M
ia breezed in for a visit the next afternoon with food. Tasha pushed the comforter all the way off and made a grabby hand motion. Mia dropped the bag of food in her lap and settled on the end of the bed.
Cracking open the brown bag made heaven waft up to her nose. “I love everything about you right now.” Tasha fell on the biscuits, eggs and sausage.
“I couldn’t remember if Baird had anything good in his fridge.”
Tasha said around a mouthful of a buttery biscuit, “Wait. I thought they didn’t have our kind of biscuits here.”
“There’s a place not far from here that serves American food from breakfast to dinner. It’s one of the reasons I’ve managed to stay sane whenever I get hit with a craving for Southern sweet tea.”
“You would find a gem like that.”
“Being a travel podcaster has worked in my favor whenever I get homesick.”
“Thanks, though. All I could find in the fridge after you and Kincaid left were casseroles in the freezer, a loaf of bread, a block of cheese and jam. Emphasis on jam, not jelly.”
Mia kind of hummed as though she wasn’t really hearing. “In the pub, there were two glasses on the table and a bottle of Baird’s best.”
Other than being slightly bleary around the edges, Tasha didn’t have any ill effects from the shots. To be fair, though, she taste-tested alcoholic drinks on a regular basis. She had the tolerance of a sailor on leave.
But that wasn’t her friend’s point. After one night in Scotland, of all places, Tasha had drinks with a suspect Scot. “Grant and I had a nightcap.”
Mia’s brows rose as though the confession was news and not obvious. “And?”
With a flat tone, Tasha said, “We came to an understanding.”
“And?”
She stuffed her mouth with a sausage and that felt fitting. “We want to sex each other, but I won’t give in for...reasons.”
Mia just shook her head. “Next time we need to hire someone not into men.”
Tasha felt foolish about her wayward libido, but Mia hadn’t clutched her pearls or dropped a ton of judgment. “I’ll be fine. The more I get to know the real him, the more turned off I’ll be. He’s cavalier about consequences.”
“He is, but I’m not blind. He’s a hottie.”
“Mia!”
“I’m marrying his brother. I clearly have a type.” She chuckled. “I would say be careful but I already know you will be. You always are.”
Tasha pushed the bag of food away because ghosts of fiancé’s past showed up to boo again. She was careful, maybe too careful, because of John. Or rather the spectacular explosion of that relationship. Enough time had passed she didn’t blame her family.
John was a professor of ethics at the local university. The oldest of three and the favorite. After two years of dating, during an intimate night in, he’d proposed.
When she’d called her mother with the good news her mother, instead of simply saying congratulations, had told Tasha the relationship wouldn’t live out the wedding plans, amongst other things. Unfortunately, most of her family felt the same, and despite tolerating him for her sake, the lowkey animosity became obvious to John.
The closer the wedding date loomed, the more their feelings irked him. What had he done to make them dislike him so much? Why didn’t she defend him more?
In her mother’s opinion, he condescended to her whenever they debated anything from politics to the best movie. He wore tweed. He was a decade older. He was previously married. Her mother was right, in retrospect, but the thing was eventually her family’s sway won out. John and Tasha decided to part ways a month before the wedding.
Okay.
Maybe she was a little bitter, but couldn’t she have made the mistakes on her own? Learned to listen to her gut? What she ended up learning was to measure her steps with so much care.
The highpoint, she had found Mia. Mia was the one person who said: go out into the world and fuck up often.
Tasha sighed “I just…am I too careful?”
“I—” Mia blew out a breath and stopped. “You’re here in Scotland. Your first big trip. Think of it like Vegas. What happens here will stay here. What is it you want to do?”
“I really want to go to a concert. I want to see Inverness. I—”
Mia laughed. “You want to fuck the holy hell out of Grant. He’s a complicated man. One I would never wish on a lover. But, if that’s what you want to do, I’ll be here for you. I’ll even keep Caid in line, because he can go all Papa Bear when he’s in a mood, and Grant puts him in a mood always.”
