“What’s the matter?” Alasdair shifted away from a nativity scene made up of people and animals in tartan.
Izzy jiggled the knob and pushed, already knowing it was useless but needing to try. “The door is notorious for getting stuck closed. That’s what the wedge was for.” The one she had knocked cattywampus. Not that she planned to admit this was her fault.
“Here. Allow me.” In his voice was a manly confidence she hoped he could back up with Herculean strength.
She stepped back and made a “be my guest” flourish with her hands. The top of her head knocked the dangling light bulb. It pulsed light as if gasping its last watts. Alasdair dueled with the door. He twisted the knob and set one shoulder into the door, grunting with the effort. His back muscles put on a show under his black T-shirt. Yet, the door didn’t budge.
He braced both hands against the door and leaned all his weight into the push. The seams of his pants strained, and his T-shirt edged up exposing a strip of skin. The dip along his spine was flanked by muscles and absolutely no fat.
He straightened, shuffled his hands through his hair, and linked them at his nape, giving the door a meaningless kick. She sidestepped around him and spent fruitless minutes banging and yelling. No one else had been parked in the lot. Preacher Hopkins had probably gone for food or to visit a sick parishioner. They were alone and stuck.
“Why did you follow me in? I said I would hand everything out to you.” Misplaced or not, her frustration boiled over. The small space kept them within two feet of each other at all times.
“Oh, this is my fault? How was I to know the door was crafted by Satan’s hand?” He leaned against the door, crossing his arms over his chest. The light cast harsh shadows over his face.
“It wasn’t made by Satan; just installed by him.” She rubbed her temples. “The door is a known menace. The choir director got stuck after practice one Wednesday night and her husband didn’t notice until morning, which raised all sorts of questions as to how he spent his evening.”
His lips twitched but a smile didn’t crack through his irritation. “You might have warned me volunteering to help you would lead to my untimely death in a church cupboard.”
“No one is going to die.” The closet was getting stuffier by the minute. Either the air-conditioning didn’t extend to the small room or the vents were being blocked by boxes. “Probably.”
“Probably?” This time a hint of exasperated amusement was reflected in his raised brows. “Do you have service on your mobile?”
Izzy couldn’t look him in the eye. “I sort of left my phone in the truck. Blame fashion designers.”
“What does a bloody designer have to do with your mobile being in the truck?”
She patted her hips. “No pockets. Women need pockets as much if not more than men do.”
He banged his head back against the door a few times.
“That’s really not loud enough to get anyone’s attention, Alasdair.”
He pinned her with his gaze. “How long before someone finds us, do you think?”
“Lots of people know where we are. The preacher. Dr. Jameson. Mom. I think I even mentioned it to Millie, didn’t I? Before dinner, for sure.” As if on cue, her stomach rumbled. Her blackberry jam and toast for breakfast seemed a long time ago.
They stood in silence for a few minutes. Nervous energy invaded, and she turned in a slow circle. “There’s got to be a couple of chairs stashed in here. We might as well get comfortable, right?”
“Right,” he said unenthusiastically.
She pushed Christmas wreaths and garlands aside to search for folding chairs. Movement stilled her. A giant black smudge skittered up a piece of garland straight for her throat. Or at least it felt that way.
Her yelping scream echoed around her as she lurched backward. Her heel caught on the corner of a box and she windmilled to catch her balance. She hit a shelf with her hand and made a grab for stability, but her weight only popped it up and sent everything skidding off. Plastic forks scattered along with a pack of paper plates. A box of ribbons upended and covered everything like confetti at the end of a party.
Not that they had a chance to enjoy the colorful display. The back of her head smacked the light bulb. It popped, the sound electrical and physical, plunging them into darkness. The aftermath was silent. A sliver of light showed from under the door.
“Alright there, Isabel?”
She took an inventory, her finger catching on a piece of glass in her hair. She picked it out and tossed it away. “I’ve got some glass in my hair, but otherwise I’m okay.”
