G
rant gritted his teeth as Tasha leaned forward to push the tray of pints forward. “Table 6,” she said, with innocence and focus.
He could almost believe it if he couldn’t see the color of her bra—fire-fucking-engine red. The smirk that crept out when he finally fixed his gaze back on hers after a peek only proved she was fucking with him.
Many things could be said, would be said, once he and Tasha had a moment alone. All he could think was he, Grant Alexander Cameron, was felled by a low-cut dress.
Who wore one in the middle of a Scottish fall? Without tights? Her vulnerable bits had to have icicles as she trudged her way from her B&B. Aye, she wore sturdy boots for the ugly weather, but after an hour of seeing down her dress, that’s all he could picture her in. He could practically feel the thick soles digging into the meat just below his arse with her thighs wrapped tight around his hips.
He could ignore the temptation. No. He could survive the torment for a night, but then the Baird showed his face. He shooed her away from behind the counter, leaving Tasha to wait tables along with him. In that dress, so unequipped for fall, baring her thighs and fluttering at the slightest turn. No matter what order he delivered or glasses he picked up his eyes drew to the rustle of her skirt.
What made it worse—no, better—were the moments Tasha caught him watching. Her smile started in the corners of her mouth and unfurled over her face until her eyes crinkled. Even her shoulders, her chin lifted with the knowing grin.
He might have done something entirely daft after three hours of that smile, but a big, rough hand closed on his nape.
His brother leaned into him, his voice a gravely threat. “We need to talk.”
Kincaid didn’t lessen his grip by the time they were alone in the back hallway. Grant could believe his brother had killed men with his bare hands from the way his jaw clenched. With a push, Kincaid put distance between them.
Grant faced his brother. “Aye?”
“Cheeky bastard. You know why we’re back here. What’s going on with you and Tasha?”
“Not enough.”
His brother scrubbed a hand over his face. “She’s Mia’s friend…” He huffed out his frustration. “A bloody good manager.”
Grant knew what his brother was getting at but he was a cheeky bastard. “You’re welcome?”
“With the showcase—”
“Two weeks away,” Grant finished. “Whatever is going on between Tasha and I won’t stand in the way of the brewery.”
“Like with Davina?”
That hit landed. Grant pursed his lips then blew out a breath. “Different circumstances.”
“Bollocks.”
“Do you have any complaints about the lass? Is she late for work? Is her accounting off? Has she not wooed the Baird in a night?” He paused then ventured to say, “Isn’t your lass more…relaxed?”
“Are you trying to take credit?”
“I did hire her, and your life is better because of that decision.”
His brother brows furrowed. Brimstone would follow.
Grant reached forward to pick invisible lint from Kincaid’s shoulder then patted him. “Aye, right.”
Kincaid scrubbed a hand down his face. The laugh started low, more of a huff then he shook his head, lines bracketing his mouth. “Ma and Da could have stopped at me. They could have, but no.” His brother rapped him on the forehead with the heel of his palm. “Don’t fuck this up. Mia looks sweet but she’ll rip out your throat. And Tasha…I like her. And she’s…” His brother frowned. “She gives off this…aura that she’s strong as fuck and she is, but I don’t know. It feels like armor. All your soft bits are under armor. So don’t fuck it up.”
His brother knocked him on his forehead again with the heel of his hand then left. Grant took a step to follow and stopped.
What was he doing with Tasha? He knew what he physically wanted to do. His mind offered up so many positions they could run through before succumbing to exhaustion. But they hadn’t been solely focused on sex. Bugger it all.
This is why he hated conversations with his brother sometimes. Everything had weight and was dire. To be fair, his brother had to place the world on his shoulders at a young age. Their parents were not reliable. Family changed people at their very core. His made him a CFO who would actually take leave to help his family. Even when—especially when—he knew emotions were inconvenient as fuck.
How had family changed Tasha?
