Ten Days With the Highlander

by Hayson Manning

  “Delilah, you won’t fit.” She laughed, but the goat was adamant. Next thing Georgia knew, Delilah had planted herself in front of the car, seemingly blocking Georgia’s escape.

  “You are one sneaky goat.” She reached across and opened the passenger door. Delilah jumped in, nuzzled her neck, then squeezed herself into the backseat.

  Gripping the steering wheel, Georgia began edging out of the tiny space.

  “That only took twenty tries,” she said when they were clear. “I’m getting better.”

  Delilah bleated in goat language what Georgia imagined was congratulations.

  She eased her little car around cobblestoned lanes hidden by major roads. Georgia’s sense of direction had never developed, so she tried to keep a mental tally of which way she’d turned, stopping frequently so she could take photos of the mist rising off stark, ominous rocks that looked like silent soldiers. They seemed to grow out of the countryside and guard it. Somewhere along the way, Delilah found the apple in Georgia’s pocket. So much for lunch.

  She arrived back later than she’d imagined, having got the teeniest bit lost.

  “Sure gets dark here fast,” she murmured to Delilah, who rested her head on Georgia’s shoulder. “If I’m not careful, I could fall in love with you.” She ruffled the goat’s coarse, damp fur, and wrinkled her nose. “But a trip to the dentist and the groomers wouldn’t be out of line.”

  She pulled into the car park, mentally preparing herself to battle with parallel parking her car. Except…

  “Oh.”

  Callum had moved his Jeep out and parked it on the road, so she had ready access.

  Her belly fluttered. She reminded her heart that she was not here for romance, but to convince him to sign over his charming, but odd, hotel to her.

  She followed Delilah back to her stall, added some hay, then headed upstairs to her room. A fire snapped away in the hearth.

  Her heart beat double time. She swiftly reminded herself that he’d do both for all guests. It was time to get it through her mind that they were both professionals.

  I wasn’t very professional today.

  No, she wasn’t, and that would stop.

  After a shower and a change of clothes, she slathered on body lotion, dried her hair into long bouncy waves. If she sprinted to the pub, the mist might hold off long enough to not undo her work. She’d added a touch of mascara, a hint of smoke at the corner of her eyes, and plum lipstick that matched her sweater. It was a coincidence she chose the dark pair of jeans that had been worth the ridiculous price tag because they hugged her curves like a lover.

  She loved these jeans. They’d been sent from the gods and would be her birthday present to herself for years to come. Flat ankle boots completed the package.

  Hello Kitty opened the door, and without looking at her, jumped on the bed.

  “You really can open doors.” She scratched the cat’s head as the feline curled up on her bed. A black dot on a white cloud of feather quilt.

  She donned a hat and coat and dashed over to the pub, her stomach begging for food, loudly. The building beckoned, with its bright lights spilling from windows on puddles on the sidewalk. She pushed open the door, pulled off her hat, stuffed it into Callum’s jacket pocket, and carefully hung the coat on a hanger already bursting with coats. She turned to find Callum’s gaze locked on where her ass had been, but he now stared directly at her zipper. Slowly, his gaze raked up her body and landed on her face. There was no mistaking the appreciation in his eyes, or the playful smile that dimpled his chin.

  Huh, never noticed that dimple before.

  He leaned forward and murmured to a man who nodded, stood, and moved down the bar. He gestured for her to sit down.

  “You look especially lovely tonight, Corporate. Hot date later?”

  His teasing smile and heavenly accent slipped over her like crushed velvet. She imagined what his scruffy face would do to tender places, stopping her in her tracks for a minute.

  “Sofa, good evening. I don’t have a hot date tonight, but a presentation to a client.”

  He polished a glass. “Shame. A bewitching girl like you should be getting out and seeing the sights.” He acknowledged a man down the bar about their age, who tracked Ainsley when she emerged from the kitchen alongside a dark-haired woman wearing an apron. Carrying plates, the two women weaved their way amongst tables.