“What’s next, do you suppose? An invasion of rats? A flood? Or the plague of locusts Millie promised?” Unbelievably, she heard no anger in his voice. In fact, something that sounded like amusement rumbled under the surface.
“I don’t know, but we’re trapped with a giant man-eating spider. Let’s hope it stays in the garland.”
“Indeed.” His warm hands grasped her shoulder, and he pulled her toward him. “Let’s see about getting the glass out of your hair before you accidently open an artery with a shard.”
“Har-har.” She didn’t protest when he skimmed his hands to her neck. His solidness was comforting in the dark.
Her breath caught. A shiver shot through her that had nothing to do with fear of giant spiders. He speared his fingers through her hair, his touch deft on her scalp. She sighed and tilted her head back, holding his waist. Pieces of glass plinked to the floor. He touched every inch of her scalp and finger-combed her hair. She could almost pretend his touch was meant for seduction and wasn’t a mission of mercy.
A throaty hum of pleasure escaped, snapping her back to reality. “Um. Thanks. I’m good now.”
“Of course.” His jagged voice sounded like it too had been a casualty of her clumsiness.
They remained touching, her hands on his waist and his laying on her shoulders, his thumbs tracing her collarbones in a pseudo-caress. The darkness lent a dreamlike quality to the moment, but what happened here would have consequences.
She dropped her hands, but there was no retreat from the warmth of his body. Her knees were wobbly and she fought the urge to lean into him. “Do you think it’s safe to sit on the floor?”
“Let me check for glass.” He squatted down. “Seems safe enough.”
She lowered herself to the floor, tucking her skirt around her legs for protection as much as possible. “At least the concrete is cooler.”
He didn’t answer, but joined her, shoulder to shoulder, leaning against the door. He heaved a sigh.
“We’ll be found soon,” she said as much to reassure herself as him.
Time passed. It might have been five minutes or fifteen. As Alasdair shifted, the crinkle of cellophane broke the silence.
“It’s not much, but I picked up a couple of peppermints at Bubba’s. Want one?” he asked.
“Sure. Thanks.”
Alasdair felt for her hand with both of his and laid the piece of candy in her palm.
The smell of their shared peppermints helped relax her. She closed her eyes since there was nothing to see anyway and let her mind wander.
She patted his thigh. “You can eat me, Alasdair.”
He made a strangling sound, drawing his knees up, the strangle turning into a hacking cough. Izzy pounded his back until she heard him take a breath and relax back against the door.
“I swallowed my peppermint.” After a beat of silence, he asked softly, “Did you offer to let me eat you?”
“Yeah, in case we’re stuck in here for days or weeks. You’d be too tough.” She poked his biceps.
His shoulder moved against hers. Was he choking again? Anxiety jolted her, and she put her arm around his shoulders, preparing to perform the Heimlich. Laughter rumbled from his chest. The kind that left him breathless and fighting snickers even after he got himself under control.
“What’s so funny?” she asked, tightening her arm around his shoulders.
“You. You make me laugh.” He slipped his arm around her shoulders, so she leaned against him more than the door. “Why would I be too tough?”
“Because of your muscles. You must maintain a serious workout schedule.” She walked her fingers across his chest to squeeze his biceps. “See, too hard to be tender.”
“Most women wouldn’t complain about an appendage being too hard.” More laughter vibrated his voice.
“I’m being serious, Alasdair. I would make a more pleasant meal.”
“I have no doubt you would be delicious.” His brogue had thickened with a sexy tease, and the conversation finally registered in a different context.
Her blush could have started a forest fire. “I wasn’t talking about … that kind of eating.”
Another laugh emerged from him. This one she could feel to her bones. When she tried to pull away, he resettled her so her back was tucked into the nook of his arm. He grounded her in the darkness, and she didn’t pull away in spite of her embarrassment.
More silence took root. Their position would have been unthinkable an hour before, but trapped in the darkness, she felt strangely at ease. He wrapped his arm around her chest to hold her other arm, and she grabbed his forearm with both hands, letting her head loll back on his chest, tucked under his chin.
