Hot Scots Christmas

by Alam, Donna

  Desire. So that’s what this feels like. I’d almost forgotten. It’s been a while since I’ve felt anything other than—

  ‘Enjoying the view?’

  I come back to the moment, blinking rapidly. And I so don’t have an answer to that, not one that I want to voice, anyway. Hey, remember me? We screwed that one time . . . Evidently not, but that’s okay, because I want to be invisible right now.

  ‘I feel sort of objectified.’ His gaze is twinkling and complicit as he takes a step closer, bringing with him the scent of shampoo and wet grass.

  ‘It’s just . . . the rain.’ My teeth fasten against my bottom lip in an attempt to prevent more nonsense from spilling, as his hitch up at one side.

  ‘Don’t get me wrong. I like it.’

  His husky tone . . . well, it’s belly-licking warm. I swallow. Audibly. That had to be audible . Because no conversation in the history of me has ever sounded so overtly sexual.

  ‘C-can I help you?’

  His eyes brim with suggestions as they linger on my mouth. ‘I can think of several ways of answering that.’

  I clear my throat. ‘I mean, do you have an appointment?’

  I take a step backwards with the intention of putting something more solid than sexual chemistry between us, making a beeline for the reception desk. There’s a finite confidence in his step as he follows me, casually leaning his forearm against the high counter. And I remember this cockiness; this confidence. And his words may be playful, but I know he means business; the dichotomy of a player, I suppose. I know all this, yet I’m still buying his brand of bullshit, playing along, while knowing I ought not to feel the way I do. Maybe because it’s been years since I’ve been hit on; years since I’ve felt like I was anything other than someone’s wife.

  ‘An appointment,’ he repeats, his smile lingering. ‘Do you suppose I need one to take you out for a drink?’

  I close my eyes for a brief moment. This exchange may have felt easy, but the reality of it is so wrong. I can’t help how I feel—which, incidentally, is more alive than I have in months—but I can decide how to behave. A conscious choice. As my eyes spring open I school my expression. Channel serene. Dignified. Uninterested. Unfeeling below the neck.

  ‘I—’

  ‘Have you seen the delivery of foil?’ Ivy’s voice calls from beyond the salon floor. ‘Oh, hello,’ she says expectantly, coming into view. ‘Are you being taken care of?’

  Something akin to devilment ripples across his face, his dark gaze flicking to his shoes. As it rises again, the expression is gone.

  ‘Actually, I’m lost. I saw the lights on and, as you can see,’ he says, slipping his hand through his wet locks, almost self-consciously. ‘I got caught in the rain coming up the hill.’

  My gaze follows the path of his lowered hand, flicking to the zipper of his jeans of their own accord. I’m pretty sure I can see the outline of stuff I shouldn’t and I can’t stop my eyes from lingering there. Is my memory as good as all that?

  ‘Oh,’ Ivy repeats as I force my eyes to blink away, unfortunately, catching her gaze. She looks worried. Or pissed. It’s hard to tell which. It doesn’t help that she remains silent, which makes the moment feel more than awkward and drawn out. A prickly Ivy is an obvious one . I’m only thankful that she doesn’t know him, doesn’t know of him . And I know I shouldn’t be feeling so light, but damn it, I do.

  Saving our trio of sudden silence is Nat, brandishing a box of tinting foil.

  ‘Here. You left it in the kitchen.’ She passes it into Ivy’s hands, neither of them making to move from the reception area, which suits me. I shouldn’t be left alone with him. In fact, it might also help if he’d stop looking at me like that. I dip my head, letting the curtain of hair shield my face, forcing my gaze to remain fixed on the appointment book as Natasha exclaims,

  ‘You’re fair drookit!’ Even with my limited vision, I can see her observing him—up then down—without an ounce of restraint. ‘Absolutely drenched!’ As he pushes off from the counter, he shivers slightly from the cold.

  ‘I’ll survive. Any idea where I’ll find the tide timings for the causeway?’ he asks, sliding an iPhone from his pocket. It’s not an unfriendly tone, but definitely a little brusquer than when we were alone. And the delicious hint of his accent has almost gone. ‘I can’t seem to get a signal anywhere.’