Relief, anxiety and giddiness turned into a ball in her throat. Tasha had to swallow the sudden rush of complicated emotions. Best friends were fucking awesome. “What I want to do today is try out Kincaid’s brews to see which one we want to showcase first. I hear he’s been stockpiling.”
Her friend blinked. “That’s not what I expected you to say, but we can do that. He has two IPAs he’s been working on that I think are ready. A vanilla lager that has potential, but it’s also an acquired taste.”
“No whiskey?”
“Nothing he would be brave enough to serve to patrons. Definitely not after we did a few tours at some local distilleries.”
“What happened?”
“Scottish whisky, without the ‘e’, is a whole complicated tradition. A lot of the big names started with people brewing on these small, totally suspect contraptions in their kitchens. Now, if you don’t own a whole ass distillery, learned the trade for twenty years, or have casks of booze just as old, you’re not doing it right. After the last tour, he just doesn’t think that’s him. I’m working on that.”
Tasha pulled the food back into her lap. “Imposter syndrome.”
“That is what he’s suffering from, I suspect.”
“Okay. I’ll go the easy route with beer.”
“Ale.”
“Look at you using the lingo.” Tasha paused. “The rest…I’ll think about.”
Mia’s laugh had a bit of cackle to it. “If you think Grant is just going to let whatever between you be, I don’t know what to tell you.”
Tasha would never admit it out loud but her stomach fluttered with excitement.
Fucking fuck.
“Let’s talk about anything else but him.”
Her friend smirked. “We could talk about the weather, but it’s heading into fall and the weather is shit.”
“Then work it is. What have you guys done as far as promo is concerned? Also, you need to update your bookkeeping system. It kept crashing on me. Have you guys considered food? Booze and food goes well together. Have you guys designed your logo yet? I can so help with that.”
Mia fell back on the bed. “No real promo. He’s, we are, still learning the ropes so there’s a lot of catch up going on, but we’re meeting people and they are definitely showing interest. I hate the bookkeeping system. It’s one step away from an abacus, but it’s what the Baird knew, and he’s been such a big help still. We have considered more food options outside quick snacks, but that will mean hiring on someone who can cook. Last but not least, you were the exact person I had in mind for designing the logo.”
“You didn’t miss a damn step.”
“World domination is on my to-do list.”
“How much I’ve missed you is getting downright disgusting at this point.”
“So the same. Come down when you’re ready.” Mia rose from the bed and smirked again. “No need to put on make-up. Grant called Kincaid earlier and told him he wouldn’t show up until tonight.”
All Tasha could do was throw a pillow at her friend’s retreating back. She dressed like it was a day off with a novelty shirt, jeans and Uggs. Down in the pub, they hashed out all the world domination as best as they could. Since she hadn’t needed to do a lot of bookkeeping, it was fairly up-to-date, she’d decided to get a real feel of the pub by tending bar later that night.
When she got ready for that, Tasha didn’t do anything she wouldn’t normally do. It was just the harsh truth a bit of a low-cleavage shirt, a brush or two of make-up paid back in tips.
She was not looking for Grant as she came down the steps to the still empty pub, but there he was, in what she would soon claim as her domain. Jeans, boots, and this time, a short-sleeved shirt. The arm band squeezed his biceps, allowing her gaze to follow the sinew all the way down to the hands that had been on her last night. There was the ginger scruff along his jawline that had made her toes curl.
God. She hated him.
Since he was frowning at the beer selections, she decided to help. It was her job, after all. “We changed out the off-brand cheap ale with one of your brother’s.” She pointed to the middle tap. “This one is his vanilla lager.”
Grant asked, “And if they want the usual?”
“We have those options bottled, but we’re upselling your brother’s tonight. See how it goes.” The look he gave her could singe the cotton off her panties. “What?” she asked.
“A mercenary beast like me. I like it. I’m impressed.”
She told herself the flutter in her stomach was hunger. For food. “Isn’t this one of the more innocent reasons you hired me?”
“Aye, but to see you in action is another thing.” He looked to the doors.
Mia was unlocking them, and the usual Sunday crush poured in. A good half of the patrons headed their way.
Still, he glanced at her, a smile spreading. “Are we on for drinks again after closing?”
