One Hot Scot

by Donna Alam

  As I drive around to the rear of the house, I’m relieved I’ll be leaving soon. Decision made: I’m going home. Fuck the gardens and grounds and fuck Kit. It’s for the best, but still means one more night in Fin’s bed. One more night surrounded by her scent.

  The gravel crunches under my feet as I click the key fob, pointing it over my shoulder at the truck. I’m conscious of the lack of light indicating execution of both lock and alarm as I hesitate. It’s not likely to get stolen; not only is this place pretty remote, but it’s also a very conspicuous car. There aren’t many Ford F-150’s on the roads of Scotland. Run of the mill in the States they may be, but here they’re huge fuck off vehicles. Not to mention a nightmare to park. Serves Kit right if it does get nicked, I think, even as I turn to check the driver’s side door. It’s then I see there’s a light on. Not inside the car, but the house—the main house. Dragging a weary hand down my face, I make my way to the backdoor to investigate.

  The door to the old scullery is open, the door beyond into the kitchen, too. I’m beginning to think Fin must’ve left in a hurry, not that I blame her the way I stormed out, when I hear the distant strains of music from somewhere deeper inside the house. I know it’s wrong but I can’t help that my pulse rate picks up at the thought of her still being in the building somewhere.

  I follow the soft strains, a smile growing as I realise two things. Firstly, the music is coming from the direction of the gym, and second, it sounds a little like country music the closer I get. Maybe that gorgeous exterior hides a country girl’s heart? I actually huff out a laugh at the random though. Whatever, I’m kind of hoping she’s using the gym whatever she’s listening to, maybe in tiny shorts. I’m not planning on anything, but it’s a view my eyes will always appreciate.

  And what do you know, my hopes are realised as I reach the partially frosted glass doors. Well, partly realised. Fin is on the treadmill. No shorts. Knee length leggings and wrestler back sports bra top. I might not be getting involved and I might’ve promised myself I’d back away, but how could you not look at that arse?

  It’s like a fucking peach.

  I can look.

  And I certainly can watch.

  That’s not harming anyone, least of all Fin.

  I won’t make a noise, won’t even open the door. Apart from startling and possibly knocking her off her unforgiving stride—because, Jesus wept, the woman can run— I don’t want to give her any ideas, especially as it seems I can’t do normal around her. Apparently, I can only do antagonistic with a side of innuendo. Why is it that mad sexual tension is our baseline?

  Her feet pound against the belt as I consider the music as a strange choice of song for a run. I run myself, usually along Canary Wharf, where our office is. I’m a road runner essentially and not a big fan of filling my head with anything while I do so. Running provides me with valuable thinking time and if I’d had my running gear with me today, I might well have taken off on foot rather than in the truck. The point is, I don’t run to music, but if I did, I wouldn’t have chosen this song. It’s an older one and, as it turns out, not country. Probably from the eighties. It plays from a music channel on one of several TVs mounted to the various walls.

  Won’t open the door, my arse.

  Ignoring the implications, I push it open with my foot and slip inside.

  The lights illuminate only one side of the room, casting the entrance in shadow. This, and the angle of the room, means she likely won’t see me, though I can see her.

  And I can watch. Like a fucking perve.

  Sweat glistens against the skin of her lower back, shoulders and neck, the latter causing the hair at her nape to kink and curl. Through the mirror, my attention is pulled to her mouth—no surprise there—her lips open as she pants. It’s just fucking indecent where my mind wanders, but the sounds she makes don’t exactly help. Running. Think of running. She’s got good technique; good pace and stride. I try to concentrate on this rather than the fact her mouth is open and that, in the mirror, it’s reflected like some sort of deliciously obscene gasp.

  Pounding. Glazed eyes. Open mouth.

  Fuck.

  Yep, this is definitely a song from the eighties, confirmed by a glance at the TV.

  Keep watching. Don’t stare at her mouth or her arse.

