One Hot Scot

by Donna Alam

  ‘Builders?’ he repeats, his eyebrows drawing in above those stormy blue eyes of his.

  ‘That’s right.’ I find I’ve planted a hand on my hip—a cocked hip—and quickly change my stance by folding my arms across my chest before I’ve even realised. ‘I see there’s nothing wrong with your hearing.’

  ‘I thought the site was mothballed or something.’

  ‘Maybe.’ My tone is so nasty I expect him to back off, maybe walk away, not stand staring at me . . . waiting for a response. A beat later it becomes clear I’m not going to win this standoff, so I turn back, opening the car door and pulling out my purse. ‘As I understand it, the site is at a standstill due to some kind of contractual dispute, but it seems ridiculous that in the meantime, at least some of the work can’t be carried.’ Purse in hand, I turn back to him, slamming the driver’s door shut with a bang. ‘I’d asked a friend who they’d recommend locally to complete one or two jobs.’

  ‘What jobs?’

  ‘Well . . .’ I push the bangs from my forehead. ‘There’s a restoration carpenter coming to look at the second floor staircase because it’s kind of dangerous as it stands. The other guy is some kind of shopfitter that I’ve asked to supply a price for finishing the reception and downstairs bar.’

  ‘Did anyone ask you to do this?’

  ‘No. I’m just investigating. I was just going to forward the information on.’ I inhale a deep breath, though I’m not exactly sure why. ‘It’s called initiative, if you didn’t know.’

  He looks taken aback, though a second later his expression changes again. ‘Yeah,’ he almost purrs. ‘I know all about initiative.’

  Again with the small sentences weighty with meaning.

  ‘Hmph.’ Because there really isn’t a lot else I can say to that, not without occupying his mouth otherwise. Like pulling it against mine. ‘H—how come you’re not finished here?’ I wave my hand in the vague direction of the garden lying beyond the house. ‘I thought you were only going to be here a couple days.’

  ‘Why, Fin, are you trying to get rid of me?’

  Heaven protect me against a man who can roll his r’s, because I know what that particular vibration feels like—what it elicits—somewhere sensitive.

  Rory steps closer and I take a step back, my heart absolutely skipping a beat as my butt comes up solidly against the car door. The whole scene runs in slow motion as he slides his hands from his pockets, placing his palms flat against the roof of the car, boxing me in.

  ‘I’m gonna be here a while longer.’ He’s so close that his sensual threat fans against my warm cheeks. His gaze slides the length of my body; my skin coming to life under the attention. His intentions. ‘Think you can deal with that?’ His eyes slip to my lips as I inhale, trying to find a reply, though unable to summon words. ‘You see, I had plans for Saturday. Big plans. Unfortunately, they didn’t go as I’d liked them to have . . .’ As he hesitates, I hold my breath, almost positive I’ll hear him whisper titch, because it’s just that kind of tone. When he doesn’t, the disappointment almost stings.

  ‘Oh?’ I imagine my eyebrows are comically high as I attempt to school my expression.

  ‘Yeah.’ One word expelled in barely a breath; it could mean anything. But as he leans closer, I think it means he’s going to kiss me. And that despite my posturing, I’ll let him. And that I’ll probably also let him bend me over the hood about five minutes following that.

  My heart beats staccato and I actually squeak when he leans closer, his lips narrowly avoiding mine, gliding past my ear as he does a sort of mini push-up against the car . . . propelling himself upright. And further out of my dance space than I’d currently like.

  ‘But like you say, I’ve got work to do. I suppose I’d better get my arse into gear.’

  I don’t have any words, certainly not intelligent ones, my mind slipping to just that. His ass. Getting into gear. Preferably over me.

  ‘Have you got something in your eye?’ A smile tugs at the corner of his lips as he asks.

  ‘What? N—no. Why do you ask?’

  ‘You’re just doin’ an awful lot of blinking.’

  ‘I was just thinking,’ I reply with a dash of asperity, hopefully directing him in the opposite direction to where my mind had wandered.

  ‘Of something good, I hope.’ Again with the sexy-as-fuck gravelly tone.

