by Jean Oram
She banged on the back door to his ancient cottage with the cedar shake roof and cracked clapboard siding. Frankie's dog, Heart, sounded the alarm on the other side of the door. The door of the tiny three-room house opened, then slammed shut again.
"Holy shit, Mandy! What the hell? You smell like skunk!" Frankie hollered through the door.
She turned the knob and pushed on the door. "Frankie, you've gotta help me out."
"Jesus Christ! Stay out of here. I'll never get the smell out!"
Tears in her eyes, Mandy gave the door a shove. The lock clicked into place and sounds of Frankie scrambling on the other side of the warped wood door sifted through. She slumped onto the small step and wondered what she was going to do. She lived above the flower shop and was certain the owner would catch wind of her new aroma and kick her out for smelling up the building—at least until she smelled right again. Nobody wanted their shop smelling like she did. Nobody wanted there anything smelling like she did. And the way her eyes stung from the eau de skunk, she wasn't sure she'd ever smell like herself—a gentle blend of vanilla and Pears soap—ever again.
"Frankie, you gotta help me," she whispered, leaning her head against the closed door. "I don't have anyone else. My family will never let me live it down."
If her older brothers found out she'd never live it down. This could quite possibly top Frankie falling off the tower while declaring his undying love. Especially if they found out the where and when and how and why of the whole skunk schmozzle.
Frankie appeared around the corner of the house in a pair of old sweats and a ripped t-shirt he usually reserved for renovating his tiny abode. He carried an old drywall mud pail and large shopping bag. "Follow me," he said, pointing towards the large garage he'd built out back for rebuilding his muscle cars.
Mandy followed him at a distance, watching how he moved, his movements efficient and with purpose.
Pausing at the garage door, Frankie grinned and clipped a clothespin over his nose. He drew her into the garage. "Let's see what we can do."
Mandy looked in Frankie's pail and pulled out a small bottle of juice he used to mix with cheap beer when his next paycheck was still a week away. "Clamato? Really?"
He shrugged. "You're supposed to bathe in tomato juice or peroxide and that's the best I have."
Mandy looked at it hopelessly. Her voice wobbled as she said, "I'm going to smell like clams."
"Better than skunks," he said. He set down the pail and uncapped the tomato juice. He poured it in, barely covering the surface of the pail's bottom. They looked at it doubtfully. Frankie tapped the bottom of the upturned bottle. "I think we're going to need about eighty gallons more."
They looked at each other and laughed. Near tears, Mandy flopped onto the cold concrete floor amid the oil stains and fine layer of dirt that had blown in. She leaned against the 1969 Dodge Challenger Frankie was currently rebuilding for a client in the city.
"This sucks," she whined.
Frankie crouched in front of her with a old washcloth dripping tomato juice. "Come here." Gently he tipped her face upward and dabbed her forehead. "We're going to have to wash your hair and you're probably going to have to burn your clothes."
Mandy fought tears. She'd worked two week's worth of extra shifts to buy this outfit. It was one of her best. She let out a sigh. She supposed it was karma for dressing up in her best to be ready with her arms outstretched in case her ex was unable to say, "I do."
"Sorry," he said, "but I doubt you'll ever get the smell out. I know it's your favorite."
She nodded and burst into tears. Frankie patted her back and asked gently, "You went to watch, didn't you?"
She nodded again, crying harder. He drew her into his arms and held her close. She tried to push him away, but he held onto her.
"I'll make you smell," she sniffed.
He shrugged under her grip. "They're old rags. I can toss them."
She pushed away and wiped her wet cheeks with her hands.
Frankie handed her a towel from the shopping bag. "You can use this to cover yourself as you bathe. I'm going to run out and get more juice. I threw an outfit in there for you to change into." He gave her a sceptical look as he closed the thin window blinds. "Maybe change into it after I get more juice though." He stepped to the door.
"Don't tell anyone I got sprayed, okay?"