That thought flitted through his head and made it all worse. Was family why she was wary? Were they the reason she’d jump at something impulsive and then spun in indecision? Grant didn’t know, but now he needed to.
And that led him to think of all the other things he hadn’t bothered to ask about her. Things she hadn’t offered either as though keeping those details to herself would…would act as armor. And that meant Tasha wasn’t running from sex, alone.
He ran a frustrated hand through his hair. This affair, this need to have her was getting complicated. With that weighing on his mind, he strolled back into the main area of the pub. Tasha chatted with a table of patrons, her empty serving tray tucked at her side. It hit him then—the only times he’d seen her truly carefree were with Mia or with patrons.
A motion to his left caught Grant’s eye. Baird waved him over.
“Laddie.” The single word cut through the noise of the pub.
“Aye?”
“The first thing you do after a chinwag with your brother is look for her.” The Baird let that settle between them. “Do we need to talk about the birds and bees?”
He had suffered through that conversation at eleven with Kincaid. “Absolutely not.”
“Braw. Now try to drool over her less the rest of the night. It’s getting painful to watch from here.”
Grant hadn’t cared if his watching her had been obvious. He couldn’t look away if he tried. Maybe he should have. “You called me over here to abuse my ego?”
“Someone had to. You’re getting too cocky with the lassie, no pun intended.”
Never in a million years could he imagine his father pulling him aside to have this conversation. Then again, his dad would have to be here. He pushed that away, ignoring the old, dusty pang of hurt. “Believe me, she doesn’t let my head get too big.”
“That’s why I like her.” The squeeze turned into a death grip and the Baird leaned in. “Don’t fuck it up like you did with Davina.”
Grant was pretty sure his bones creaked when the Baird finally let him go. Something that vaguely resembled regret speared into him, making his chest tight. The Baird had been there all his adult life, ever since he became friends with Marcus.
The Baird had been the gregarious uncle of a friend who owned a pub they could lounge at whenever in Glasgow. Yet when Marcus had needed help, advice on love (and refused to ask for it), Grant had gone to him. When his brother had needed something almost like a purpose, he’d turned to the Baird again. The Baird had then entrusted them to carry on his legacy.
And Grant had done something to hurt the man. He squeezed his nape, not quite meeting the Baird’s eyes. “I—”
“Don’t bother. I couldn’t talk her into coming back all these months later, so it’s done.”
With a heaviness he couldn’t shake, Grant went back on the floor and worked. And he tried to ignore Tasha, but the flutter of her skirt kept catching his attention.
The crate of clean pint glasses softly clattered as Tasha’s steps faltered. Grant had taken a seat at his favorite table. His expression was formidable.
Usually his brows were knit in concentration, and he looked Grant CFO-relaxed, which she could see as intimidating if he ever ditched the beanie. This dark expression made her think someone had just sent an email confession to losing a few hundred million, and instead of replying, he was booking a flight so he could bite their head off in person.
She doubted that was the case despite the fact he never looked excited or happy when he worked on his laptop for CFO stuff. His vibe had been off ever since Kincaid had marched him to the back of the pub for a chat. His mood wasn’t her problem. It wasn’t, but she’d worn a dress. She’d might as well have worn a sign that said, “Fuck me.” He’d taken the bait of easy access with relish and watched her with a heated, hungry gaze.
But now this…
She slung the crate under the counter, straightened to frown at him for a second and then turned her attention to the array of alcohol. His mood wasn’t her problem, but she wanted to flirt with a charming, Scottish bastard, not a broody one. She knew just the way to coax him out of his dark mood.
A few minutes later, she carried the drink over to him. He didn’t stop glaring at his computer screen, so she hopped up on the table, crossed her legs, and waited for his gaze to slide over to her.
His irises darkened to a money green shade as his head tilted her in direction. “Cinnamon?”