“I’m still not kissing you.” Though she really, really wanted to.
“Aye, right. I’ll spend my shift thinking of five other things we can do besides kissing.”
And now, so would Tasha. Yeah. She hated him from the bottom of her vagina.
Grant’s scalp felt stretched from ear to ear from the tension creeping up from the back of his neck. Mia and Kincaid had finished the closing ritual, and for some reason, remained well past clean up. He’d taken his usual table with his laptop to catch up on a proposal’s fallout. Based on the email, Rachelle had faltered once the Q&A had begun. He understood.
Grant and his best friend had been hired around the same time. Marcus had a deadly focus, control, and expected the same for anyone who worked for him. The first time Grant had run a meeting with his friend in the audience, he’d stuttered, blanked completely on answers he knew in his sleep. Took time to get one’s footing, especially when dealing with billion-dollar deals. He’d never taken the immense power he had for granted, but at the moment, he was just a man, waiting to be alone with a woman who’d given him his first wet dream in years.
Kincaid rapped his knuckles against the table to get his attention.
Grant met his brother’s gaze. “Aye?”
“We’re heading out. If my ale sells as well for the rest of the week, we need to get a move on bottling and branding.”
Grant didn’t let the shock show on his face. He’d been at Kincaid for months to not only come up with a name, a logo, but to do a small test run. Even in kegs in cold storage, ale had an expiration date.
Tasha had convinced Kincaid in a night.
His brain latched onto that. Grant wasn’t sure if he was impressed or bitter or both. He’d been at his brother to use Baird’s whisky to get the ball rolling on sales. Whisky needed at least three years to age, and due to Scotland being cold enough to freeze a man’s balls, a solid whisky distillery needed a decade of aged Scotch. The Baird had that and the older man had sold his stock off to them. The stockpile would last them for a long while. His brother and his honor refused the route of using Baird’s whisky as a starting point.
Grant hadn’t considered the way in to motivating his brother were the ales. His brother’s ales.
Of course. Obvious. This was why he should be focusing on Scotland, International. With Marcus gone, all…emotion would be out and doing the work, fulfilling that duty as CFO would be all business. He waited a second for the thrill of that thought to seize him. There was nothing, and that irritated him enough he considered brooding—a horrible pastime if one wanted to be dramatic.
Leaving all emotion out of his voice, Grant asked, “Do you have a firm timeline?”
“No, and there shouldn’t be one. I know you believe in striking while the iron is hot, but what I’m doing—what we’re doing is longterm. We can take our time to do it right.”
Grant clenched his teeth. Did his brother not see the truth when he looked around? Grant hadn’t gone on leave to meander.
His brother didn’t have a head for business, but he had a knack for executing plans. That’s why Grant had thrown money at his brother’s new career path. Money eased the way. The trouble was, Grant hadn’t foreseen emotions as the biggest obstacle to getting things done. His brother’s fear and doubt. Love. His brother loved Mia and that often became the priority.
For the last few months, that meant Kincaid hemmed and hawed on action items like logos and serving his brews in the Barrel, because things like that would cut into the time Kincaid and Mia had for their relationship.
But within two days, Tasha showed up, demanded change, Mia listened, and Kincaid removed his head from his arse. His brother hadn’t budged with the hinting, outright debates or frustrated pleading from Grant. Would wonders never fucking cease?
Grant pushed down the mad. This was what he wanted in the end. Working himself into a temper wasn’t constructive.
Mia moved closer to the door. His brother patted his shoulder as a way of saying goodbye and finally left. Here he’d been waiting impatiently for his brother to leave but now Grant was too annoyed to seduce Tasha.
Like the night before, she placed a glass within reaching distance. “Looks like you need one after talking to Kincaid.”
He frowned at the electric blue liquid. “What is that?”
“Something I’m trying out. Right now I’m amused at the name Tart Ton. It’s blue for the Scotland flag.”
His frown deepened at the cup. “Couldn’t sound less Scottish if you tried.”
She settled in the chair across from him. “I know, but I’m using this angle since almost everyone calls me the new Yank. They’ll tease me but buy it. Try it.”