  Georgia swiveled on her stool, peering at the crowd, then turned back. “Do you think there’s someone here who’d like to show me the sights?” She pulled her hair over one shoulder, his eyes tracking her every move. “Would it be impolite, do you think, for an American girl to ask one of these big, Scottish Thor types if he could show me around?”

  Narrowed eyes held hers, and she shivered at the intensity. “Only one man is showing you the sights, and that man’s me.”

  The dimple was long gone.

  He turned and grabbed a glass from behind him, and jerked the lever showing Tennent’s on the handle. He cursed, tipped out the beer, then poured her a beer that wasn’t all foam.

  She accepted it and took a sip. “The client I’m giving a presentation to tonight…” She leaned forward. “He’s kind of hot, but don’t say anything. Fraternization. Human resources demands I take the moral high road.”

  “Human resources. Thorny people. I understand. I’ve heard he’s a tricky bastard. Doesn’t like to lose. You’d be wise to stay away.”

  She leaned farther across the bar. “I’m up for a challenge.”

  He moved off down the bar, one side of his mouth tipped up. Was that a thinly veiled threat that she should stay away? Or had she completely misinterpreted the appreciative look she thought she’d seen plain as day on his face earlier?

  One tricky customer.

  She made small talk with the man who’d been watching Ainsley. Soon they were deep in conversation about NFL vs. football. No, she’d hadn’t heard of Partick Thistle Football Club formed in 1876. Her neighbor had no interest in the L.A. Rams or the mighty NFL where they had helmets and so much padding they couldn’t get hurt. Never mind that they actually did. She suspected he did, because there was a teasing glint in his blue eyes.

  Callum arrived back in front of her. “Hamish,” he said, giving the man a sharp nod. Her new friend, Hamish, returned the same tight-mouthed gift.

  Something shifted in the air. A sizzle between the two men. Unsure of what to do, she fidgeted in her seat until she was saved by Ainsley positioning herself between Georgia and Hamish and laying a plate in front of her.

  Georgia breathed in. “That smells heavenly.”

  “Pheasant in burnt butter with a pilsner.”

  Georgia leaned back in horror. “Pheasant, as in those cute birds that kind of resemble small peacocks?”

  “Aye.”

  She could no more eat a pheasant than cook up Hello Kitty. She loved pheasants.

  Ainsley grinned. “Not your thing?”

  “No,” she replied, hating that she’d offended her, but knowing she couldn’t take a single bite.

  “Come with me; I’ve got something in the kitchen you’ll love.”

  With that, she slid off the stool, shrugged to Callum who appeared to be having a silent pissing competition with Hamish, and followed Ainsley into the kitchen, her shoulders slumped.

  “I’m so sorry,” she started, but Ainsley cut her off with a wave of her hand.

  “It’s fine. I did it more to stop Callum shooting silent death threats at Hamish, who only flirts with other women so I’ll notice him and go on a date.”

  “Do you notice him?” Georgia asked, curious.

  “Sometimes.” Ainsley ducked her head. “But you and Callum sure notice each other.”

  Georgia thought back to her strange day, the kiss, then Callum apologizing, the way he’d shifted cars so she didn’t have to attempt parking and take an hour to do it.

  “Callum has no interest in me, or me in him. We have a business arrangement we’re trying to
work out, that’s all. I’ve got just over a week now to convince him I’m right.” She slid onto a stool by the large kitchen block.

  “What’s the business arrangement?”

  Eager for a friendly ear, she outlined her plan to Ainsley, adding what she thought were the excellent points it could bring to the town. She sighed in relief when Ainsley put a plate in front of her.

  “Thank you. You read my mind.” A grilled cheese sandwich was what she needed. Comfort food. Indiana would slide one across to her whenever Georgia visited, which wasn’t as often as she wished. She had thought about investing in a panini press, but reasoned that she didn’t stay anywhere long enough to justify the expense. Awesome jeans, yes. Forty-buck panini makers from Target, no. That sneaky wistfulness she hadn’t shaken off from that morning snuck back up and wrapped around her again.