  ‘You’re off to the big house?’ Nat asks, without a hint of flirtation, I note, her accent rendering the word hoose . ‘I can’t help with the signal. We all have the same issue, but the tide times should be posted on the road. Unless the sign has blown away again.’

  The big hoose is what locals call the stately manor sitting about half a mile out from the mainland on a tiny island accessible only by causeway. The sandstone house was built around the beginning of the last century by a local family of standing, now long gone. There’s just the house and a couple of cottages. It’s pretty, but remote.

  Nat goes on to discuss the tide times and hell knows what else while Ivy loads her foil onto one of the mobile stations, very obviously listening in. Me? I stay where I am, basically just moving stuff around. Paperclips. Appointment cards. But even keeping my gaze low, I can’t help notice Rory’s gaze following me.

  Shouldn’t notice. Don’t look up.

  As the door chimes again, I suffer a small wave of disappointment, my eyes all but glued to his wide back as he leaves. But it’s for the best.

  ‘He was watching you like a cat eyeing a tasty wee mouse.’ Nat rests an elbow on the high reception desk in the space where Rory just stood, propping her chin onto one fist. ‘Did you notice?’

  ‘Nope.’ My hands tidy and straighten, my gaze therefore busy, too.

  ‘I think someone needs to climb that lumberjack,’ she says, slapping the counter in an exaggerated motion. ‘Tim—berrr !’

  ‘Natasha, can you show me where you found the foil?’ Ivy interrupts, slamming the now empty box on the desk.

  ‘It’s in the—’ One look at her expression and Nat makes a very Scottish noise from the back of her throat. ‘Come on,’ she adds. ‘I’ll show you.’

  Ivy takes a last look out the window, her gaze lingering on the cold, wet day.

  ‘Sorrow and ill weather always comes for unsent,’ she says, her dour gaze following Rory’s form through the rain.

  Three

  Fin

  The days pass, as days are wont to do. I don’t think of Rory too often, though by accident rather than design. Saturday is by far the busiest day of Ivy’s opening week; it seems everyone in Auchkeld is in need of a cut, a colour, or a waxing somewhere. Or maybe they’re all just a bunch of awfully nosey bastards. Whatever the reason, business is off to a great start, meaning my mind doesn’t wander badly during the day, though all bets are off by the time I crawl back into bed.

  I swore I’d never return; growing up here was enough. Yet, here I am, and in a strange kind of way, nothing has changed.

  I’m still dependant on someone, having exchanged Mom for Ivy.

  I’m back to avoiding the villagers and their pitchforks.

  And I’m still sleeping on a tiny twin bed, while imagining him. Though, strictly speaking, I’m not imagining. I’m reminiscing.

  I moved away for college, or university as they say here, and the week my finals were over, my mother told me she was selling the house. I was shocked, and apparently, now old enough to go it alone. I hadn’t begun looking for a job, not a real grown up one, instead making plans to go back-packing with Ivy for half the year. In between the end of classes and leaving, I’d headed home to clear the nine years of crap from my childhood bedroom, leaving Ivy in London to finish the last few weeks of her course. The Far East. Australia. New Zealand. Those were our plans and I couldn’t wait. It was what we’d always dreamed of, or at least I had, and I’d busted my ass studying while taking on all kinds of paid work to pay for the trip.

  Telephone sales. Waitress. House keeper. I’d done them all.
/>   Twenty-one, blue haired, and restless, I was without my sidekick in a village I disdained. And as a consequence, I’d agreed to go to out for a drink with a friend . Melody had been Ivy and my sometime third wheel; not really a friend, more like someone who’d hung out with us when it suited her. Melody—or Malady as we called her on account of her many and varied ailments, mostly imagined—was also at a loose end that evening after her boyfriend cancelled on her. We were already three ciders in when she’d spotted the reason for her free evening at the other end of the room. Her boyfriend. And his date. Honestly? You’ve got to worry about the gene pool in such small places, because the guy looked floored to be caught. And then he was just actually floored as Malady stormed to the other end of the room, kneeing him in the crotch. They were asked to take their domestic elsewhere, and when I followed them outside, they appeared to be already making up. Faces glued together, his fingers digging into the flesh of her ass.