He took a tentative sniff. The drink smelled of fall, earthy and a little herbal. “Heather?”
She nodded then motioned for him to take a drink. He did. A bite of bitter hit him first and mellowed into a soft sweetness. He could barely taste the alcohol.
Tasha answered before he could ask. “I used a blue raspberry vodka with a hint of heather. Looking at the books, I saw the liquor wasn’t moving very well so I figured it wouldn’t hurt to play with it. We can offer it as a special tomorrow along with Kincaid’s brews.”
“Where did you pick up heather?”
“I took a short tour around the place. Found a bag of it sitting around, and I…borrowed some.”
He took another sip to let the drink roll around his tastebuds and liked it even more. “Call it the Unicorn and I won’t hate the thought of selling it.”
“Why unicorn?”
“It’s our bald eagle.” He picked up the glass for another mouthful.
“Mia’s love of Scotland is all making sense now.”
“But not you?”
She reached forward and took the glass out of his hand. His dick jerked awake as their fingers tangled against each other. “I’ve yet to be impressed,” she said.
That sounded like an invitation. Grant had to steady his breathing to fight against the excitement urging his lungs to tighten. He brought his hands down to his thighs. Like the night before, her gaze followed. Testing something out, he dug his fingers in a little deeper. Her breath caught and she looked away.
His heartbeat sped up. The question he wanted to ask could throw ice on the heat building between them. But he had to ask. Something about the bewitching hours made everything they wanted to do—made the things she wanted him to do to her okay.
“What do you want me to touch today?”
She closed her eyes, her head tilting back as though the words were a physical force pushing her back. When she opened them, she placed the glass on the table and rose.
Tasha was halfway across the pub when she glanced back at him. “Are you coming?”
Had Grant been any other man he would have gotten up so fast his chair would have flipped. “Wait.” He tilted his head taking in her face as she faced him. “Why?”
She smirked. “Here I thought you would jump me the first chance you’d get.”
“I did, too.”
She laughed and pointed at him. “That’s why. Your honesty is kind of charming, and I kind of missed it while you were being a grump.”
“I blame my brother for the last. He’s rubbing off on me.”
“So are we…”
He put his hands on the table, used that as leverage to get out of the seat. She grinned and headed to the stairs. He followed in a steady but sure pace. His heart would pump out of his chest if he moved any faster. Fuck, any slower.
Once in Baird’s flat, he found her in the living room. He tried to tell himself disappointment was useless. If Tasha hadn’t gone into the bedroom, it simply meant she wasn’t ready for sex. His most inner mind whispered, maybe she wasn’t comfortable having sex in Baird’s room.
The important thing was she faced him. He didn’t waste a moment to take up the space between them, and then he closed his hand on her nape and let his fingertips glide down her back. She arched into him, her hands curling into his shirt. Tasha shivered when he worked his way back up. He away enough to see her face. Her eyes were shut, mouth parted.
He drew his thumb over her jawline up to her mouth. The breath from her moan tickled his fingertip. Her tongue flicked out and his knees almost gave in at the punch of lust and heat that slammed into his every bone.
Grant murmured, “If you want—”
“Anything more than this is too much for me at the moment.” Her eyes fluttered open.
“Kissing?”
She bit the side of her lip, but her gaze was bright with a secret smile. “Are you sure you want to? I was promised such…good things.”
Those last two words were practically purred. Definitely a challenge. A fucking turn-on. He was going to kiss her while she came.
He cupped her face. “Let me kiss you, lass.”
She kissed him instead. Tasha had the softest lips he’d ever had the pleasure to touch with his own. Everything in him wanted to take that touch deeper, harder. Grant needed to take the lead because that’s what he always did in every part of his life.
But why, when Tasha knew how to swipe her tongue right along the sensitive edge of his bottom lip? His need was sated simply by the way she grabbed hold of his shirt to pull him in closer, to tilt her chin for better access to his mouth.
It was perfection. Their mouths moved in sync, in such hunger. The heat in his gut built in slow degrees until he was guiding her toward the couch and then tugging her into his lap. She placed her hands on the back of the couch, wiggling to get comfortable on his lap, and never letting her mouth leave his.