That reaction wasn’t good enough. She leaned back on one palm. A second passed and his gaze shifted to her bared legs. How was it possible to feel the heat of someone’s stare? How could someone’s stare create a tingle on one’s skin? He was absolutely dangerous, and for once she was running toward the peril.
His nostrils flared, and less than a second after that, he met her eye. Tasha sipped the drink, mostly to combat the grin that wanted to spread.
“I’m thinking of calling it the American,” she said. “There’s bourbon, cinnamon and just a hint of sweet apple liqueur.”
He reached out for the glass. “Call it the Yank.” Grant sniffed then took a tentative sip. He made an eh face. “Reminds me of apple pie.”
“Exactly.”
“Apple pie is too sweet. Change it to sour apple, and you might have something. Otherwise, you can mix Irn-Bru and gin and call it the Original Highlander.”
“Iron Brew?”
Finally, Grant smiled. “That sounds like you never had it. We need to remedy that.”
“Why?” she asked, wary.
“It’s like going to America and never having a Coca-Cola.”
“Then I guess I will have to try it. Can’t go home from Scotland without partaking in the national drink.”
“Incorrect. Whisky is our national drink. Irn-Bru is just a close second.”
She had to laugh at the matter-of-fact way he’d said that. He looked away. She was literally putting her pussy on the table, and he was acting gun-shy. Something had happened— she didn’t know what—but she hated it. She wanted flirtatious and charming and doing his best to climb into her panties Grant.
She sighed. “Okay. What is bothering you?”
His brows lifted. “Are you worried about me?”
“At this point, yes, to my utter annoyance.”
He settled back in his chair then blew out a breath, sounding frustrated. “I’ve disappointed the Baird, and I don’t like the way that feels. It’s distracting.”
It took her a minute to put two and two together. “He knows about Davina?”
“He’s known. I shouldn’t be surprised. He would have hunted her down to find out why she quit.”
“And he didn’t say anything to you until tonight?”
“Aye.”
“Why?”
Some dark emotion flickered in his gaze. He managed to keep it out of his tone. “Aren’t you so full of questions?”
She took another sip of the drink, trying to read between the lines of everything he’d said. The obvious was that he didn’t want to answer why the talk with the Baird troubled him. Again, it was only her problem because she was sitting on a table within grabbing distance and Grant was keeping his hands to himself.
If he no longer wanted to ravish her on sight—No, he still wanted to. That was obvious in the way his gaze had eaten up every inch of bared skin tonight.
But if he stopped acting on that urge, wouldn’t that quell her complicated feelings of wanting him to jump her bones?
Tasha almost slid from the table. Get out now while you can kind of thing. But she wanted him. That…that emotion was so pure, if not simple. When was the last time she wanted anything just for her?
There wasn’t an end goal at all. She hadn’t even gotten engaged without reasons bolstering her decision. She’d done it because she was in love and the man she loved loved her right back. She was at a good age. Her career was somewhat stable. Marriage was something to check off her I’m-being-an-adult list. He was a catch, or so she thought.
She wanted Grant.
That was it. Wanting him was complicated, foolhardy, and likely, a bad idea. She still wanted him. There was something almost freeing in accepting that truth. So he really needed to get over whatever emotional turmoil keeping them from fucking.
She offered him the drink. He waved it away. She put the glass aside, since it had done the job of getting him to pay attention to her.
“We can do the next part the easy way or the hard way,” she said.
He narrowed his gaze. “Hard way.”
She almost kissed him for that. He didn’t choose easy, all the time. He chose hard because it was likely to be the more interesting option. He did what he wanted. It should have been selfish and a turn off, but he so often did things because he loved his family. “Are you not used to the Baird being disappointed in you?”
He put a hand to his chest like the words had sucker punched him. “Fuck that. Easy way.”
“Too late now,” she said on a laugh. “Answer the question. Once you’ve unpacked why his disappointment is distracting, it will stop being a distraction.”
“I know why, lass.” He sounded tired and she hated that. “But you want to know.”