  It has to be the TV or the pink soles of her running shoes, because I know there’s no way I can move. I couldn’t make my feet leave even if I wanted to. I tilt my head to the TV partially listening to the lyrics. As far as I can make out, it’s a song about a girl who likes chocolate. Typical eighties; a song with a story. Cheesy and abstract though kind of catchy, it holds my attention until, from the corner of my gaze, Fin’s stride begins to falter. I’m already moving from the door as one of her knees buckles, her other following as her arm splays out in slow motion, smacking the emergency stop.

  The treadmill halts, as does she, her tiny feet hitting the baseboard heavily, her brain playing catch up against relative velocity. In the milliseconds it takes for her—for me—to process this, she falls into a heap against the baseboard.

  Before I know it, she’s in my lap, my arse on the floor and my back pressed up against the side of the machine as I examine her knees and ankles for signs of abrasions and swelling.

  ‘You were going at a rare old pace. Do you always run that fast?’ I keep my voice light as I run a hand over her thigh, retracting it quickly. Looking’s one thing, touch is something else.

  ‘Chocolate girl,’ she says on a gasp, her chest rising and falling, the side of one breast pushed up against my chest.

  ‘I think a PowerAde might be better. Electrolytes, no sugar.’ Surely she must know that?

  ‘No, that’s me. I—I was the chocolate girl. When I was . . . when I was married, before—’ Through the fog of having her body pressed against me, I become aware of the watery quality of her words, words that stop abruptly as she gasps. Her shoulders begin to shake and I realise that it wasn’t so much a gasp as a sob. ‘B—broken up . . .’ she stammers, as the chorus blasts out from the TV, the singer finishing Fin’s words.

  A song with a story. About a very unhappy girl.

  One arm around her waist, I pull her closer, smoothing the hair from her face with my free hand. ‘Shh. You’re okay. You’re here now with me.’ Not sure that makes her safer, though I’ll try.

  As she cries gently, she curls and presses her face into my chest. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispers. ‘I don’t mean to be like this, b—but it sometimes catches me like a wave. Drowning me.’

  ‘Hush now.’ Something uncomfortable tightens in my chest even as I force those two words out; relieved, at least, their delivery is soft. This isn’t exactly the highlight of my night, seeing her so cut up over her ex. I’m not the caring type, the staying type, but for some reason I just don’t want to let go. ‘It’s okay.’ I stroke her hair while making gentle, reassuring sounds. Even as I do so, I’m conscious of our skin touching where the damp waistband of her leggings has pushed my t-shirt up. It’s dangerous territory, but doesn’t stop me from pulling her closer, settling her into my lap more solidly. How long we sit there I really don’t know. Is there a set time for hiccupping tears to slow? That she feels right, the weight of her against my thighs, the way her upper body has curled into my chest, solidifies my view that I need to leave. And soon.

  Just maybe not right now.

  ‘Babe.’ That doesn’t sound right—doesn’t feel right. ‘Hey, titch,’ I whisper, tilting my head to get a look at her face, though as she moves along with me, I realise she’s cried herself to sleep.

  Gut wrenching. That’s how this feels. I run a hand across the back of my head as I try to control my breathing. I’d wanted to tear the meathead’s arms from the sockets for being near her earlier, but that’s nothing to how I feel about the prick who made her feel like this. I shake my head—a rueful motion—well aware that these thoughts are not for me. In the place of anger, I curl an arm under her thighs, the other supp
orting her back as I bring myself up to stand.

  Over at her wee house, I’m pleased to feel she had the foresight to leave the heater on, meaning the room isn’t as frigid as it could be. Manoeuvring her through the small space, I manage to get her into the bedroom without waking or whacking her head on a wall. Go me. I move back the quilt and lay her down and she curls away immediately, almost into a ball. A protection mechanism? Her clothes are still damp and the night outside frigid, so I do the only thing I should: slide off her running shoes, pull the covers up to her neck and leave the room.

  Which leaves me . . . anywhere but in the bedroom.

  The light from the tiny lounge dimly illuminates the kitchen as I open the fridge, more for wont of something to do. There’s little in there, I already know. After all, I stayed here over the weekend and snooped till my heart was content. Well, almost. Dunno about my heart, but my cock would’ve been better satisfied if she’d been here with me. Maybe then I wouldn’t be feeling so . . . antsy. Is that what this is? A need for sex?

