of mine. ‘Looks like June managed to get away. Ted must’ve managed to persuade her she wasn’t needed this afternoon.’

  I shake my head, though not in answer; it’s more an attempt to get my vision to reset. Why can’t I just be happy for my friends? Why must I have to torture myself?

  It must be a guilty conscience.

  Unless I’m going mad?

  Because I’m currently seeing a Dylan doppelganger, though one with a furry face.

  My so-called phantom tilts his head, listening to something June has to say, one finger reaching out to scratch the scruff against his cheek. June looks tiny next to his much larger frame. I can see the similarities in build and colouring, but Dylan would never grow a beard. He said they itched. Yet not a moment later, my phantom smiles and my heart pinches in its calcified cage.

  No. Definitely not phantom. But could it really be—

  My pinched heart grinds to halt, kick-starting itself with one loud thud. All it takes is one tiny action; the familiarity in the tilt of his head, of his smile. Because I remember how he used to look when he was happy, back before our marriage became a thing of hate.

  He slides his hand from the pocket of his black jeans, rising slightly as though to acknowledge my gaze, though perhaps deciding not to, if the almost imperceptible waver in the motion is any judge. The nuances are there, but the action isn’t right as he pushes that hand self-consciously through his hair.

  It isn’t him. It can’t be because he’s never been self-conscious or bashful or sheepish or anything but cocksure a day in his life.

  And that smile?

  The one he’s now sending across the room? It tugs at something primal deep in my belly, like nature, or fuck, I don’t know—like it’s the devil himself standing next to June, beckoning me to dance to his tune.

  His teeth graze his full bottom lip, and I swallow, the motion the beginning of a ripple of need that terminates between my legs. But this turns out to be a vowel, not a tease. A vowel followed by a couple of consonants, his mouth silently wrapping around the delivery of my name.

  The devil. It is the fucking devil, and Dylan is his name.

  Before I know it, my body is in motion, faces moving past my vision as though I were on a train. Well, those who aren’t standing in my FUCKING WAY!

  ‘Excuse me—excuse me. Would you just ever move! ’

  I make a beeline for the side entrance, almost knocking the black-and-white clad teenage waitress from the wood as I slip out into the late summer sunshine, but what now? Where do I go now that I’ve realised I’m not imagining things?

  What are the chances this is a massive coincidence, and I’ve just made a complete arse of myself? Christ, does it matter? He’s here, and I need not to be, or else . . . or else . . .

  The door handle at my back begins to turn, and I shoot off along the side of the building, catching the knuckles of my hand against the rough-hewn brick. I don’t remember the last time I moved so fast—I’d give Usain Bolt a run for his money. Maybe if he were six months pregnant. And my height. And wearing strappy Roman sandals and a dress.

  ‘Ivy! Ivy, wait !’

  ‘Not fucking likely,’ I wheeze out as I turn the corner of the building, moving past the wall of glass. People are inside. My people. People who might not have noticed the explosive nature of my departure. Maybe God will be good and they won’t notice me passing by the massive window either. But you can bet your arse they’ll notice the man following me.

  Don’t look in the window, Ivy. Don’t!

  So I don’t, though I have no idea where to go next. I can’t see beyond this web of lies I’ve woven, and the sudden panic is lacing its way through my chest.

  Another corner: Turn right or left? Right is the carpark, left is where?

  The cottages? Outbuildings, too, I think.

  Or maybe a better escape; the carpark! Maybe I make it to my car before he reaches me; get inside and turn the—

  Ah, shit!’

  The key. It’s upstairs in my room. I’m thankful for the first time for puffy toes. Because they’re the reason I’m wearing flats today. To think I wanted to cry over my clothing choices this morning.

  ‘Ivy, stop—goddammit!’

  ‘Go away, Dylan.’ The words leave my throat in a sob, a sob he won’t hear as I turn left instead. My feet scuff across the gravelled walkway, some spraying up and into my shoe in my haste. ‘Ow!’ I don’t have time to stop—I can’t—as I turn right by some bushes and right again, expecting somewhere to hide but instead finding sky.

