Izzy pressed her ear harder against the door separating Alasdair’s room from their shared bathroom, but the duet of male voices rumbled indistinctly. Although perfectly mundane explanations presented themselves for the closeted reunion, suspicion lurked in the forefront of her mind.
The tension between the two men had been weird, and the age difference between the “old mates” even weirder. Not that it was impossible to have a friend thirty years older, but it was certainly unusual. What did they have in common? What did they talk about?
Did Alasdair suffer from bunions or hemorrhoids or gout? Did he worry about his retirement funds or like to yell at punk kids to get off his lawn? Not that Gareth seemed the type to worry about such things. He was young at heart, just like her mother.
Izzy absolutely, positively couldn’t ask Alasdair whether he had hemorrhoids. Trouble was the thought was planted and the question likely to pop out in an awkward moment. She closed her eyes. Thinking about Alasdair and hemorrhoids brought forth a picture of his butt outlined in his slim-fitting pants. It was an incredibly nice butt. Firm looking and round, but not too round. And most likely hemorrhoid free.
Stop it, she mouthed as if that would have any effect on the whirl of her brain. She might have banged some sense into her head if it wouldn’t have drawn attention to her snooping. Alasdair discombobulated her.
Even worse, she’d almost told him about her writing. Not about the silly stories she’d made up as a kid, but her years-long, so-far-unsuccessful quest to write a great Southern novel like Eudora Welty and Harper Lee and Flannery O’Conner. She glanced at the closed laptop on her nightstand. It was hard to find the time to tweak her current manuscript this time of year—which felt like a blessing at the moment.
While the constant stream of rejections hitting her inbox were depressing and discouraging, she had carried on until the email last week had her considering actually giving up once and for all. “Trite and amateurish.” The words haunted her. It might not be stupid to dream, but it was feeling more and more like a waste of time.
She became aware of the silence on the other side of the door. Had they formulated their (possibly) evil plans? The door opened. With her weight still tilted into it, she head-butted Alasdair Blackmoor in the chest. His breath escaped in an oof and he took a step back, unbalancing her further. She grabbed hold of his tie with one hand, his shirt with the other.
She took a deep breath. His tie was loose and his shirt was unbuttoned, revealing the hollow between his collarbones. His scent was enticing yet subtle. Would he notice if she nosed the skin at his collar to capture the elusive spices? His shirt was soft and smooth, the muscles underneath firm. She imagined charting every ridge and dip like Lewis and Clark.
“Good grief. Sorry about that. I was…” She won the battle (barely) to keep her face out of his neck and lifted her gaze. Unfortunately, it got stuck on his mouth. Her mind blanked.
“You were…?” His lips moved. They were well defined, the bottom curve lending an unexpected sensuality to his masculine features.
His jaw was strong, his nose patrician, and his cheekbones broad. Taken together, he was handsome, but not in the classic sense of a movie star. He was handsome in a more aggressive way that made her think that under his sophistication he knew how to get down and dirty between the sheets. Danger awaited her if she continued down that rabbit hole.
His thick, dark brows were lifted in expectation. What was he expecting from her? Oh yes. An answer to what she’d been doing pressed against the bathroom door. She searched her brain, but found an empty warehouse. “I was … stretching.”
“Stretching?”
“Bathroom yoga. It’s a thing.” Was it? Weirder fads existed on the internet. “I’m just getting into it so I’m not very good yet.” Her tongue seemed determined to further embarrass her.
“I enjoy yoga myself.”
She made a humming sound. Of course he did. It was probably how he stayed so lean and hard. How flexible was he? Her hand opened and flattened round his torso as her imagination wallowed in the inappropriate thoughts.
“Maybe you could show me your moves.” His brogue had roughened. No wonder generations of women had fallen at Sean Connery’s feet.
“What moves?” She had a dearth of moves. Men were supposed to make the first move. At least, that’s the lesson she’d learned from James McFarland when she’d asked him to the Sadie Hawkins dance in eighth grade, and he’d rejected her.
“Your yoga moves?” His voice dropped yet another octave. Something in her chest vibrated like a cat purring. He was close to laughter—at her expense, of course—yet, she couldn’t locate any indignation.