  The room grows dim again as I close the fridge, its contents nowhere as tempting as her underwear drawer.

  What to do? What can I do when all I want is to walk into that room, pull back the quilt and slide in beside her? I’d turn her over, pulling her once more to my chest, sliding my thigh between hers. I’d kiss her head and wrap her in my arms. That doesn’t sound like sex.

  I lean back against the kitchen counter, exhaling a long breath as I pull out my phone. I can’t do anything until she wakes when I’ll offer—no, insist—on giving her a lift home, because home she’ll have to go. It’s best for both of us. And besides, I have nowhere else to go. None of the other cottages are habitable and I’ll be damned before I spend a night in the local B&B.

  In the meantime, I need some kind of distraction or diversion. Something to stop me from going back in there, because I’m not delusional enough to believe it’ll stop at chaste kisses on her forehead. Wrap her in my arms and keep her there. No—I won’t. I can’t. What was that song she was listening to? Something about chocolate and a girl?

  Milliseconds later I have my answer. It is an oldie—a song by a band called Deacon Blue. Volume low, I play the song through. And again. Then search for a copy of the lyrics, just to be sure. To be sure that Fin’s husband cheated. To be sure she felt tied to a man who made her feel like a trophy. To be sure she felt used and misunderstood.

  It’s just a song, I tell myself, but somehow I know this was her reality.

  A pulse hammers inexplicably in my head as I exhale long and hard again, trying to control the red wave of rage filling my head.

  I’m not husband material and I’ll never be, but I won’t ever be that kind of bastard. Relationships begin and end all of the time and no one truly knows what goes on behind doors between people, especially looking in. But this, this bullshit I’m reading and listening to? This is how she felt—how she feels—and no one deserves this.

  How can I want so badly to protect someone who won’t let me in?

  Jesus Christ, I feel like I need to punch someone until my arms ache. Or have a drink. Looks like I’ll have to settle for the latter and I think I know just where I might find a bottle suitable for the occasion.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Fin

  Eyes open, I’m suddenly awake. No nightmarish choking, no limbo. I’ve just opened my eyes and . . . I’m here. But that’s not to say I don’t feel like shit because crying will do that to a girl. So will falling off a treadmill, a treadmill I had no business being on in the first place, even for an anxiety run.

  After Mac had left, it had taken me an hour or so to tidy up the admin ends and I’d made my way to the stables to collect Ivy’s bike for the cold trek home. As I’d looked up at the darkening clouds it became obvious it was to be a wet trek, too, as rain drops started to fall pretty heavily. Rory’s truck wasn’t parked, so I’d ran for the shelter of the cottage thinking I’d take the chance to wait out the weather while packing up my stuff. I no longer have any reason to stay. Ivy’s absence has given me more space than I need, plus I’d said I’d keep an eye on both the salon and flat. And the truth is, there’s probably every reason not to stay over while Rory’s around.

  It had taken longer than I’d realised to pack my stuff into a holdall, which I’d stowed next to the front door. The rain had slowed to that miserable drizzle that Scotland seems to be famous for before I’d realised it was too late to peddle over the causeway: The tide was partially in.

  So I’d paced. And I’d fretted. Worried that I wouldn’t be able to leave before he returned. And that thought freaked me the fuck out.

  I’m not frightened of Rory, though he was in a strange mood earlier for sure. No, I was more worried about my reaction to him. Lord knows he only has to breathe in my direction and my panties seem to develop a life of their own. As a distraction from those thoughts, I’d dug out my running gear from the bag I’d just packed and headed over to the shiny, new gym. Flight wasn’t an option until the tide went out so I’d just have to fight off this anxiety, starting with a run. Probably not a great idea in retrospect, especially as I’d a bike ride, too. Or so I’d thought.

  But a run had helped, at least, until that stupid song came on. Worse still, Rory had witnessed my melt down. But, God, I needed him in the moment. Needed those strong arms and gentle words. But now . . . actually, I think I’m too exhausted to feel anything at all. Though I’m sure shame will slink along later, along with her teammate embarrassment.