  Sky and sand dunes and ocean, as far as the eye can see.

  ‘Shitballs! ’ I bring my hands to my face and exhale a pained, strangled sob. Despair, anger, and fear. Regret—fucking regret—all pile on my chest until it becomes hard to breathe.

  Before I know it, I sense him standing behind me. He whispers my name, or is it the sea?

  Chapter 33

  Dylan

  ‘Ivy.’

  Dark wisps of hair escape from her thick braid and dance in the wind. I hold my hand out ready to sweep them away like I’ve done a hundred times, my heart and arm sinking as slowly as the notion dawns: I’m not that man for her anymore.

  Christ Almighty. I swallow thickly. Why doesn’t this get any easier? The longer we’re apart, the less it’s supposed to hurt. It’s hard, dammit, and I’m hard. Hard-headed and arrogant for being in this position in the first place, but I might also be hard in another sense. Slightly. Yeah, that kind of hard . Blame the length of her hem or those dainty painted toes at the ends of those gorgeous bare legs. Or maybe just blame the fact that I’m some kind of fucking closet masochist when it comes to this woman.

  You’re here to bring her bad news and an apology—several apologies—not to get emotionally involved.

  Involved. More like entangled in a web of my own making; a web of desire and misplaced possession. A web sticky with my own vulnerability. Where once I wanted recompense and revenge, I now just want to make it okay. I want to prove I’m not the monster she made me out to be. The monster I made myself.

  In the car on the ride over when the auld granny talked of Ivy—of how braw she’s doing—I listened. Even as she began recounting the instances of Ivy’s kindness, the regard she has for her neighbours and friends, I didn’t once interrupt. I could have. A few weeks ago, I would have. I’d have told her Ivy’s niceness isn’t even skin deep. That it’s a veneer. That it’s fake. But I didn’t. And it wasn’t only because I was raised not to interrupt my elders, or that I was a captive audience with no escape. No, I sat and listened like a sap, smiling and soaking it all in. Because the closer I get to my wife, the bigger my problem is.

  Problem. Addiction. Compulsion. Call it what you will.

  In the close confines of the rental, I was an alcoholic listening to a description of fine whisky, just to get drunk on the words. And now that I’ve seen her, I want more than mere words. I want to write sonnets against her silken skin with my mouth.

  ‘Ivy, turn around.’ I dig my hands deeper into my pockets and the toe of one boot into the loamy soil. Would our marriage have lasted if I’d stuck to lugging plants? Would she have wanted me better then? ‘Please, cutz.’

  ‘Go away, Dylan. Just leave me alone.’ The sea breeze does nothing to hide the warble in her words or her tension; the way she holds her shoulders high.

  ‘I can’t.’ I don’t want to . ‘I need . . . I need to talk to you.’ I need to be inside you.

  She shakes her head, a bitter laugh accompanying it. ‘You were here last week. I saw you on TV. It was—it was a treat.’ The end of her sentence comes out in a rush, and suddenly, I don’t think she’s shaking from laughter anymore.

  ‘Ivy.’ I close my eyes, that
one word strangled with emotion—with regret. My molars threaten to crack under the pressure as I struggle, waiting for some sign from the universe. Someplace to begin this impossible conversation. Because now that I’m here, I have all the wrong words in my head and no place to begin. ‘Baby, please.’

  Her throat catches, shoulders shaking, and wracked by sobs. Before I know it, I’m pressed up against her, one arm banded across her shoulders. To prevent an escape—a collapse? I smooth the dark strands from her cheeks as I whisper nonsense in the form of comfort I’ve no place to give. Falsehoods and faery tales.

  I pull the last strand of errant hair from her cheek, curling it around the pink shell of her ear. It’s only natural—at least, it feels so—and something I’ve done a thousand times. A million moments when I’ve placed my lips against the length of silk she calls a neck.

  It’s as easy as wrapping her in my arms.

  It’s as easy as whispering her name.

  It’s as easy as falling into the abyss.

  Her whole body trembles against me, and my dick is painfully hard—as hard as the steel rod I should consider beating myself with. But she feels so good; soft and inviting, and she smells like heaven. Like something lost and found—our halcyon moments all over again.

