One Hot Scot

by Donna Alam

  ‘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-three 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.’

  Chapter 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 expan
ds 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 counter. ‘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.

  ‘Now, Ted,’ says June. ‘Your eleven o’clock will be in any time soon. But can I ask you to try not to cover the place in hair. I know we’re a salon, but it takes naught but a couple o’ seconds to clean up with the broom.’ She shoots him a tight smile before grabbing my arm. ‘Give them an inch,’ she whispers delightedly. ‘Now he’s a braw looking one.’ She squeezes, her papery hands deceptively strong.

  ‘Everything’s good?’ My question’s a formality; I know with June at the helm everything will run ship shape. Or else.

  ‘Oh, yes, dear. Busy as ever and so pleased to hear herself will be back for the weekend.’

  ‘She’s really coming back? Ivy’s coming home?’

  ‘Contract’s all sorted, so she said.’

  ‘Horseshit,’ I whisper. ‘I want to know what’s going on.’

  ‘My thoughts exactly,’ June replies. ‘But there’ll be time enough to press her when she gets here. Why don’t you go put the kettle on? I’ve brought scones.’

  I don’t even have the time to come up with a polite excuse before Rory’s voice carries from the waiting area, where I notice he’s made himself fully at home.

  ‘Homemade ones, I hope.’

  ‘Cheeky monkey!’ June exclaims. ‘Do I look the type to settle for shop bought?’

  As I enter the kitchen, a slight thrill runs down my spine at the sound of Rory’s footsteps. I might’ve guessed he wouldn’t be content to wait.

  ‘I still think we should hit up the hotel bar before the room. After scones, of course.’

  ‘Why?’ I ask over my shoulder. ‘So you can get me drunk and wheedle out all my secrets?’

  ‘I was thinking more along the lines of getting you drunk enough to wheedle you out of your knickers. Drunk enough to take advantage of.’ In the tiny white kitchen, he steps closer, pulling the back of my hips into him. ‘But sober enough to enjoy it.’

  ‘Or we could just go to work. You know, seeing as it’s a work day and all.’ I scoot a little ways away, the sensation of him pressed up against me scrambling my brain. ‘Besides, I don’t do day drunk well.’

  This is a complete lie; I do day drunk like a champ. Who the hell doesn’t?

  Rory leans back against the opposite counter top and, as I glance over my shoulder while pulling out cups and tea, something snags my gaze. It’s not so much the motion of him sliding his hands into his pockets that has me clutching a mug to my chest; it’s more what the action highlights. My heart beats loudly, just once—ba-dunk—because I can see the outline of things I shouldn’t and find it hard—very? Semi?—to drag my gaze away.

  ‘D—do you always wear jeans to work?’ He definitely should; he looks so good in them, but it’s a pathetic excuse of a diversion. ‘Seeing as how you’re really a mogul and all.’ A thoroughly pathetic excuse, exposed by the tone of his response.

  ‘Titch, you might want to stop looking at me like that.’ Holy rumbling sexy tones.

  I reach out, flipping the switch on the kettle before turning and mirroring his stance against the opposite countertop, though I do none of this before schooling my expression.

  ‘Look at you like what?’

  ‘Like you’re starving and you’ve just got your eye on a juicy steak.’

  ‘Snake—st—steak?’ Freudian fucking slip much? ‘I—I didn’t realise I was looking at you like anything. Y—you must be imagining things.’

  ‘Oh, I am,’ he says, inclining his head, leaving me under no illusion exactly what he’s imagining. ‘And so are you. Do you think I don’t know what you’re thinking when you look at me like that?’

  The silence stretches out as my cheeks begin to heat; it’s no fun being called out, and it’s not like I can help my reaction when I look at him—especially catching sight of his trouser snake. Eurgh, did I really just think that? I’m going to need to wear dark glasses indoors at this rate.

  ‘I don’t see how you could,’ I answer, feeling my gaze slide down his chest. Again.

  Rory’s shoulders begin to shake, his eyes drifting closed as he tilts back his head, laughing softly.

  ‘Sorry to disappoint, but I’m not thinking about you.’ Nope, totally not thinking about what would happen if I reached out. With my tongue. While sliding my hand down . . .

  ‘So, you’re not looking at my junk right now.’ Not fair, universe. Play nice!

  ‘Stop!’ The words sound strangled, and I clap my hands over my eyes. I’m not sure if this is for his benef
it or mine. My hands are moved suddenly as Rory appears in front of me, lifting them away and placing both palms flat against his pecs. His silver-grey gaze dares me as he slides our hands downwards, skimming his rock hard abs. Skimming further before coming to rest flush with his crotch.

  ‘Thirty minutes,’ he rasps, flexing into me.

  That’s not going to be long enough. ‘What?’ I tilt my head and I swear I’m not doing the fluttery lash thing on purpose.

  ‘Thirty minutes. A scone. Then we’re finding a bed and I’m fucking you senseless all afternoon.’

  I open my mouth to speak—probably to say yes please—when a shrill voice pierces the tiny space.

  ‘What in the name of all that’s holy is going on in here?’

  Shocked, my initial reaction is one of guilt as I try to pull back my hands. Try being the operative word, as they are clamped tight by Rory’s.

  ‘Can I help you, hen?’ He turns his head, quirking a brow in the direction of Melody, his tone one of casual inconsequence. ‘Only, we’re having a moment.’

  ‘Having a mo—having a moment! Have you no decency?’

  ‘Well, I’d say that depends entirely on your definition. See, I’m no’ the one screechin’ like a fish wife.’

  ‘Finola.’ My name sounds like an admonishment. I feel myself physically cringe, though it’s worth mentioning the sound of my name usually makes me cringe. ‘Finola, love,’ she repeats, this time my name more a plea. ‘You’ll not be wanting people to get the wrong idea. You’re in the wrong emotional space to be ‘hooring yourself to the likes of him.’

  ‘What?’ My head whips around, because if anyone is in the wrong here, it would be me.

  ‘I have your card marked,’ she says folding her arms and shooting Rory an icy glare. ‘I recognise you now. Your ma was a homewrecker, tempting that poor man away from his sick wife, but you’ll not be messing with my friend!’

  ‘Malady, I mean, Melody—’

  ‘It’s true!’ she yells. ‘My granny said so. She was the poor woman’s nurse ‘till she died!’