  So I’m awake in this bed, the bed that Rory no doubt carried me to. And covered me. More kindness. Why can’t he always be an asshole? I haven’t stirred so I doubt he’s realised I’m awake, or that I’m watching him through swollen and gritty eyes. Legs splayed, he sits in an armchair at the other side of the room, angled to face the bed. He holds a low ball glass in the palm of his hand as he stares into the inch of amber liquid like the secrets of the universe are lurking there.

  If he knows I’m awake, he hasn’t acknowledged it, not that I blame him because as well as feeling like shit, I know I’ll resemble it, too. Crying makes me look like an amphibian.

  ‘Are you thinking about drinking it, or are you just staring it down?’ Though I wasn’t going to break the silence, but find myself doing it anyway. My voice sounds croaky. Like I haven’t used it in years.

  He doesn’t move; not his head, not his gaze, not the glass in his hand. Though he does answer. ‘Good whisky deserves appreciation.’

  I spy the bottle propped on the slim set dresser behind him and though I can’t vouch for the bottle being full when he started, something tells me it may well have been.

  ‘So you’re just . . . looking at it?’

  ‘I’m appreciating, like I would a good woman.’ The words roll from his tongue like the drink itself, all smooth and smoky. Rory turns the drink in his hand, the light from the table lamp shining amber highlights through the glass. ‘Look first, then taste.’

  ‘Is that your rule for whisky or women?’

  I duck my head wishing I hadn’t spoken when his head raises, his gaze burning as vividly as the liquid.

  ‘Titch, I’ve been watching you for hours.’ As though making his point, his gaze slowly traces the length of me, my body reacting almost as though he’d caressed me with his hand. ‘Watching. Waiting. Wishing.’

  ‘But for what?’

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Rory

  ‘But for what?’ Her voice is soft and hesitant, though her body betrays her mental state. Not that it matters, because I shouldn’t answer. I don’t want her to hurt anymore today. There’s no way I could bring myself to tell her I’ve spent the past two hours watching her sleep, all the while wishing I could bring myself to leave.

  ‘That would be telling.’ My eventual answer earns me a quiver of her lips that’s not quite a smile.

  ‘I’m sorry about earlier,’ she says, more hesitant still.

  ‘About your tragic
taste in music? So you should be.’

  This time, her smile is quick to grow and just as quick to fall. I curl my fingers tighter around my glass, resisting the urge to reach out and smooth her furrowing brow. It’s harder still as she tucks her hands between her thighs, prayer-like.

  ‘That song, it’s one of my mom’s favourites. I’d heard it plenty, but never really listened to it, you know?’

  ‘Do you want to talk about it? About what happened?’ My relief is acute as she shakes her head—I’m in no frame of mind right now to hear about her ex—though I try not to show it. Instead, I raise my glass, closing my eyes and swallowing, silently relishing the burn as some kind of distraction for the longing twisting my insides. This desperate ache for just once more; one more kiss, one more fuck, never to be repeated again. It’s almost like nostalgia, or a sense of what could have been. Could’ve been but for me.

  And yet it still hurts.

  The longing for impossible things.

  Regret of what could’ve been.

  It’s the same with this house. I should’ve listened to Kit and left well alone, instead of vowing this house would be mine, despite my birth.

  ‘Was it worth the wait?’

  The burn deepens as my throat constricts. How could she know? A beat later I realise she’s talking about the drink.

  ‘Ask me that again in a couple of hours.’ I set the glass down as I stand, and as I straighten, our eyes lock. I can’t quite make sense of her expression. Surprise? Shock? I study her face for further clues, observing, almost, as her pupils dilate.

  That dark ring of lust is like a hit direct to the vein.

  Just once more.

  We all tell lies, but the worst of those are what we tell ourselves.

  I move towards the bed and Fin uncurls from her almost foetal position, pushing herself onto her back. She doesn’t speak, at least, not with words, her breath catching as I lean over, bracing my hands either side of her head. Her lips part in soft invitation, but I don’t kiss her. Not yet.