“A little, if I’m being honest.”
“How about a question for a question? If you don’t answer, neither will I.” He offered his hand for the deal.
She should have seen that coming. Still, she took his hand. His palm was warm, rough and big. She dropped it before she directed the appendage up her dress. “Your answer?”
“I am used to parental apathy. I’m alive, in good health, and need for nothing. I’m lucky if I get a text or a call within six months of time.”
“I can’t imagine that. Had I not answered my mother’s phone call, after forgetting to let her know I had arrived here, my mother would have likely called Scotland Yard, reported me missing, and taken the next flight to Glasgow.”
“Sounds like you have a good mum.”
And he hadn’t. She never knew what to say in moments like this. Should she apologize? What was the right way to say that fucking sucks? “I wish you’d had the same, Grant.”
“Sometimes I do, too.”
She swallowed down a lump of…gah. She didn’t know. Emotions. Pain for him. “So the Baird, I’m guessing, if he had simple concerns that would also distract you?”
“Less so but aye.”
Given the conversations she had with Mia over the past few months, and now this one, Tasha knew his parents’s lackadaisical…everything was a problem. She couldn’t even recall if Grant’s parents had talked to Mia yet, and that included a phone conversation. She considered that then Grant. “Do you want the Baird to stop caring about you?”
“Not necessarily.”
“And that’s what’s bothering you?”
He shook his head. “How to navigate the relationship is bothering me. I haven’t wronged him, exactly, but I think he expected better of me. I want to be better so he never looks at me like that again. I’ll figure it out. The solution is likely a simple one, but until then…” Some of the somberness fell away when his mouth quirked into a smile. “I now have three questions banked.”
She should have known he would consider those separate, new questions instead of clarifying inquiries. The man was slippery and complicated and kind and...Oh, hell. She should have left well enough alone, but she hadn’t.
“Ask away,” she said, in defeat.
He leaned forward on the table, his forearm brushing her leg. She had to force herself to breathe evenly. His smile turned up a wattage, probably because he knew how his touch affected her.
“Tell me about your parents.”
An open-ended question that could so easily dig up a lot of information. Of course. “I would ask what evil ways of interrogation they teach at CFO school but that would give you four questions.”
The smile that split over his face broke her heart a little at how open and fun it was. It was a relief to see after the deep and complicated answers to the questions she’d asked.
“There is no such thing as CFO school. You learn all the evilness on the job. Now answer.”
“My dad is like most dads who have been married to the same woman for many years—he keeps his head down and goes with whatever my mother says, occasionally putting his foot down to remind everyone he exists. I love him. He’s so solid, funny and kind.”
“Not much said about your mother in that little speech.”
He didn’t frame it as a question which gave him two more. She had to learn that trick. “She’s very straightforward. She worries, a lot. She’s always fucking right. I love her.”
Grant’s gaze narrowed, and it was too late for Tasha to take back her words. Dammit. She added more in hopes the information would distract him, “I have two siblings—Lashawn and Augustus—Don’t ask about that name. I’m somewhere in the middle. Loads of aunts, uncles and cousins. My grandparents passed away when I was a kid, so I never had that, and I wish I had.”
“Me, too. On the last front. My parents were only children, which probably explains why their attention wandered after their first few kids.”
Her heart twinged. “Would things have been easier if you had grandparents while raising your siblings?”
“It’s what I always imagined on the hard days.”
She balled her hands into fists to keep from cupping his jaw. Why did he just rip off the scabs of his wounds so easily? Most people needed therapists to browbeat them for a few months or years to talk about things like this. He just said it, to people he practically just met.
She dropped her gaze from his. “Next question, while I’m in a good mood about you.”
“Do you paint?”
Tasha’s head popped up and she stared at him, surprised. “Not anymore. How often were you eavesdropping on conversations with Mia and me? She couldn’t have told you that about me.”
“You underestimate how much she’s missed you. She talked about you often, about you being an artist. But to answer your question, every single time I was in earshot.”