  Faced with the prospect of more packing back at home, I’d decided to return to the pub and order another drink. It was an act of independence and perfect practise for travelling, I’d reasoned. As it turned out, it was also a perfect opportunity for the bitches from school to resume their bullying campaign.

  I can be snarky. Bitchy. But confrontational? No way.

  ‘Finola, did y’ken all that studying has turned your hair blue?’ The girl’s hair was heavy with the scent of hairspray and cheap perfume, proving that some things never change. And though I could place her face to my senior English Lit class, I couldn’t recall her name.

  ‘I heard you’d gone to uni.’ This from Tweedle-Dumber, sounding more like a jibe than a genuine enquiry, not that I recognised her. Not from any of my classes, therefore one of the stupid masses . ‘Should’ve saved the money and had yer tits done. Isn’t that how your ma bought that house? On her back?’

  I’m not sure how I’d allowed this to happen. Maybe their provocation had whipped the wind out of my sails, because I couldn’t find a comeback. I’d been gone three years, had gained an education, and what later turned out to be a first class degree. I’d cultivated a life of my own and crawled out from under my mother’s reputation. I was a new person; my hair was blue, for goodness sake! But in that grotty pub, my bohemian exterior didn’t protect me. It just made me fair game.

  ‘Nah, tits will’nae make any difference. I reckon she’s a lezza, anyway.’

  And then, something extraordinary happened—as extraordinary as aliens landing in the village, or the Queen popping in for a pint of ale—masculine hands landed on my shoulders, turning me bodily. I felt his mouth before I saw it, as I was pulled to him and kissed thoroughly. I don’t know where he’d come from, or exactly what he’d heard, all I’d known was he was there, turning my face to his, his lips meeting mine as his large hands threaded into my hair. His body was as hard as his lips were soft, and though I’d been kissed before, I’d never been kissed quite so thoroughly. Never so I’d stood on the tips of my toes as his lips had pulled away.

  ‘Hey, baby blue.’ Though clearly Scottish, his accent was nothing like those around me. He’d brushed his nose against mine, his eyes sparkling with a combination of mischief and mirth. ‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said, sliding his hands down the sides of my face to thread blue locks behind my ears. ‘Do you want to introduce me to your friends?’

  His voice was like sandpaper, his gaze sliding to those gobsmacked bitches then back to me again. Sparks of residual pleasure coursed through my arms and legs. I was stunned—literally—and hadn’t realised I’d spoken until I heard my own throaty response in the air.

  ‘Not particularly.’

  And, oh Lord, his husky chuckle brushed down my spine like trailing fingertips.

  If you want to know a man, look at him when he laughs .

  I’d read Dostoyevsky in Russian Lit the year before, and boy, was I looking right now. And feeling. There were lots of feelings, especially as he wrapped his hand around my hip.

  ‘Then let’s get out of here.’

  Four

  Rory

  ‘What do you mean they’ve walked out?’

  ‘Downed tools. Pissed off site. All of them. Which part of this are you having trouble with?’ Kit’s huff is audible down the line. ‘I hope you’re happy.’

  ‘Me? It’s not my fault she’s become a fucking nightmare to deal with since she took over the company.’ I look around the room that’s supposed to be well on its way to resembling a high-end cocktail bar. It looks more like a demolition site. ‘The way she runs the business, I’m surprised her da hasn’t risen from the dead.’

  ‘Me, too. To kick your arse.’

  ‘Nah, he was a sensible man. He’d be angrier about his business right now.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘You’re not looking at what I am.’ I touch the scratched surface of the rounded top of an antique newel post. It’s bastarding sacrilege. It looks like the thing has been rolled around the floor like a football. ‘If I didn’t know better, I’d say she’d employed a bunch of cowboys.’

  ‘As punishment, maybe. Couldn’t you have dumped her some other time? Some time we weren’t on a bloody deadline?’