“Ah, those moves. Yeah, they’re pretty special.”
The corners of his sharp eyes crinkled, and one side of his mouth rose higher than the other in a boyish smile. That was the only part of him that felt boyish. The rest was all man. The heat blazing a path through her threatened a five-alarm fire.
She forced her hands from his shirt and tie, thumbed over her shoulder, and shuffled backward. “I’ll give you a lesson another time, I need to…” Now her thoughts were a desert, barren of coherent thought or logic.
“Wash your hair?” He propped a shoulder on the doorjamb and crossed his arms over his chest. The crazy thing was while he had every right to be annoyed, he didn’t demonstrate anything other than amusement.
“Water my flowers, actually.”
Another lopsided smile squirted lighter fluid on the blaze he was kindling inside of her. “Do you water that huge field of wild flowers?”
“Of course not. I have pots. With flowers in them. Obviously.” She bit the inside of her mouth. This was going great. Real smooth.
“That makes more sense, although it’s easy to imagine you…” This time it was Alasdair who seemed to lose track of his words. His smile disappeared, leaving behind the man with the steely eyes and aloof air.
“Imagine me what?”
“Not important. I’ll be sure to knock next time. Please, take your time.”
“I’m done. It’s all yours.” She closed the door on her side of the bathroom, grabbed a magazine off her nightstand, and fanned herself, imagining him undoing his clothes button by button. With the noise of the running water masking her movements, she slipped out of her room. Not that Alasdair had his ear pressed against the door monitoring her movements like the fool she was.
She skipped down the stairs as if chased, only slowing when she stepped outside. Closing her eyes, she lifted her face to the sun. As far as she knew, the earth was still in rotation and hadn’t spun off course. Nature exerted a grounding force on her suddenly topsy-turvy world.
This Scottish invasion couldn’t have come at a worse time with the festival fast approaching. Alasdair’s disruption had put her behind on her day’s to-do list, yet she couldn’t locate the concentration she needed to sit down and work.
The mindless task of watering her pots left her with time to dissect what she’d discovered, which was pathetically little. Gareth and Alasdair shared a secret, but whether it involved her mom or Stonehaven or (less likely) hemorrhoids was still in question. Searching his things would be crossing a line, and staging an inquisition would be too obvious.
The truth had a way of emerging like flowers pushing out of dark, cold soil in spring, but she was too impatient to allow events to unfold.
“And here I thought you were feeding me a load of codswallop.” Alasdair’s voice made her breath catch as she swung around. Water splashed onto his fancy brown shoes with the elaborate stitching. He high-stepped out of range, shaking his feet.
“Sorry! You startled me.” Izzy dropped the hose and ran to turn the spigot off. “Is codswallop a Scottish delicacy? Highland might be billed as the Heart of Scotland, but our stomachs are pure Southern.”
She got two nonplussed blinks from him before he erupted into laughter. “Codswallop is rubbish. Lies. Not something to eat.”
The smile she tried to stifle broke free. It was hard to remain stoic and cold in the face of his good humor. “You can’t blame me for thinking it’s something you Scots might eat.” She gave an exaggerated shudder then waved toward his shoes. “Leave your shoes out here. They’ll dry in a jiffy in this heat. I hope they aren’t ruined.”
Alasdair shuffled backward into an all-weather lounge chair, toed his shoes off, and stripped his socks, water dripping. “They’ve survived countless London downpours. A Georgia drenching won’t matter.”
His comment was yet another reminder of their difference in geography. He rolled up the wet bottoms of his pant legs while she wound the hose back up and said absently, “You’re going to mess up the crease in your britches.”
He stretched his legs out, crossed his feet at the ankles, and linked his hands behind his head, tilting his face to the sun. With his sleeves rolled up to his forearms and barefooted, he was a far cry from the buttoned-up sophisticate she’d pegged him as in the Brown Cow.
“I suppose I’ll survive without a perfect crease in my … what did you call them?”
“Your britches.”
He smiled the charming crooked smile from earlier. “You talk funny.”
The way Alasdair said it didn’t make her think it was an insult. “So do you. I thought you came to New York on business all the time. I’m surely not the first American you’ve met.”