She wasn’t sure if she believed him, and she didn’t want to touch the implications if he was telling the truth. If he heard just three conversations then he knew a lot about her monotonous lump of a life. He’d know tons about her relationship with Mia. “Next question.”
“Why not? As in why don’t you paint anymore?”
See. This is what she got for trying to help a man sort through his emotions. When would she learn to leave that shit up to therapists? “I lost the passion for it.”
“You might as well tell me the full story because I have a question left, and it’s going to be a follow-up.”
“You’ve asked three.”
“But you asked one more in the middle of my turn.”
She thought back and, ugh, she had. “The long story is I had a fiancé.” She waited a moment to see if he’d react to that but nothing. She knew for a fact John hadn’t come up during her and Mia’s conversations the last few months. So this…his reaction to a bombshell meant bombshells didn’t shake him. He rolled with them. Any other time, she’d be impressed, maybe even turned on he was unshakeable.
“Love inspires you creatively and blah, blah,” she said. “When the relationship ended, so did my interest in painting. Looking back, I can see I kept doing…old school painting because he respected that medium more. He didn’t think digital painting was real. Definitely didn’t respect digital graphic artists—too commercial.”
“You don’t sound like you miss it.”
“Sometimes I do. There is nothing like holding a paint brush or the smell of paint. It’s such a tactile ritual, but the drive isn’t there anymore. Him aside, I think that’s something we never really talk about as adults. You can love something deeply when you’re younger. It can be the only thing you see yourself doing for the rest of your life. There can be a fire in the pit of your gut because how much you love that one thing and want to do it. And over time, that drive, that love… can just go poof.”
He leaned back, his gaze intent. She couldn’t describe his expression but he so looked like she’d sucker punched him. He swallowed before he asked, “Then what do you do?”
She wished she had a better answer. “Find the next thing that puts a fire in you.”
He scratched at his jawline and nodded. “And have you found the next thing?”
She had to laugh. “No. So maybe I’m not a good example.”
“Aye. Maybe. I think you have a passion for mixing brews. A passion for the people—strangers who come through that door. It’s not lofty and ephemeral like being a painter.”
“Maybe.” She fiddled with the hem of her skirt as his words settled on her. “You think that’s just as important, Mr. CFO? For the record, not one of my questions. Just an aside.”
“I can’t do what I do without people like you.”
“That…That’s going over my head. Explain.”
“There hasn’t been a single business that I’ve bought or sold that didn’t have some sappy origin story.”
Despite his words, he didn’t say it with a sneer. “Give me an example.”
“About a year ago, there was a company that a big corp wanted to buy outright. Smallish town where it was located but this corp, a grocery chain, couldn’t sell a biscuit with this bakery. Not in this town.”
“Please tell me now this story has a happily ever after.”
His mouth quirked up. “The story was this man had a wife he really loved. She’d bake for him, all the time. She always dreamed of owning a bakery. She died.”
“No.”
His gaze softened. “To feel close to her, he would use her recipe journal. He became pretty good. He opened up a bakery.”
“Okay. I absolutely need to know this ends in a happily ever after.”
Grant went on, “We sent so many people to convince him to sell. Every time, he would say fuck off. Those exact words. And what could we do? I’d seen the numbers. His business was pretty solid.”
“You know, telling me you went all soulless corporation will make me not want to hump you.”
He grinned. “So we came up with a solution. We’d give him an obscene amount of money, and he’d sell his bakery goods in that local chain. In the end, the bestseller was the cake she’d make them every anniversary. It’s sold in every chain the month of.”
OMG. She was slayed. “The month of their anniversary?”
“Aye.”
She squinted at him. “You used a royal ‘we’ and ‘they’ that whole time. I’m guessing you helped make this happen.”
“Is that a question?”
That was as good as any confirmation. “No. I still have two questions.”
“You do.”