  “I love the idea,” Ainsley said, “but I can see both points of view. I know Callum. He’d rather stick himself with a fork than change what we have here. People looking out for each other, that type of thing gets lost. No one locking doors, the unique countryside. The Grotto. It means a lot to the people, but having new blood in the town would also give us some revenue.”

  “Exactly,” Georgia said, mentally adding notes to her presentation tonight. “Thanks.”

  She finished her sandwich and headed back into the bar, which had started to empty out. “I’ll see you back at the hotel,” she said to Callum, and waved to two older men who nodded back. She was beginning to understand that nodding was the standard greeting between uncommunicative farmers.

  Callum moved from behind the bar. “I’ll walk you.”

  “No, it’s five minutes up the road.”

  His spicy scent followed her to the coatrack. She pulled on her jacket and his hat while he did the same. After a quick once-over she assumed was to make sure she was ready, he pushed open the front door, shielding her from the cold with the bulk of his body.

  He grabbed her hand, and her fingers automatically curled around his.

  “You don’t have to hold my hand,” she said, though she secretly loved that he always did it. His warmth curled up her hand and strolled across her heart.

  “Insurance and liability, plus I’d get shitty reviews on Yelp if it was known a lost American tourist was hurt because she crossed the road the wrong way without looking first, and her Scottish host didn’t save her.”

  Lost? She was not lost. She burrowed into his side. “You’ve heard of Yelp?”

  “Aye.”

  They thumped up the road toward the hotel. Once there, he opened the door, and pushed her through. “I’ll see you later.”

  “For the presentation. Prepare to have your socks knocked off.”

  He shook his head and started walking away.

  “Callum!”

  He stopped and turned.

  “I’m not lost.”

  He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Georgia Paxton, I think you’re very lost. You just don’t know it.”

  Huh.

  Georgia wandered around the hotel, Callum’s parting shot blowing a hole in her hull, leaving her unsettled when she wasn’t. She played again with the presentation, then sent out more emails, checking to see the ones she’d typed out earlier still sitting in the outbox, like lost packages waiting to find their home. With nothing better to do, she pulled out one of the CDs she’d found in Callum’s collection in the reception area. Seemed the man liked nothing past the nineteenth century. She slotted the disc into the player and haunting violins filled the air.

  The front door slammed, startling her awake.

  Callum sank to his haunches, bringing him down to her level. “Let’s do this in the morning.”

  “Absolutely not.” She shook her head. “How unprofessional of me, falling asleep.” She tried to cover the horror on her face, but she could feel the heat radiating off her cheeks.

  She went to stand, but his hand lightly pushed her shoulder. “Like I said, it’s late. Let’s do this in the morning.”

  “No way. I’m going to knock your socks off. I promised you, Sofa, now let me deliver.” She jumped up, sat at the table where her laptop perched, and patted the chair next to her. “Socks off, Sofa, socks off.”

  …

  “No.” Callum pushed up, stretching overworked muscles. He’d spent the evening sending Hamish “back the fuck away” glares. The man collected women’s underwear as trophies, and Georgia’s were not going to fly on the man’s pole. Hamish had been more than interested in his guest, and he’d made his intention clear that he intended to make a play. Strange. Callum thought Hamish had been carrying a torch for Ainsley, but it appeared he was wrong.

  He was tired, agitated, and he was not sitting through Georgia’s presentation.

  She stood, shook out her gorgeous head of gleaming hair, and opened her laptop. “A corporate girl never sleeps.”

  “You were asleep.” His hands were now on his hips.

  Fingers tapped on the keyboard. “Mere slip in energy reserves. I am an Energizer Bunny, and it’s never too late.”

  He shook his head. Even at this hour of the morning, she was all business.

  “Georgia, no.” He headed to the stairs and his room.

  “But, but…” she sputtered. Annoyance and surprise flitted across her face.

  “I’m not a switched-on corporate high-flyer who’ll do anything for the deal.” He rubbed his hands across his face. “I’ve lived that life. It isn’t my dream, it’s yours. I’m not going to listen to a presentation at two in the morning because it suits you.”