  ‘Am I a gigolo now?’

  ‘Surely you must’ve, I don’t know, had some clue that she’d go off her nut?’

  ‘Go off her nut? Kit, the woman is a nut.’

  ‘All the more reason to consider how she’d react. You weren’t expecting a kiss on the cheek and a hearty handshake when you decided to, oh, I don’t know, break her fucking heart!’

  I pull the phone away from my ear—my brother’s angry words all but rattling my eardrum—but I don’t have an answer beyond the grimace he can’t see. How could I foresee she’d pull her construction company’s services? I wouldn’t have poked her with Kit’s dick, let alone my own, if I’d known what a psycho she was.

  ‘Firstly,’ I say, trying to keep my tone even, ‘dumped implies some level of prior commitment. There was none—we were clear about that at the start.’ Too busy for romance, she’d said. ‘ As for breaking her heart, I’m not all that sure Beth has one.’ Not that I spared much time to investigate. She had all I was interested in stashed in a neat little package between her legs.

  ‘Come on, you’re not that green. You know there’s always a secret part of them that hopes they’ll land something beyond fuck-buddy terms.’

  ‘Are you speaking from experience, now?’

  ‘Fuck you.’

  ‘Bunny boiling’s a breed, no’ a gender, you fuckin’ muppet.’ As usual, my accent gets stronger the more agitated I get.

  ‘The bottom line is, she’s pulled the plug on both sites.’

  For a minute, I can see him in his office, one hand irately ploughing through his hair. My temper dies almost immediately; I’m the older brother—by quarter of an hour—yet, he’s the one always dragging me out of the shit. He has a lot on his shoulders without managing the fallout from my sex life. Again.

  ‘Both?’

  ‘Crews have set down tools and walked off site with no word of when they’ll return.’

  ‘Can she do that? Surely we’ve something in the contract—penalties? What about legal?’

  ‘Rory, you fucked the wrong girl. You want me to take that knowledge beyond the three of us? I’m hoping it won’t come to that.’

  ‘Meaning?’ A cold stone forms in the pit of my gut as he inhales slowly.

  ‘Call the girl. Talk to her.’

  ‘I’m not whoring myself out for this,’ I say, half laughing, even though the implication stings.

  ‘Come on, man. She doesn’t seem to care about the repercussions. Meanwhile we’re counting the costs by the day.’

  ‘That’s some fucking business mentality,’ I grumble. ‘It’s hardly like we were a couple. It was just a few weeks of fun.’

  ‘Do me a favour, when you call her to smooth things over, leave that little insight out?’

  ‘I’m not gonna call the psychop
ath,’ I reply, my tone rising to levels of incredulousness.

  ‘That’s what this tantrum is all about—she says you won’t speak to her.’

  ‘You don’t want me to talk to her, believe me. Our last conversation didn’t go over that well. I’m pretty sure people heard her insults in the next borough.’

  ‘You make me want to yell plenty.’

  ‘Aye, but I’m not banging you.’

  ‘I’m pleased to hear, because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’ll bang anyone.’

  ‘Not true. I’m no’ so keen on the brush of stubble against my balls.’

  ‘And you know that how?’ comes his sardonic retort.

  ‘That’d be telling.’ I taunt, talking pure bull.

  ‘Stop messing about. The bottom line is you’re not banging Beth and therein lays our problem. Why couldn’t you have hung out a bit longer?’

  ‘Sure, I’ll just let her whip me down the aisle while she’s on.’

  ‘Just give the lassie a call—’

  ‘No way. I don’t care if she is the head of our construction partner, or the best interior designer in London.’ My gaze falls to the room in front of me. It’s a fucking tip . Beth had taken an interest in this property personally, especially when I touched on my history with the place, and truthfully, her plans were amazing. ‘She had designs on more than my body,’ I grumble. Designs that randomly found their way to bespoke jewellers, cooing at engagement rings, dropping hints the size of Kanye’s ego. ‘Anyway, I thought this place was working to schedule. It’s a veritable shit tip from where I’m stood.’