She searched his face for the turmoil from earlier. It was gone, but he didn’t look like the seemingly uncomplicated man he usually was. She couldn’t unsee him as that man, anyway. That was good enough.
She shifted and put her weight on her palm to recline a little on the table. “Do you like my dress?”
He absently licked his top lip and then bit his lower lip. She knew that tell with every cell in her body. Tasha picked up the edge of her dress near her thigh and let it flutter back down.
Grant pushed his chair back. Confused, she frowned until he dragged her in front of him. “That answer your question?” he asked.
“I didn’t know we were accepting non-verbal replies.”
Wood scraped along the floor as he pushed his chair forward, nestling between her legs. “I really like your dress. It’s bonnie.”
His hands were warm and rough as they slid up her outer thigh.
She wanted to purr like a cat being petted. “Do you want me to take off my underwear?”
He flipped back the skirt of the dress. His gaze trailed down to her panties. His fingers flexed then dug into her ass. “Lift up.”
His focus remained on her pussy as he helped her pull off her panties. Every inch of her felt hot, achy and yet vulnerable. Could he be considered a gentleman because he discreetly pocketed her undies? Maybe not, especially when there was nothing gentle about the way he gripped her thighs and spread her wider.
Finally, he looked up. Intent was the watch word again. His gaze wouldn’t miss a damn thing. There was no point to hide how much she wanted him to lower his mouth. Her hips arched up almost on their own accord.
“Is it my turn, lass?”
She had no idea what he meant, but the answer any way was clear. “Yes.”
“Do you want me to—”
“Yes.”
His eyes lit. “To read you a Shakespearean soliloquy?”
The tease was so unexpected, she laughed. “I almost want to dare you to quote him at this very moment.”
“’Graze on my lips, and if those hills be dry, stray lower…’”
And he did stray lower with a lick of her slit, mapping her pussy with his tongue. Her toes curled, and she managed to keep back a moan—until he sucked her clit into his mouth. She would have employed some quote that was very vague at the moment about dying in a lap, but his fingers dug into her thighs deep enough to hold her still.
Pleasure took over, rippling through her. She speared her fingers into his hair. He grunted, and the deep sound was nothing but approval.
His tongue rubbed slow and deep along her clit, so…intent she could damn near feel every drop of blood rushing to her pussy. He had to have noticed the swelling because slow and soft exploration turned into fast and hard flicks of his tongue. The urge to both push him away and tug him closer built.
When had her legs started to tremble? And god. She wanted to moan long and loud, but there was enough awareness in her mind left to remember only a floor of stairs separated them from the Baird. Grant didn’t seem to mind because he hummed every time she squirmed against his mouth. She could almost understand his thoughtless impulse. She had never felt so slippery against someone’s tongue. That knowledge turned her on, and all she could do was grind into his face and let him enjoy her.
When he relentlessly began to circle her clit in hard strokes, she had to pant to keep from screaming. It was an assault on her body she welcomed. And god, so intimate. The stubble of his five o’clock shadow was the best friction against her inner thighs. His face, his mouth, his tongue were not only pressed against her most vulnerable parts but would be stained with the scent and taste of her.
That thought slammed through her, and she rode that hard pleasure until she couldn’t contain the sobbing moan. The very sound, unbidden and thoughtless to their situation, seemed to break her into a million pieces.
A rippling tension and heat gripped her every limb, leaving her battered. No surprise an orgasm followed. She held onto his head with both hands, his strands clutched between her fingers, and he let out a long, satisfying groan. Could he taste a difference in her come, or was he just turned on? Oh, gawd. It was too much.
Grant gently ran two fingers over her pussy folds. Took her a moment to realize he was wetting the tips with her arousal and not just letting her come down. Her next breath, he teased her entrance with those same fingers. Entered her. Found a spot inside that made her toes curl from him just brushing his fingertips against it. He put his mouth back on her clit, and that’s really all she could process for a little while.