He paused, his hand on the doorknob. "I won't."
"But they'll put two and two together when you buy that much tomato juice."
Frankie shrugged. "Heart got into a dead skunk out on a hike."
Mandy gave him a thankful smile and turned the red soaked cloth over in her hands. "Thanks, Frankie. I really appreciate it."
He returned her smile and she felt a sweep of emotion. He was always so good to her and half the time she felt as though she didn't deserve having him as a friend. Sure, she was a good friend, too, but sometimes she wondered why he put up with her chasing another man when he'd made it abundantly clear over the years that he was willing to pick up where their first date had left off.
He stepped closer, a look in his eyes that made her tense up. "Why do we do this, Mandy?" he asked, his voice quiet. "All this posturing and holding back. We're good together. Great, even. We bring out the best in each other."
Mandy bowed her head. They'd had this conversation a million times and she'd always used her devotion to Oz as an excuse. But now that excuse was married off and there was nothing left but her, Frankie, and the truth.
"I'm no good for you, Frankie," she said, keeping her head down. "I would destroy you."
He gave a laugh. "I'm a lot tougher than I look." He gave her a grin and pointed to the leg that undergone three surgeries and was a mess of pins and rods after his fall off the water tower.
"Case in point, I should think." She shook her head at him, trying to ignore her body's response to reminders of that scary, scary night when he'd fallen.
It was her fault he went up the tower. He'd decided to paint her name as a way to profess his teenaged love for her after their first date—which had gone rockingly well even though it ended with an interrupted goodnight kiss on her front step thanks to her eldest brother who came out, arms crossed, and then totally ratted her out to their strict father for wearing her forbidden mini skirt and French kissing Frankie.
And why had Frankie fallen off the tower after that date? Because of her. He'd climbed up the tower, drawing the attention of other teens. She'd come along with the gang to watch, not knowing who it was up there in the moonlight. But once she realized it was Frankie she felt as though she was having a heart attack. She couldn't breathe, her pulse had gone crazy, and her head had thundered with adrenalin. She'd freaked out and screamed his name. He'd turned, lost his balance, and fallen several stories. That night she had thought she was the one dying. As the ambulance carted Frankie away he told her, "It was worth it. Next time you kiss me, I'll go bigger."
It was then that she vowed to never let Frankie get closer than a friend. If one date and an interrupted goodnight kiss had ended with him being hospitalized she couldn't trust what would happen if they took things further. He was a daredevil who went over the top.
Her feelings that night had scared her and she never wanted to feel that way again. From then on she'd kept him at bay, dating men who were nice enough or interested enough to be with longterm, but wouldn't freak her out like Frankie had. You could never rest if you loved a man like Frankie. You'd always be worrying that somehow you would shatter him.
Besides, his girlfriends had always been like his crash-up derby cars—good for one weekend only. She wasn't going to bet her heart on a man like that. Even though he was the best friend a girl could ever ask for.
"What you want and what you need are two different things, Frankie. I fall into the former category, not the latter, and certainly not both." She met his light brown eyes. There was no way she could ever let him know how much she cared.
"Give yourself some credit," he
said leaving the doorway and crouching in front of her. "You are more than you know, woman. We should try dating again. That first date was better than any other I've ever had. Besides, you can always dump me if you don't like me as a boyfriend."
"Frankie," she said, not bothering to hide her exasperation. "You deserve more than that." She clutched his fuzzy chin. "So much more. Any woman would be lucky to have a good man like you." She dropped his face and turned away to dip her rag in the pail. "Besides, the town already thinks I'm awful to you. What would they think if we finally dated and I turned around and dumped you?"
He gave her that goofy, crooked grin that always made her want to comply with whatever kooky idea he had. More than once she'd found herself racing across the meadow track in her 4x4 trying to outdo one of his muscle cars after he'd shot that grin in her direction. Such a challenge lay behind those lips, and he knew perfectly well it worked on her. But she wouldn't give in. Not this time. Not on this.
