“You are such a ho bag!”
The pair bust into a fit of raucous laughter that must draw the attention of the whole pub. Not that I’m looking as pick up my purse to check the status of my Uber as my heart sinks to my shoes.
“Oh, is that a Prada handbag?”
I enjoy the rest of my evening though I have to try very hard to banish the thought of Alexander’s marriage from my mind. I know it makes no sense because he’s not mine and he never will be, but I can’t help regretting that. Which is the part that makes no sense because we’re not suited. From different worlds. We are not meant to be. I recognise that. Feel it in my bones. Yet I can’t help but mourn it.
No, I decide, on the way back to the castle in my long awaited for Uber. I’m not mourning the fact that I can’t have him. It’s just sex addling my brain. It’s the sex that I’ll miss when Alexander leaves tomorrow, not him. Because you can’t miss a person you don’t really know. And when I say I enjoy the rest of my evening and I try to push those thoughts away, I do. But the company of Emma and Allie has made me realise I miss my sister. Worse, I know I can’t call her until I’ve pulled my shizz together because that girl is like a truffle hound for trouble. So, yes, I enjoyed my evening while missing my sister and lamenting the fact that I have to give up Alexander’s dick.
And how I did that was through alcohol.
“Oh, Cooper. My head is super swimmy,” I complain, pressing my head to the cool glass of the car window.
“You’re not gonnae boak, are you?” He sounds concerned so I open one eye. “Vomit,” he qualifies.
“No.” I sigh heavily. “I promise. I’m not drunk, just pleasantly pished. Or, at least, that’s the way Emma had explained it.” My head is swimmy for different reasons. Heavier reasons, I don’t even want to think about. Reasons I’m not at liberty to share. And you probably wouldn’t believe me if I told you anyway.
You and the duke? But his wife was so beautiful. Tell me another funny, Holly!
“Emma is a bad influence,” he complains. “And she’s got hollow legs. God knows what witches brew my cousin’s been pouring down your neck.”
“Down my thrapple, you mean?” I smile. The Scots tongue is an interesting one, and Alexander’s tongue—
Nope. I’m not going there.
Cooper and Emma are apparently related, though not full cousins, she’d explained. But he’s cranky and tired, and I can’t say I blame him after driving to Inverness and back before being strong armed into taking me to Kilblair. I say strong armed when I really mean sent on a guilt trip by his cousin when she’d called him to complain about what he’d done.
She’s a single, good-looking girl, Coop. Is your conscience ready to deal wi’ her risking walking back to that castle alone? Will you be able to deal when the police find her dead, cold body and you’re reading the headline over your Cornflakes?
I’d begun to feel a little scared myself when Allie had hung up and explained the only risk I’d be in on the long walk back was standing in sheep poop.
Then she’s added probably.
But I’m pleased I’m not walking these dark, lonely lanes. There no paths and so few streetlights. As I glance gratefully over at Cooper, I feel a little sorry for him. It’s such a small car for such a tall guy, too. He must be so uncomfortable. But his discomfort is soon shared as we begin bumping along a road that makes me wish I’d tightened my bra straps. Thankfully, I can see the outlines of the castle looming darkly against the sky.
“I’ve never been on this road before.”
“It’s a shortcut. Do you want to be dropped at the cottages or the front?”
“Do you know where the kitchen is?”
“Aye, I used to work for the local fruit and veg shop. It’s where I made the deliveries.”
The tyres crackle against gravel as Cooper pulls into the courtyard, the whole place lighting up.
“Security lights,” I mumble, shielding my eyes as I step from the car. But bright lights aren’t my only issue because it seems as though the alcoholic iced teas have made me drunk, but only from the feet up.
“Hang on,” Cooper calls, unfolding himself from his tiny car as I stumble. “You haven’t been drinkin’ zombies, have you?”
“Zombies?” I look up. He must be at least six-two, and in pretty cute, if you’re into the man-bun and skinny jeans look.
“Aye. She made me one or five last weekend.” He lifts my hand over his shoulder, pressing himself to my side, his hand supporting me at the waist. Seriously, I’m not that drunk but we’re already on the move. “Last time, I walked out of the pub like the livin’ dead. Woke the next morning feeling like it, too.”
“Well, it was Long Island Iced Teas pour moi. That’s French for—”
“Bringing home guests.”
At the sound of Alexander’s voice, a series of pleasurable explosions begin to bounce around my insides. When I lift my head, the outline of his body fills the door.
“Hey, your grace!” I add a wave to accompany my thoroughly improper form of address, then tighten my grip on Cooper’s from where it has loosened at my waist.
“This is Cooper. Coop, say hi to the duke of Dalforth.”
“Hello?” he answers uncertainly, unwrapping my arm from over his shoulder.
“Cooper?” Alexander drawls. “Were your parents fond of barrels?” His gaze flicks over him impassively, but I can hear the tension in his words. Oh, my God, he thinks—
Oh, this is brilliant! I cackle internally. I can’t have him, I can’t keep him, but I can totally make him jealous.
It feels like one of those times where . . . I just want to see what I can get away with!
“I don’t think so,” Cooper answers with a puzzled frown. That totally went over his head. Maybe someone should explain how coopers make barrels.
But maybe not right now. I’m having too much fun!
“Can we come in?” I ask, smiling up at the grump. We. Ba-ha! “You’re kind of blocking the door.”
Alexander’s gaze drops to my dimple, then my mouth. His frown deepens as he steps to the side. But Copper isn’t really about to follow me into the kitchen. Whatever. I’m still digging the fact that it bothers him.
“I’ll, erm, be off then.” Cooper takes a step back and risks a small side-to-side wave. Or maybe that was more a “woah, not me, man” or whatever the Scottish equivalent of that is.
“Okay,” I sing-song. “Thanks for everything.” I just about stop myself from yelling, I’ll be sure to leave you a good rating! because I am enjoying this more than I should as I saunter (very slightly wobble?) into the kitchen. A chair at the head of the long pine table is pushed back, an open bottle of whisky and a glass sitting on the table in front of it. “Dalmore,” I read aloud as I pick the bottle up. “Can I have some?”
I try not to shiver as I feel him behind me, his arm reaching around me to take it from my hand. As his touch skims my waist, heat bursts against my skin like wildfire.
“I’d say you’ve already had enough.” Whisky-scented want, his words are soft against my cheek as he sets the bottle back and curls his fingers in the neck of my jacket. He slides it from my shoulders in a move that’s more practical than seductive, but I shiver anyway. Then I watch as his hand curls around the back of the farmhouse chair in front of me. We just stand there for a beat, his arm a whisper away from wrapping around me. But it doesn’t happen.