  ‘Just about work,’ I snap.

  ‘I think that was my cue,’ he says, now through a smile. Hands back in his pockets, he makes to turn away.

  ‘Wait—’ I hold out my hand, dropping it just as quick. ‘What were you doing in there?’ I gesture to the stable block behind him, in particular, the little house where I’ve been camping out.

  ‘Now there’s a question,’ he says with a smirk I want to kiss—I mean kick—right off his face.

  ‘Yes, I’m aware it was a question. I’d posed it as such.’ I fold my arms like armour against that smirk. ‘Social convention dictates that an answer usually follows.’

  Rory inhales deeply, his shoulders rising and falling as though he’s considering the merits of just this as he tips his head, his gaze falling to the ground. But I’m not paying much attention to any of these things; actions that barely register as my consciousness is consumed by other things.

  Like how, as he inhales, the t-shirt he’s wearing under his plaid shirt draws tight across his chest, defining those full and hard pecs beneath. Like how, right now, I want to slide my hands under those garments and over his flesh. Like how I’d slide myself, and my tongue, further down. I already know his flesh to be tan, warm and firm, and I know his shirt will smell heavenly as I bury my nose in the worn fabric. Laundry detergent. Sandalwood and man.

  His laugh, husky and low, settles between my thighs, bringing my head up from the general vicinity of his nipples at the same time. My synapses must be dawdling as I take in his dark, lustrous gaze, eventually noticing his smile.

  I’ve known men who were handsome. Men whose good looks provided them with a substantial living strutting the catwalks of New York to Milan. Men with the physiques to rival Greek gods, with smiles said to be devastating. But none of these men had anything on Rory, because right now, the way he looks at me is almost annihilating.

  My heart bangs against my ribcage as I close my eyes and swallow over a few silent truths. Like the fact that he’s goading and annoying, and that for those reasons alone, I shouldn’t want to lie down and open my legs.

  And there’s the small matter of my being at work today.

  Holy hell, I’ll probably be in need of a chastity belt while we’re both working within a square mile range.

  ‘You want to know what I was doing back there.’ His tone is all good whisky and warm honey as he gestures to the building in question. I answer with a nod. Twice. ‘In the name of social convention?’ Definitely. ‘And societal norms?’

  ‘Yes.’ My answer hits the air with anger and anticipation. Eager much?

  ‘Why don’t you come back there and I’ll show you.’

  ‘Show me,’ I repeat, though I’m not asking. I’m imagining. Imagining the last time we were together there.

  ‘Because some things are better experienced, rather than explained.’

  I lick my lips and I can see in his eyes the bastard knows that he has me. That I know that he knows means nothing to me. I can’t think of anything beyond the riot of intensity this man causes in me. I want to smack him and kiss him. Pull his hair and . . . nothing. We both freeze, as somewhere upon his person, his phone begins to ring.

  Slipping it quickly from his back pocket, he appears to be switching it off before glancing at it with a frown. It’s then he answers it, stepping a few paces and turning away, all without saying a word.

  I’m slightly mollified to see his body heaving in the confines of his t-shirt. It’s an abstract notion that barely registers, mainly because I’m now majorly pissed, as behind his back, I cover my mouth with my hand. I’m not angry that he’s answ
ered his phone. No, that was probably a good call. A safe out. I’m angry at myself. Angry that, despite him annoying me to the point of aneurysm, I was about to spend the day with him getting my brains fucked out.

  I try to regulate my breath while trying not to listen to his call, not that I can tell who he’s talking to, though it’s totally obvious he’s guarding his words. He slides his hand into his pocket, then quickly out again, dropping a bundle of what appears to be twenty pound notes to the ground. As he bends forward to pick up the cash, his jeans hug the back of his thighs and ass. I can’t blame them, the jeans I mean. I’d hug his ass in a heartbeat. Yes, still. As he stands, I study the breadth of his strong back, of how his shirt hugs one strong bicep as he lifts his arm to rake his fingers through his hair.

  It’s so unfair.

  And it shouldn’t be allowed.