"Well, I guess you'd be stuck with me in order to save face," he said.
She gave him a dry smile. "Ha. Ha. Very not funny."
They stared at each other for a minute. He slowly leaned in and when she didn't move away, he placed his lips gently over hers. He gave her a deep kiss that awakened parts of her that had been dormant for a very long time.
She shoved him away and stood up. "I can't do this to you, Frankie. I can't. Okay? Please."
He popped up off the floor and crossed his arms, his shoulders looking broader than she'd ever remembered them being. "Stop worrying about me. I'm a grown man. If you dump me it won't break my heart, but never knowing if we could make it—that will." He turned and slammed the garage door so hard the windows shook.
She drew in a long breath, the comforting scent of oil and gas barely making it past the choking smell wafting off her in great waves. Only Frankie would kiss her like that when she smelt this awful. She plunked down and began dabbing her face and hair with the tomato-stained rag to distract herself. Her stomach tightened and her tears dropped dark circles in the dust by her knees.
She couldn't give in. Her ex had been strong enough to handle her, but Frankie had a soft side with various unknown depths that scared her. He felt so deeply and his love was so huge and out there. Who could match that? Who could keep it from getting out of hand again?
There was no way to keep a man like that safe.
* End of sample. *
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Please enjoy this sample of Cali MacKay's FREE contemporary romance set in the Scottish Highlands:
The Highlander's Hope
By Cali MacKay
Now available for FREE!
Chapter One
Dust danced upon the shards of light that pierced the ancient hall of the library archives. As if calling out to her, the words on the page taunted and teased, daring Catriona to find the secret they had long held safe. One would think it a simple letter between lovers torn apart at a time of war. However, Cat saw the clues woven through the endearments. She was one step closer to solving a centuries-old mystery and finding a priceless treasure.
The pounding of her heart competed with the flutters in her stomach. It could be a historic find of epic proportions, and yet it was so much more than that to her, having been raised on her grandmother's stories of highland heroes and ancient lands.
The Highlander's Hope. A necklace crusted with emeralds, diamonds and sapphires, it had once been destined to fund the Scottish rising against the English. But that was before the battle of Culloden shattered Scotland's dreams of retaking the English throne, and the necklace was lost.
Cat was now one step closer. All she had to do was piece the puzzle together and find the Hope.
***
"Crap!" Cat maneuvered her car to the edge of the narrow road, with the growing suspicion that the flopping sound killing the rhythm of her music meant she had a flat tire.
Being late for her appointment with Callum MacCraigh could ruin everything, and she was still hours away from the highland town of Dunmuir. Everything hinged on getting access to the MacCraigh estate and family records, and without the clan's cooperation, she'd never find the jewels.
Having left at the crack of dawn, she'd already been on the road most of the day, the drive from Cambridge to the north of Scotland long enough for her butt to have gone numb hours ago.
Muttering curses under her breath, she pulled her hoodie up over her head and stepped out into the pouring rain. Luckily she had a spare, even if she'd never had the occasion to change one. Couldn't be that difficult to get the blasted thing on.
She hauled the tiny spare out from the back of her car, relieved to see that, at the very least, it was inflated, and then grabbed the metal doohickey for undoing the nuts. With the opening fitted over one of the bolts holding her flat hostage, she grabbed the metal arm and yanked with all her might. A muscle in her back twitched in protest as she strained in effort, but to no avail. Was it rusted or had years of gunk and grime cemented it in place?
"Righty-tighty, lefty- loosey."
She tried again, with a grunt of frustration, water dripping off her nose with an evil tickle, as the bolt finally gave way. Relieved, she loosened it and stuck it in her pocket. One down, three to go. The next two came off with relative ease, if she ignored the scraped knuckles and broken nail. The last one, however, refused to budge.