“Tell me something most people don’t know about you,” he said. “Something your alfalfa farmer doesn’t know.”
“Holt farms soybeans.”
“Whatever. Tell me a secret,” he commanded.
She could tell him about the time she’d shoplifted a book out of the used-book store, but that didn’t seem deep or important enough for the mood.
“I want to be a writer. No, more than that, I want to write the next great Southern novel. Like To Kill a Mockingbird.” She shrugged. “It’s not going that great though.”
“How can you judge how well it’s going?”
“The growing number of rejections is a pretty good indication.”
His hum was thoughtful. “What makes a novel Southern? Or great, for that matter?”
“Southern novels are full of angst and symbolism and a study of how our troubled past informs our present. As far as great … I want people to study it and debate on it.”
“You want to write serious literature.”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“But you’re not serious; you’re … whimsical.”
She twisted around to send him a glare, but it didn’t make an impact in the darkness, so she settled back against him. “That’s a nice way of saying I’m weird, isn’t it? I’m an accountant, for goodness sake. No one is more serious than an accountant during tax season.”
“You’re smart and I have no doubt, you are excellent at your job, but…”
“But what?”
“You named your letter opener Rupert.”
She harrumphed.
“And introduced him to me.”
“I was joking.” She let a few beats of silence fall before she added, “Okay, so I used to make up stories about fairies and witches living in the woods, but just to entertain myself. And the kids at the library on occasion. And in the nursery at church in high school. But, they were mostly for Daddy. He thought they were funny. Since he died … I don’t know.”
“Death is sobering, and you turned to more serious subjects,” Alasdair said.
“Exactly.”
“I hope you write your great Southern novel. If that’s what you really want.” His tone made her think he was holding back thoughts and opinions she might not appreciate.
“It’s want I want,” she gritted out even though her doubts had grown heavier over the last year. “Your turn. Tell me a secret. A deep, dark one.”
Alasdair took a breath as if gathering his nerve for a bloodletting. Was he actually going to confess all? The darkness whispered encouragements in his ear. The truth was a wound that needed excising, and Isabel would understand. He was sure of it. Sure of her.
“My parent’s marriage broke up because Da had an affair with his assistant. She wasn’t much older than me. Not the first woman he messed around with either, but she was the final straw for Mum. Da moved out and set up house with her.”
“I didn’t realize your parents divorced before he died.”
“They weren’t even legally separated at the time. It all happened so suddenly.” He paused. It was only too easy to put himself back in his seventeen-year-old skin. The anger was still there, along with the regrets. “I was so blasted mad at Da for what he did to Mum and to me and our family. I stopped talking to him and to—” He’d almost given away a secret he didn’t own.
He continued, not pausing long enough for her to question his near slip. “Da called me that morning. The morning he ran off the road.”
“You couldn’t know what was going to happen. It’s not your fault.” Izzy found his hand and clasped it. He hung on as if she were keeping him from falling off a precipice.
“Maybe not. I don’t know anymore. But it happened, and it hurt that I was never going to be able to forgive him. That our relationship would remain stymied in all the bad. I left Glasgow for Cambridge a few months later and Mum followed soon after and never looked back. She didn’t have any good memories of Scotland left.”
“Neither of you ever went back?”
“I’ve been back. It’s where my deep, dark secret lives.”
Her hand tightened on his. “It’s a person. Your father’s mistress?”
He should have known she’d guess the gist. “And her son. My half-brother, Lewis. Kyla was pregnant when Da was killed. I think he would have married her eventually. At least, that’s what she claimed, but after Da died, she was left alone and with nothing. Da hadn’t changed his will and as he and Mum weren’t even separated, everything went to Mum.”
“Did your mother know Kyla was pregnant?”
“No. And I couldn’t be the one to tell her. She was already devastated about the infidelity, the separation, and his death.”
“But you said you’ve been back to Glasgow?”