“I’m in New York once a month.” He tilted his head and squinted at her. “I’ve never met anyone like you up there.”
His phone dinged from his pocket with an incoming text. He ignored it, but she could see it cost him a certain effort. Another ding. Then, another. With a sigh, he pulled his phone out, glanced at the screen, then flipped a button on the side.
“Who are you blowing off?” She nudged his chin toward his pocket.
He hesitated, and she tensed. What if he said girlfriend or wife?
“My … mum among others.”
“Your mother?” She couldn’t stem the disbelief sailing her voice into the stratosphere.
“Did you think I sprang from moldy cheese or something equally as horrid?” His dry self-depreciation only made him more attractive—which was inconvenient considering he was a potential mortal enemy.
“I’m partial to a good gorgonzola,” she sparred back playfully.
His laugh was a rumbling pleasant sound.
“Do you and your mother not get along?” she asked. “Is that why you’re ignoring her?”
“Mum loves me. At least I’m pretty sure her exacting ways are born from love. She can be rather maddening.”
It was yet another peek into his personal life. Or was it? She didn’t have much experience reading liars. Old Mr. Brown, who spent his mornings in a rocking chair playing checkers out in front of the Drug and Dime, told anyone who would listen that his grandpappy had buried a fortune on his land, and he should be living in a big house instead of a trailer. Everyone knew he was lying to make himself feel bigger in town, but no one called him on the harmless delusion.
If Alasdair was a liar, he would be a talented one. She had a feeling he would be good at anything he put his mind to, even lying.
“Is your name really Alasdair Blackmoor?” she asked.
His eyebrows rose, but she couldn’t detect any outrage, which was troublesome in itself. “Search my name on the internet if you don’t believe me.”
Dangit. That’s what she should have been doing instead of listening at his door like a ten-year-old. Actually, these days a ten-year-old would have known to head straight to the internet for information. “Maybe I will.”
“Fine.” They stared at each other until he nudged with his chin. “Do it right now to settle your mind.”
She slipped her phone from the back pocket of her jeans and typed his name in her browser, glancing up periodically to see if he was preparing to make a run for it. His expression remained bland. Several hits came up on her phone. Scanning the first page, she didn’t see a police bulletin among them. She tapped the first link.
“You work for Wellington Financials?”
“As an acquisitions and development risk manager.”
“Sounds interesting.” Now it was her turn to lie, but it was a polite white one.
“I’m not exactly changing the world, but it’s challenging.” He didn’t sound bitter as much as resigned. “I identify and determine whether an acquisition is worth the risk of investment. If it is, then we develop it for commercial use.”
“Risk manager. Are you a risk-taker by nature?” She tried to read him, ready to Dr. Freud his answer.
“No.” He switched his unblinking focus from her to the tree line off in the distance. “At least, not anymore.”
Unable to gain insight from his answer, she huffed and followed his gaze to the expanse of virgin timber. “Are you counting all the houses and stores you could fit if you bulldozed the woods?”
More than one real estate developer had offered them a fortune for their land. Her daddy had chased one particularly persistent gentleman off with a shotgun. Izzy took a more sugared approach, taking their cards with promises to consider their offers but never returning their calls.
“Actually, I was wondering what sort of costs are associated with owning so much land in the states.” His gaze was back on her and absent any sentiment. He looked ready to perform a risk analysis on her.
“The games help defray the costs.” Without the games, they would have to sell off parcels to keep Stonehaven solvent until there would be nothing left. Her salary as an accountant was a pittance compared to their property taxes and upkeep, which made them vulnerable.
“Maybe I can help.”
“What are you talking about?” Had this been the plan all along? Gareth would butter her mom up and gain her trust, then Alasdair would swoop in to make an offer for their land? His charm had breached her guard. She poked a finger into his chest. “We’re not selling.”
A flash of surprise crossed his face. “You misunderstand. I wasn’t speaking as a Wellington employee, but a Scotsman. I’ve been to the real Highland games. I could help make yours more authentic.”
“I don’t need your help.” Only after the words were out did her rude tone register. “Mom and I have been planning the games together for the last decade. We can handle it.”
“I have no doubt you can, but Rose seems distracted by Gareth this year.”
