Mason and Ross aren’t the sort to talk feelings. That isn’t our way. So now it’s just Stuart. Kind, loyal Stuart, who’s been my best friend my whole goddamn life.
But even he doesn’t understand. It isn’t that I don’t want to talk about it, or that I don’t need to talk about it.
There is simply nothing to talk about.
What happened, happened. End of story.
Time to move on. Make a plan. Sell the parts of the farm that aren’t working. Revitalise the parts that are. More work, more graft. Tear it down and build it up. Da’s pride and joy, until it wasn’t. Until it became the thing he hated. But that doesn’t matter. The feelings don’t matter. The farm is the lynchpin of our lives, the land the living, breathing foundation of them. Home of my ancestors, home to every good memory I have.
I’ll do the walk and be back in time for the wedding.
The farm will survive. I’ll make sure of that.
No matter what it takes.
I come back to myself. The day is getting on. Water drips off me, so I towel myself down. The soft cloth feels good about my cock, and I think about the curve of Rowan’s arse as she walked along in front of me yesterday. The wet puddle that rendered those tight shorts see-through. Her tiny thong.
I groan.
I let myself imagine for a moment, what I’d do to her if I had her. Dig my hands into the soft skin of her hips. Press her against a tree and spread her legs with my own. Dip my fingers down the front of those skimpy shorts and pull her excuse for panties aside. Nip at her neck.
The towel drops from my distracted grasp.
There’s a sound behind me. I spin around, realising that I’m not alone.
Fucking Rowan is fucking watching me from the bushes. Her pale face flaming. Her pretty mouth open.
And I’m stark bollocking naked on the banks of the loch.
Well, fuck.
Chapter Eight
Rowan
Penis.
I can’t get the word – or the sight – out of my mind. I’ve seen Angus’ penis, and what a penis it is. Perfectly formed, oh-so-touchable and, despite what I imagined is icily cold water, utterly hard. Angus, it turns out, is as well-endowed as I would have imagined him to be – had I been allowing myself to imagine such a thing. Which I have not.
Until suddenly, there it was, in the naked, and very real, flesh, right before my eyes.
I hadn’t counted on stumbling across a buck-naked man well before eight o’clock, let alone it be him – but I really, really hadn’t expected said naked man to have an erection.
No, this isn’t something that happens to me, not even in my wildest dreams.
I picture Marnie’s reaction.He what?she’ll ask, wide-eyed, leaning forward to rest her elbows on her knees, practically slavering at the juiciness of the gossip.Starkers? Completely starkers?And then, inevitably:What about his arse? He sounds like the kind of guy who has a good arse.
Angus, I will have to admit, even though it goes against everything inside me, does not have a good arse. He has a greatone. The kind of arse one might describe as statuesque: perky and pert and hard as marble. The kind of arse that should be displayed on a plinth in the British museum, with an inscription such as:Scottish hiker’s buttocks, perfectly preserved. Note the gentle curve of the derriere and the set of dimples at its apex. Truly a specimen for the ages.
But no, I’m not going to tell Marnie. I’m not going to tell anyone. I am going to bury the memory of Angus’s arse, and, more importantly, his hard, rigid, lickable cock, somewhere deep, deep down inside from which it can never again be recalled.
Certainly not at night when I’m trying to sleep. Certainly not in my next hot shower.
“Excuse me? Do you think you could lend me a hand?”
I stop, trying to find the source of the voice, but there is seemingly no one around.
“Hello?”