  He shouldn’t be here, not with his level of perfection.

  Like porn in the office, the man is not safe for work.

  I swing my bag over my shoulder, and even though my eyes seem glued to his ass, I force myself to turn and stomp away.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Rory

  ‘Kit.’ My address is sharp, my blood having drained from one head to the other.

  ‘I expected to see you in the office this morning.’

  ‘Something came up.’ Please don’t ask what, because the current answer is my dick.

  ‘So you didn’t fly down this weekend?’

  I really didn’t think he’d notice this quick. He’s usually too busy sitting at the helm.

  ‘I was going to, but you know how it is.’ I keep my answers vague, sure of one thing: Kit doesn’t know his site manager is a woman, because if he did, he’d put two and two together. Then he’d fly up here to remove my balls. He’d totally blame me—claim he could see a pattern forming—but it’s not like I go out of my way to screw our employees. Anna’s contract was already up and Fin wasn’t working for us . . . first time, at least. Besides, given the chance I’d like to rewind and unscrew Anna. With Fin I wouldn’t change a thing.

  ‘I’m guessing you found someone to fuck over the weekend and you’re holed up in some tiny flat somewhere.’

  ‘Then you’d be guessing wrong.’ Mostly.

  He makes a very Scottish noise from his throat; a sceptical sound, following it up with a very sardonic, ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Yep.’ Hearing Fin’s shoes begin to slam against the gravel, I realise I don’t have to be so vague. ‘I’m over at the house. I decided to have a look at the gardens. A proper look.’

  ‘You did?’

  ‘You asked me to, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yeah, but—’

  ‘Then don’t ask questions. I was gonna come back, but now I’ve been sucked into this.’ Sorry mum. Looking up, I address my thoughts to the sky, dumb fuck that I am.

  ‘You said you didn’t want to work on them.’

  ‘And I don’t.’

  ‘Okay—calm down.’

  ‘I am calm. Perfectly so.’

  ‘You’re a perfect arsehole.’

  ‘And you’d know because . . . you’re the arsehole expert?’

  ‘Ah, for fuck’s sake,’ he says, half growl, half laugh. ‘I don’t want to get into this with you.’

  ‘Harsh,’ I reply, full of faux hurt. ‘I thought brothers were meant to share.’

  ‘While we’re on the subject of sharing . . .’ The sudden tension in his tone clues me in to where this is headed.

  ‘Beth,’ I answer. ‘What’s going?’

  ‘I think I might be making progress. She’s talking about letting the crews return to the jobs.’

  I huff out a laugh, but don’t elaborate. She hasn’t had a change of heart because she hasn’t got one. She just thinks she’s getting what she wants.

  The line call drops out for a second, Kit’s voice beginning to drift in and out just as he’d said something of note.

  ‘Fucking perfect,’ I grumble. ‘Why couldn’t the call have been like this from the off?’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘Nothing. What were you saying about Beth?’

  ‘What was that? Have you met the site manager yet?’

  Ah, fuck.

  Not wanting to answer, I rub my fingernail over the tiny microphone, almost deafening Kit.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’

  ‘What? I can’nae hear. Listen, the line is shite. I’ll give you a call from the mainland tomorrow and we’ll talk then.’

  I hang up before Kit has time to protest, stabbing the off button and shoving the thing into my back pocket.

  Why am I still here? The fuck only knows. I’d cancelled my flight in the hopes of seeing more of Fin again. Lots more. But what I was actually doing in her wee hideaway is a question a bit easier to answer. Easier, though maybe not totally sane. There’s something decidedly un-masculine about admitting you’ve slept with your head on someone’s pillow just to enjoy the scent of them.

  So the weekend hadn’t gone exactly as planned. At a loose end, I’d ventured into the gardens, somewhere I’d sworn not to go. I’d told myself I’d just have a wee keek, seeing as how I was at a loose end, and by sunset, I’d drawn up restoration plans. I’d barely had time for a quick shower before heading over to the mainland to meet the woman who’d just stomped away.

  By her mood this morning, she mustn’t be the only one that had a shite weekend.