Their mouths fell in sync again, once she ground against his cock, pulling apart enough to end the contact and start up again. Each time, there was a slight variation of tongue, teeth or just lips. Each time more arousing than the last.
And it was killing him to keep his hands on the sides of her stomach. His fingers dug into the soft flesh. Fuck.
He broke the kiss long enough to ask, “Where do you need to be touched?”
She took his hand and placed it on her right breast. He spread his fingers to take as much as he could and then tightened the pressure in slow degrees. She moaned in his mouth. He dropped his hands to the hem of her shirt.
Tasha’s breath whooshed out when he let his fingers climb up her torso to her breasts. She scrapped her teeth against his bottom lip when he lifted the bra up. They both seemed to hold their breath as he closed his thumbs and forefingers around her nipples. He plucked them and was rewarded by her rubbing her pussy against him.
“Kiss my neck,” she whispered.
He started at the curve and ended right where her collarbone and the dip in her neck ended. A generous amount of time was spent acquainting his tongue with her skin. It had been a long night in the pub, yet he didn’t mind the hint of salt to her skin that only heightened the taste of something citrusy, musky, and all her.
She didn’t seem to mind it when he tugged her low-cut shirt up to free her breasts. That was the obvious trail to follow after leaving kisses along her neck. Her arching toward his mouth was all the permission he needed.
Grant feasted. Her imperfectly round and stiff nipples looked better wet from his mouth. He didn’t know how long he worshipped the dark tips but when he met Tasha’s gaze, he couldn’t hold back a smile. Lust and need clouded her eyes.
Her tongue flitted over her swollen bottom lip. “I think this is all I can take.”
Disappointment was such a paltry word. So was the phrase sexually frustrated. Grant could feel his heartbeat in the base of his skull and deep in his balls. No cold shower could remedy his ache. Still, he offered gentle, heated kisses as he redressed her. She took every one until she slid from his lap to sit beside him on the couch.
By the time the night’s cold seeped through his jacket— after she pushed him out of Baird’s flat, and so very far from her bed—he’d already planned their next night. Either his fingers or his mouth would be buried in her pussy. He wasn’t too particular about which option. Maybe she knew enough about him to see that wicked promise in his gaze because she pushed him back another step on the stoop so not even their arms could reach.
“Tasha,” he murmured.
She clung to the edge of the door and looked down at her feet. “Have you said anything…”
“Anything to my brother about what we apparently like to do after closing? No, but despite his looks, he’s a smart man.”
Her gaze shot to his. “Are you bragging—”
“Bragging is for people with no self-esteem.”
Her gaze hardened. “I’m—”
“Not a sure thing? I know.” He smiled at the promise of murder in her gaze.
“You’re so sure yourself you’re finishing my sentences.”
“I’ve had to be. You can’t bring up teenagers without a degree of certainty. They can smell blood in the water better than sharks.” He clamped his mouth shut at the widening of her eyes.
She worried her lip, and he could almost feel the way she shifted through every reply. The air laid heavy on his shoulders.
Tasha leaned against the doorjamb and crossed her arms. “The things I could tell you about my adolescence.”
The wind offered a cold stiff breeze, but he only turned his collar up and closed a bit of the distance between them. “Do tell me all of it.”
He meant the words, but he’d never tell her, or anyone, how he craved those kinds of stories. He hadn’t had an adolescence. He had strategic plans. Logan cooked. His brother had a keen aptitude for taste and the patience to watch over slow boiling pots. His sister knew how to host, in retrospect. She could calm tempers and play mediator, something necessary for a household of boys. Elliot had been Elliot. If he’d been home, he would have entertained, distracted and sucked up the spotlight.
And Grant had choreographed it all.
Maybe something else Tasha could see in him because her gaze softened. “Maybe another time. I’m dog tired.”
“I know that feeling. Good night, lass.” He stole the space between them and kissed her forehead. She melted against him for a fraction.
Grant left her there on the stoop and could barely remember how she felt hot and soft against him. His mind was too wrapped up in plans.