Bent over and once more straining against the iron, she didn't notice the car whizzing around the corner, coming right at her, until it was nearly on top of her. She jumped out of the way, landing in a puddle of mud as the silver Jag screeched to a halt.
Cursing, she tried to slow her tripping heart and pulled herself to her feet, wiping her face in a futile attempt to rid herself of the nasty puddle water, even though she did little more than smear the mud.
Now out of his car, the other driver was stalking towards her. "Are ye hurt?"
She took a quick account of all her body parts. "No, I'm fine, other than being covered in muck and mud."
Any concern he'd shown blazed up in his fury. "What the bloody hell were ye doing in the middle of the road? Have ye lost yer mind, woman?"
"Me? Are you kidding? There is no way this is my fault, and I was not in the middle of the road." With her own temper rearing up to match his, she barely took in the handsome face and blue eyes. "You could have killed me, coming around the corner that fast."
"And ye'd not have been in danger if ye'd been sensible and parked farther down the road, rather than in the blind spot by the wall."
Dark tousled hair. Touch of stubble on a strong jaw. Tall. Well-muscled. Sexy. Why did he look vaguely familiar?
"Well, I'll be sure to keep that in mind when choosing when and where my car will next break down." She squinted to keep a nasty drip from invading her eye. There surely had to be sheep dung in that mud. She'd never get clean, and her mind was already running down the dozens of bacteria and diseases that would likely overwhelm her body's defenses.
As if suddenly remembering his manners, he tilted his head towards her flat. "Ye need a hand then?"
Like she'd accept his help after he'd tried to blame her for the entire incident. With arms crossed in front of her chest and her head cocked to the side, she said, "I'll manage just fine, thank you for asking. And do try to not kill anyone on your way to wherever it is you're going."
"Hmph." Without another word, he stalked back to his car and took off like the furies of hell were on his tail, his tires spinning and spitting gravel onto the wet road.
By the time she got to Dunmuir and walked into the inn, she was colder than a polar bear's butt after sitting on a glacier, and filthier than a three year old making mud pies. Nearly dying had left her more than a little on edge; however, all that mattered was that she hadn't miss
ed her appointment with Callum MacCraigh. She even had enough time to get ready and collect her thoughts.
"Here, sit by the fire and get yerself warmed up." Mrs. Gordon, a motherly type in her sixties, tried to steer her towards the chair, but Cat shook her head no.
"I'm filthy and don't want to get your sofa dirty. I'll be fine once I get cleaned up." The thought of soaking in a hot tub sent goose bumps crawling across her skin. She quickly signed the papers that were put in front of her, not wanting to delay that bath any more than she had to.
"Aye, of course. The room has an en suite, but be sure to let me know if ye need anything else. If ye set aside yer laundry, I'll be happy to have it done for you." She handed Cat the key to her room. "It'll be the second floor on the left. Follow it to the end."
"Thank you."
So far from any major city, the inn was larger than she'd imagined, and had been recently renovated with a modern feel that still gave a nod to its history and past. It was a pretty seaside town that saw its share of tourists in the summer, though most only came for daily excursions to see the standing stones not far from town.
She let herself into the room, abandoned her things by the bed, and headed straight for the bath. Her knees practically went weak at the sight of the tub. It was deep and jetted, and the water was plenty hot. Fighting with her wet clothes as the tub filled, she finally managed to pry them off, leaving them abandoned in a filthy heap on the tile floor. Not bothering to grab a book, she slipped into the hot water, her skin burning from the extremes in temperature, her body yet to thaw.
By the time she'd scrubbed herself clean and let the heat of the water soak through to her bones, she felt like herself again. Excitement bubbled within her, knowing she could soon have access to records few had seen before. She just needed to find more concrete information on where the jewels were hidden. Tansy, her research assistant, would be beside herself if she actually managed to find them. Cat knew better than to trust her colleagues with such a find, but Tansy was the one exception.