  ‘My God.’ I breathe the sound of my need against her neck. ‘You’re so beautiful.’ And I’ve missed you so goddamned much.

  I couldn’t take my eyes off her indoors, forcing myself to stay on the other side of the room. Petite and so dainty, her legs bare beneath a dress that ought to be reclassified because it’s barely a shirt.

  The curve of her exposed shoulders, the jut of her bare collarbones, and an unadorned neck. I’d looked at the floor, rooting my feet to the polished stone, because I’d wanted to take great fucking strides across the room. I wanted to grab her and carry her to a place where the past never happened. I’d lift the hem on that swingy white dress and leave her bare but for the unravelled braid. Chocolate hair and milky skin. Nipples as rosy as the stain on her lips.

  Some images never change. Needs either, it seems.

  ‘Baby.’ Rueful—that’s how this one word sounds. Rueful and full of regret. I swallow hard again, forcing away the image of her trembling beneath me, mouth open in a gasp of absolute pleasure. Of obscene coupling. I barely even realise I’m trailing the backs of my fingers across her bare shoulder . . .

  . . . across the front of her dress . . . back and forth . . .

  . . . from shoulder to breastbone . . .

  . . . just a fraction above where the fabric is a tight fit.

  Back, and then forth, the movement as hypnotic as the tremble in each of her breaths.

  ‘What I wouldn’t give.’ My whisper is hoarse as my fingertips graze her nipples, creating a soft sigh of her reply.

  ‘For what?’

  I hold her breasts full in my hands now, pulling her to me, half groaning my unconsidered response into her neck.

  ‘What I wouldn’t give to fuck you again.’

  The hitch in her breath is fucking exquisite. I’m groaning deeper as Ivy pushes herself fully into my hands. Only I’m not paying attention, my brain unheeding and my cock running the show.

  Shoulders separating from chest.

  Lips that come away from her skin with a soft pop .

  Hands falling from breasts.

  It takes the brush of air between our bodies before I come to fully realise.

  ‘I can’t.’ The back of her head shakes, the strands snaking in the ocean breeze again. ‘I can’t do this. We can’t do this.’

  I shake my own head vigorously. Or maybe I’m nodding. Who the fuck knows. She’s not looking at me, so what the fuck does it matter, right? Jaw clenched tight, my tenuous grip on reality causes a sourness in my mouth as in the periphery of my vision she turns. Her heart-shaped face and eyes as painful as broken glass.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I rasp, words sounding unused. ‘I’m so sorry. You’re just—’ like my fucking obsession — ‘and it makes me feel . . .’

  A sudden gust of wind from the coast, and my words are lost; the volume of her peasant dress plastered suddenly to her body.

  And it makes me feel . . . confused.

  Shock.

  Horror.

  Fucking delight.

  Oh, God. It makes me feel . . .

  Like a motherfucking caveman.

  ‘Is that . . .’ A baby? Too many veggie tacos? ‘Fucking mine?’

  My words are delivered like a slap as her hands instinctively cover the roundness beneath her breasts. I slide my hands up my cheeks and into my hair, feet planted like roots to the earth.

  Because I want to run to her or run at her.

  Take her in my arms, or take her arms in my hands.

  All those things and it makes not one drop of sense.

  ‘No.’ I come back to myself; it seems she’s not the only one getting verbally slapped today. In my defence, I hadn’t reached for hardness; it’s just shock.

  She’s pregnant, and I’m . . . But what if this baby isn’t yours?

  ‘This has nothing to do with you, Dylan.’

  Math. Do the math, you fuckwit. How many months? What size of bump?

  Her words bring my thoughts to a sudden stop. Like a mallet to the head. Is this the truth or another attempt to get me to leave? There, with the wind plastering the dress to her vulnerability, she stands strong. Resolute. But the way her trembling lips curl in on themselves? And those words—how she said them—hold too much passion, too much depth. She’s hurt, and she’s lashing out, but instinctively, I know I put that baby there.