“It took a few years to get over my anger and grief and guilt, but I finally ran Kyla to ground.” It had been a shock to finally meet Lewis and recognize pieces of himself in the boy’s watchful gray eyes. “Kyla married a nice man who owns a butcher shop and had two more kids.”
“She doesn’t resent you and your mother for everything that happened?”
“No, she’s a decent lass and a good mother. Maybe Da would have been happy with her, I don’t know.” Might-have-beens were dangerous, and he put them out of his mind. “Lewis is eleven now. A fine lad.”
He couldn’t tell Isabel everything roiling around in his heart. Like how he wanted to take Lewis to Cairndow to teach him the joys of fishing and shooting and swimming in the loch. But to do so meant telling Gareth. Even in a place as isolated as Cairndow, thorny vines of gossip flourished and would carry the news to his Mum.
“It’s been a long time. Maybe your mother would understand.”
“Perhaps. But she’ll never forgive and wouldn’t approve of any relationship between me and Da’s bastard child.” He gave a gusty sigh. “Now you know my deepest, darkest secret.”
“You’ll figure out what to do about Lewis and your mother.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because I can tell you care about them both. It’ll all work out.” She stroked his arm. Perhaps it was meant to comfort him, but it only made him more aware of her and all the places he wanted her hands. “Tell me about your mother.”
Alasdair barked a laugh. “Her current obsession is getting me married to a woman of her choosing.”
“What kind of girl earns her seal of approval?”
“English, of course. A lady, for certain. Actual title not required but appreciated.” Every single one had been attractive and accomplished and interesting, but he’d been bored. Nothing like how he felt with …
He stopped before he finished the thought, but his arm tightened around her and he nuzzled his nose into the hair at her crown and took a deep breath. He would remember her scent long after he left Highland.
“Posh Spice.”
He was getting used to not knowing how the words that popped out of her mouth connected to the subject at hand. “What is that?”
“You know, Posh Spice from the Spice Girls.” When he made a sound of puzzlement, she elbowed him in the ribs. “The gorgeous one married to David Beckham.”
He smiled as the connection clicked into place. “Exactly who my mum would set me up with.”
“But not who you would choose?”
“Not my type. At all.”
“What is your type?” she asked innocently. Except she had grown rigid against him as if his answer was important.
What could he say? He’d dated but had never contemplated marriage. Even a weekend away with a woman had seemed too much of a commitment. But, if he had to choose a type …
“Someone who makes me laugh.” Until Isabel he couldn’t recall a single girl he’d been out with that met this one requirement.
“And?”
“And what?”
“Throw me a bone here. Blonde or brunette? Thin or curvy?”
“She has to smell good.” Like wildflowers, he didn’t add, afraid the truth would give too much of himself away.
“A funny girl who wears deodorant. You might want to set your standards a bit higher.” Her voice lilted with her amusement, which made him feel lighter.
“I don’t know. I’ve dated a string of woman and none of them have met my standards.”
“A string, huh? I don’t think my exes would even constitute a line fragment,” she said on a self-depreciating laugh.
He smiled and rubbed his chin against her temple, her soft hair tickling him. Instead of shying away like he expected, she shifted toward him.
In the darkness, reality ceased to exist. The strange cupboard in the middle of the Highland Baptist Church didn’t abide by the laws of the universe. He and Isabel could have been trapped for minutes or hours or eons.
He cupped her cheek and stroked the silky skin of her jaw, his fingers guiding his lips in for a landing in the dark. He made contact with the corner of her mouth, but adjusted and caught her gasp. Their breath mingled, the moment achingly intimate.
He’d kissed other women before, of course, but all of a sudden, he couldn’t recall when or whom. Her lips erased his memories or perhaps shoved them into a file labeled “insignificant.” She took fistfuls of his shirt and pulled him closer. Her boldness jerked his heart into a gallop but she had surprised him at every turn, so why had he expected her kiss to be mundane?