He was right. Her mom had already dropped the ball on confirming the food trucks, and Izzy had had to scramble to get commitments. Haggis and potato cakes would not satisfy the diverse crowd. “I have things under control.”
She almost believed it. Before the stress and worry could transmit to him, she did an about-face and walked toward the field of flowers. Not picking up the elephant-sized hint, Alasdair fell into step with her. She clenched her jaw and looked the other way. If she ignored him, would he leave her alone?
“Gareth is a good man.” His voice was thoughtful and lacked any defensiveness. She glanced his direction. He stared toward the horizon, his hands clasped behind his back.
“I never said he wasn’t.”
“You don’t trust him with your mother.”
“To be fair, I wouldn’t trust anyone with Mom. Except Daddy.” As it was clear she wasn’t going to shake him, she halted. Wild tiger lilies swayed around them as if they were in a rolling sea of flowers. The beauty and tranquility did little to alleviate her low-key anxiety.
“He’s been gone for a long time.” His annoyingly calm voice annoyed her.
She tried to get a handle on her tongue and failed. “But not forgotten. By me, at any rate.”
Wanting to kick herself at the admission, she crossed her arms over her chest. She’d given him insight to use against her. It was supposed to be the other way around.
“You’re worried your mother has forgotten him.”
He had laid her fears out in the starkest of terms. Betrayal twinged in her heart watching her mom and Gareth together. Her attitude made no sense, and she would never admit it aloud, but Alasdair was able to verbalize the ugly feelings she fought. Her gaze skittered down as if her shame were a physical ooze welling at their feet.
The scrunch of his toes in the grass cast her back to childhood when she’d spent her summers wandering the woods barefoot with only her imagination as companion. The grass and dirt would be cool, and for a moment, she wanted to kick her flip-flops off and run into the woods to discover what simple adventure awaited.
“It doesn’t matter. You and Gareth will be gone soon enough. Right?” Pushing her shame away, she hardened her gaze and tipped her chin up to meet his eyes.
Alasdair’s expression was serious, but otherwise inscrutable. “Right you are.”
She sensed an opening to redirect the questioning. “How did you and Gareth become such good friends?”
“We’re both from Scotland.” Alasdair rolled his shirtsleeves higher, revealing a few more inches of taut skin.
“Everyone from Scotland is friends? How many million is that again?” She layered her sarcasm on thick.
“My da and Gareth grew up together.”
“That doesn’t explain how you and Gareth became such good friends.”
“I spent my school holidays and summers at Cairndow with Gareth growing up. He never married. No kids. He taught me how to shoot and sail and swim. It was a treat to get out of Glasgow.”
Their families must have been very close. Still, she couldn’t imagine her parents sending her off for an entire summer. They’d been like the Three Musketeers. “So he’s kind of like your godfather?”
“Something like that.” It was clear the subject was a sore one and it wasn’t her place to pick at the scab.
She cleared her throat to steady her voice. “Dinner will be around six. I have some festival business to handle. Feel free to borrow a book or watch TV in the living room.”
“Thank you.” He inclined his head, his tone formal and devoid of emotion.
She walked away and didn’t look back or break stride until she entered the office she shared with her mom. The piles of papers on Izzy’s desk looked chaotic, but they were segregated into logical piles. Stonehaven business was one pile—tax information and estate upkeep mostly. Another pile was work related to her accounting job. Her current manuscript was in a folder for her to edit with a red pencil. The tallest pile at the moment involved the festival.
In contrast, her mom’s area was neat with only the bare essentials cluttering the desk. An unusual layer of dust marred the stained-glass panes of the lamp on her desk, and even stranger, her mom hadn’t even noticed.
While her mom and Gareth had spent the week gallivanting around north Georgia, Izzy’s to-do list had doubled. Things needed to shift back to the way they were that instant. Izzy was a big talker, but the truth was she couldn’t do it alone.
She would put her foot down and force things to return to normal. She strode to the doorway and took a breath to holler for her mom. Before a sound escaped, the sight of her mom and Gareth ascending the stairs side by side, their heads close, squeezed her lungs like a vise. Her mom touched Gareth’s beard with an undisguised tenderness.
Izzy closed herself behind the office door, slid to the floor, and buried her head in her arms.