  She had the grace to look embarrassed. He wasn’t jumping through her hoops any more than she’d jump through his.

  “You’re right. I guess sometimes I get so caught up that I forget to switch off.”

  He studied her as she logged off and reordered a stack of papers that was already in a neat stack. Her dark hair fell past her shoulders, glossy and healthy, but dark bruising under her eyes showed exhaustion. As did the pinched lines at the corner of her kissable mouth.

  Yeah, not going there.

  Not good to get a boner before bed when the cause of the boner slept across the hall, with bed-hair, oh-so-kissable pouty lips, and a mouth he wanted plastered on all parts of his body.

  He’d give her this presentation as a courtesy when she’d gathered the info she felt she needed to convince him. Yeah, quid pro quo. She’d come to The Grotto where he’d hoped to win her over, but his plan fell into the gutter when she’d turned it into a business-related photo opportunity. He turned and headed up the stairs, then stopped.

  “Georgia,” he called. Time to clear something up that had been rattling around his head all day.

  Her eyes met his.

  “I’m not sorry about the kiss.”

  She blinked rapidly, but then a small smile appeared on her lips. Before he could make out what that smile meant, her hair fell over her face.

  “Me, either.”

  It wasn’t Bruno Mars that woke him the next morning, but vintage Beyoncé crooning about if she were a boy. After she’d chase after girls, he heard footsteps, the floorboards groaning out their usual weary “how’s it going” morning greeting. The footsteps stopped, and he’d swear that he heard an intake of breath. Keeping perfectly still, he barely opened an eye to find Georgia in his doorway, her mouth open, her gaze raking over his body. She lingered at points of interest, shoulders, chest, arms, his stomach for longer than his body could control, then dropped lower.

  She gripped the side of the doorframe and he fought back a smile.

  He slept in cotton drawstring bottoms. Sometime during the night, Hello Kitty must have opened his door. He’d thrown the blankets off as he usually did, and apparently his guest liked the view. Admittedly it was cold, and her nipples were peaked; a flush was moving up her neck, splashing across her face.

  He hardened under her gaze, and said gaze flew to the drawstring on his pants. Her mouth hung open before she swallowe
d.

  Jesus, if she stared at him much longer looking like that he’d be sixteen all over again.

  As if he’d spoken his thoughts aloud, she pulled her robe tighter over the Spock T-shirt, and fled down the stairs.

  No point trying to get back to sleep now. He had a shower that did nothing to cool the fire burning through his veins. Took care of business, with Georgia in his head talking about modern girls and the tricks they knew. He pulled on jeans, put on a T-shirt under a black sweater, then found his guest, again muttering that she was going to do unspeakable things to his coffee machine.

  He moved to stand behind her; she’d brushed her hair to one shoulder, and his breath caused the tiny hairs on the back of her neck to stand at attention.

  “Still having trouble with the wand?” he said, his voice husky.

  “And the knobs. I don’t think it wants to play with me this morning.” Damn if her voice wasn’t huskier than his.

  He leaned in and inhaled the delicate skin at the back of her neck. “I have it on good authority that it wants to play.”

  Oxygen seemed to be sucked from the room.

  Seconds became minutes, or time stood still.

  “How can you be sure? It’s very temperamental… Very hard to read, in fact.” Her hand trembled beneath his.

  “It’s an open book.” He reached for her left hand and twisted the knob until coffee started pouring into a cup positioned underneath.

  “Tha thu bòidheach,” he murmured. You are beautiful.

  Heat slammed into his front. “What language is that?” she whispered.

  “The language of my people.”

  “What does it mean?” The husk in her voice was low, and now it was his turn to swallow heavily.

  “I’ll leave you to work it out. Part of learning about Scotland.” He positioned his hand over hers and placed the wand into the jug of milk.

  “Quite impressive, your wand,” she murmured.

  She had no idea how granite-like his wand currently was.

  By the time the milk was suitably frothed, there was enough sexual tension eating into him that if he didn’t walk out of there now, he’d do something he’d regret, like bend her over the table and show her his real wand.