“Alasdair.” His name came on a wisp of her breath, turning stone to flesh inside of him. Hearing his name in her honeyed Southern accent sent blood rushing through his body.
He scooted down on the door and pulled her half on top of him, her leg notching between his. He nipped her bottom lip and when she opened, he touched his tongue lightly to hers. Little by little, the kiss deepened until their tongues twined, and their breathing grew rapid as if they were pacing each other in a race.
Her body molded against his, and he allowed his hands to wander down to chart the arch of her back, then through the curve of her waist to grasp her hips. She wiggled closer and his fingers glanced over bare skin where her shirt had ridden up. He took the invitation and slid his palm over her silken skin to the dip of her spine.
Even though he couldn’t see her, he was aware of her every breath and movement. He’d never been so in tune with a woman both emotionally and physically. She wanted more as much as he did, but what would happen if they were discovered naked in a church cupboard? Would Isabel be run out of Highland by the townspeople with pitchforks?
Noise penetrated the isolation. Her tongue retreated, and his lips stilled. His heartbeat played a pagan rhythm in his ear, but that’s not what had yanked him out of the carnal daze. Muffled male laughter. The clomp of feet. A fist pounded on the door, slicing them apart.
“You in there, Izzy?”
“It’s Preacher Hopkins,” Isabel whispered. “We should…”
He was gratified to hear the hint of reluctance in her voice. Once they were out, what would happen? “Yes, we should.”
She scrambled to her feet, pounded her fist on the door, and called out, “Yes, it’s me! Can you get the door open?”
“Wilt and I should be able to manage,” the preacher called out.
While the men on the other side of the door discussed strategies, distance and dissonance grew between them. He hadn’t felt as close to anyone as he had to Isabel in a long time, but had it only been a side effect of the darkness and confinement like a prisoner confessing all to his captor?
He didn’t try to diffuse the rising tension between them, and for once, Isabel seemed at a loss for words.
Preacher Hopkins called out. “Are you ready to push from your side? We’ve oiled the hinges and levered up the door from the bottom.”
“Allow me.” Alasdair shifted over, bumping Isabel aside, and put his shoulder to the door.
“Ready!” Isabel called.
The men push-pulled on the door. Light blinded Alasdair and he sucked in a lungful of cool air. Two men stood on the other side. One was wiry with a graying Afro; the other was younger with a thick neck and brown hair, his thumbs tucked into a pair of braces.
The older man glanced between Alasdair and Isabel as if there was a game of tennis being played. “Ah, you weren’t alone, Izzy. I’m Elmer Hopkins.”
Alasdair took his hand in a shake, introduced himself, then added, “It was my fault. I let the door close on us, sir.”
“No, I feel responsible.” The preacher clapped a hand on Alasdair’s shoulder. “It’s high time we change this door. Wilt, this door is next on your to-do list.”
“Very good, Preacher.” Wilt snapped his braces then pulled a measuring tape from a pouch in his tool belt. “I’ll give it a measure right now.”
“What time is it?” Isabel asked, still squinting against the light.
“Half past two,” Wilt said.
They’d spent two hours in the closet together. Alasdair shook his head, trying to reconcile time. He’d emerged a changed person. How could that happen in a mere two hours? Days should have passed. Weeks even.
Then again, opinions could change in a second. Decisions debated in mere minutes. Whole new theories formulated in a half hour. Why couldn’t their connection shift in two hours?
Preacher Hopkins helped them load the decorations and tables, all the while regaling them with stories of his afternoon spent visiting parishioners at the nursing home. Even the reverend’s everyday voice held a cajoling, sonorous quality as if prepared to lead sinners back to Christ whether he ran into them at the grocery store or the petrol station.
With the extra set of hands, the truck was loaded with the decorations and tables in no time. The preacher retreated after inviting Alasdair to church. Then, he and Isabel were alone.
Isabel met his eyes over the truck bed for a blink before she looked anywhere but his direction. Was that anger, indifference, or regret radiating from her?
He was coward enough not to ask.