  The best laid plans often turned to fuck, so I hadn’t spent the weekend being holed up in Fin’s wee house, balls deep inside the woman herself. Furthermore, she’d left me sitting alone in the revamped pool hall Saturday night. The first time I’d ever been stood up. It was a novel experience, though one I’m not keen to repeat.

  And I’d expected to be angry seeing her getting out of her car. I wasn’t. It might have something to do with what I’ve been up to in her little house. I may or may not have had a wee rake through her drawers, not that she can complain. If she’d turned up, I’d’ve been better occupied. Better fulfilled. So I had a nosey. Slept with my head on her pillow, which is just a bit daft, and makes me feel soft to admit. But it’s not all bad. I did discover Fin owns some seriously sexy underwear.

  And that little fact made me rock hard.

  Hard enough to add to my list of misdemeanours.

  So, I might’ve jacked off in her wee house.

  And I might’ve, not five minutes ago, offered to show her the same.

  I don’t know what it is about her exactly; I only know I’m not done. There’s more to her than meets the eye; things she’s not saying. Things that don’t add up. The watch for starters. Your average punter wouldn’t know a Patek Phillipe from a Casio. And the fact that she’s been hiding out here.

  I’ll not lie, it’s kind of worrying, though it’s a notion I’m trying hard to suppress. I’d hate to find her ex is causing her some kind of harm. It’s obvious she’s been staying here and I’m not convinced she’s told me the truth.

  So I’m still here. Hanging on. Even as I wonder why.

  I thought I’d shag her out of my system over the weekend, but we know how that worked out. And now, after this morning, I’m thinking I should leave well alone.

  There’s something about her, something secretive, for sure. And fuck me if that doesn’t add to the allure.

  My arse cheek vibrates, so I slip out my phone and see a text from Kit.

  Glad you’re looking at the gardens. Looking forward to seeing your plans. Don’t know if you got what I was saying, but this thing about Beth; we need to talk.

  All of a sudden, I become aware of the cold. It’s bright and sunny, but, fuck, is it freezing. Still swearing under my breath, I make my way to the ground keepers’ workshop, sure I’ve left my jacket down there.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Fin

  I’d decided to spend the remainder of the day being anywhere Rory wasn’t, though mostly holed up in the tiny site office that I’m sure was once a broom closet. I
suppose I should’ve been relieved the space was an internal one, and as such had no windows. It meant I’d avoided inadvertent sightings of that copper-lit halo of hair, that there’d been no drooling over his jeans clad ass. Filled out perfectly both back and front. And definitely no longing glances as he toiled over garden beds.

  No windows = no trouble. Just lots of imagining.

  The gym equipment had arrived that afternoon and though the house is still a ways from being ready for a paying clientele, its gym-space can now accommodate their work-outs just fine. Pale wooded floors and gleaming mirrors, work-out equipment clearly worth tens of thousands of dollars, and a sauna large enough to seat a football team. It’s the kind of space world class hotels pride themselves on. And I would know. And it’s where I am currently, tidying up the following day. I guess Rory must be taking a leaf out of my avoidance manual as I haven’t seen him all day.

  ‘The fine Finola!’

  I turn from rubbing fingerprints from the expanse of mirrors, knowing only one person who’d dare address me like this. Mac. It’s his company that was contracted to supply the machinery yesterday.

  ‘You’re late.’

  ‘Ah, come on. It’s not like there’s much going on here anyway.’

  ‘That’s not the point,’ I return, tucking the cloth into the back pocket of my jeans and folding my arms. ‘It’s very unprofessional to make an appointment and not turn up. Especially with friends.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ he placates, holding up surrendering hands. ‘I’d’ve rang but I’ve had a bit of a problem, see?’ Opening the pocket of his jacket, he pulls out a plastic ziplock bag containing his phone. And a whole lot of brown rice.

  I try to hide a snigger by coughing into my hand. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Nat rang me this morning. There was something wrong with one of the basins in the salon.’ His tone is wry as he opens his jacket, sliding the bag away. ‘So I went over to look, like the good brother I am.’