  A baby. She’s having a baby. We’re having a baby.

  ‘Let’s just get that straight,’ she demands. ‘You have no part in this.’

  Just her alone. No one else to be involved. Fucking typical. Despite knowing to the marrow in my bones that she’s carrying my child, my fucking mouth runs again.

  ‘Who’s the unlucky fuck then, wife?’

  She has the audacity to narrow her eyes at me, folding her arms across her chest and accentuating the small bump beneath. Our child. How did I not notice? Even within the folds of her dress, how did I not see? Because I’m an idiot and that’s the reason she’s currently glaring at me. You’d imagine it would be hard to stare down your nose at someone when it’s as tiny as hers, but she seems to be managing just fine.

  I struggle to contain my smile, though just barely manage.

  ‘Really?’ She cocks a hip; a motion that, in the past, would’ve served only as a dare. A cocked hip and folded arms and it’s on. ‘Is it an issue for you, Dylan? You, who’ve had your dick in half of Hollywood.’

  ‘Like you care.’

  ‘Like you’d know,’ she responds, shock immediately colouring her face.

  ‘How the hell am I supposed to know anything when you walked away?’ With each word, my volume increases until I’m surely shouting.

  ‘Y-you don’t want to know, and you don’t need to know. Just like we don’t need anything from you.’

  ‘Who’s the we in this picture?’ I grate the question out. Even though I’m certain she means her and the baby in her belly, the cave dweller in me can’t help where his tiny mind lands. ‘You and your new man?’ The thought is pure rage.

  ‘Yeah, sure.’ Her hands are in the air like the words are throwaway. ‘If that makes it easier for you, absolutely. My new man.’

  I take a step toward her, knowing full well what it must take her to stand her ground. Knowing and not giving a fuck in the midst of this pissed-off rage.

  ‘For once in your fucking life, say what you mean. Tell. Me. The. Truth.’

  ‘What do you want me to say?’ Plaintive. Her words sound more like a plea. Not an appeal for mercy, but something to make me go away. ‘Why are you even here?’

  Why I’m here is for another conversation. Some things are more important than porn and court cases. Some things take precedence, and some things can wait.

  �
��What does it matter why? I’m here, and you need to tell me about that .’ My eyes dip to her waistline like they’re hypnotized.

  ‘That? That? ’ she all but screeches. ‘That happens to be a two-thirds cooked baby, you idiot. Try referring to y—my child as something other than that .’

  My eyes track up her body. Is it the cool breeze or our anger that has her nipples hard?

  ‘So it is mine then,’ I demand as my eyes land on hers. I know it, but her confirmation is required. I want the truth from her mouth.

  ‘Just do us both a favour and crawl back to whichever harlot’s bed you’ve rolled out of.’

  This woman. So modest. At least, that’s what she’d like you to think.

  ‘Harlot?’ I raise one taunting brow. ‘You mean like Cindy? Or maybe Liza from the salon?’ My tone is benign, even if both names are aimed to rub old hurts. These aren’t girls I’ve fucked, but girls—colleagues of hers—who’d hit on me at one time or another, much to her distaste. Yeah, the wife no one knew about—at her insistence. The one who gave me a hard time over their interest anyway. ‘ Or Lissa, the dog walker? Or are we talking about Georgia here?’

  Arms folded again; her nose begins to twitch. It shouldn’t be cute, but it is. Cute and satisfying as it’s a sign that she’s losin’ it. Here it comes. The jealous streak. The green cascade. My Poison Ivy. And I love it.

  ‘Fucking slut!’ she bellows. Fists raised like she’d just love to clock me one, she stomps a tiny sandal-clad foot. ‘Why don’t you just fuck off back to whichever blonde bimbo’s hole you slipped out of last!’

  ‘She wasn’t blonde.’

  And that’s the truth because Ivy was the last woman I was in. Not that there’d be any point in telling her, or any chance of her believing because I can hardly believe it myself. I’ve been off the booze and celibate for five or six months . . . six months. I can’t stop the smile creeping across my face. So that’s what six months pregnant looks like. Beautiful. And angry.