Chapter Thirty-Five
Rory
‘Down south,’ she repeats, doing a fair impression of a small, blonde, blinking owl.
God, those eyes. Almost lapis when glazed with passion and green-blue the rest of the time.
Her gaze is steady, like she knows what I’m thinking. I wish she could, then there’d be no need for this conversation. ‘Aye, where I live. Mostly.’
‘Oh.’ Short and high, her reply resembles a hoot. ‘I assumed you lived in Scotland, given your accent and all.’
‘AndI’dassumed you weren’t from around these parts at all until you put me right.’Away an’ boil ye’ heid she’d said in a pretty convincing accent.I lean my elbow on the table, my other hand still holding my fork... which I seem to be using like a conductor’s baton. ‘So what does that tell you?’
‘Honestly? I’ve no idea.’
I laugh then. Heartily. If nothing else, this girl makes me laugh. She also sucks cock like a champ.
‘It tells me we’re both hiding things.’Oh, fuck, that’s not good, I think, watching as the colour almost bleeds from her cheeks. ‘Don’t stress it. I’ll go first.’
‘With what?’
‘The first item on the agenda.’ I wave over the waitress and ask her to take away the plates when it becomes clear Fin won’t be eating any more than the few mouthfuls she’s managed so far. ‘I wish it was a wee bit later in the day. I could’ve taken you to the pub.’
‘That sounds ominous.’
‘Believe me, alcohol might’ve helped. Pay attention,’ I say, with gravitas. And then a laugh. ‘What I’m about to tell you sounds like it was lifted from a gothic novel.’
‘Cool, a story. Should I get comfortable?’ she asks, though she’s clearly at a loss.
‘Absolutely,’ I say, patting my knees. She frowns, so inhaling deeply, I begin. ‘So, me. I have the accent, but I didn’t grow up in Scotland, unless you count boarding school, and while I’m definitely a Scot, London is my home.’
‘That’s not so scary, though I’m surprised you haven’t had your passport revoked.’
‘Surprised?’
‘Well, your accent is certainly a little finer, even if you can lay it on.’
‘You’re angling for a skelped arse,’ I say all gravelly, though it’s not a tone I use for effect, but rather because the image of her hand-warmed arse flashed into my head. ‘When I’m angry, or excited, it just shows a little more.’And skelping her arse definitely left me excited.‘But you’d know that, yeah?’ I add, using the same tone, throwing in aknicker dropping smirkfor good measure. I let my gaze slide over her body before starting again. Not that I particularly want to, but I sense the only way to get her to trust me is to be honest with her myself.
‘That aside, you could say my roots are here in this very village. More specifically, over at the big house, as you call it.’ I curl my fingers against the urge to smooth the crease from her brow.‘It was sold just recently. I don’t know if you’re aware. It took an age to go through probate after the owner died and left it to a charity.’
‘I’d heard,’ she replies softly.
‘The thing you won’t have heard, in fact, the thing that almost no one knows is, the dead guy? He was my dear old dad, or as I like to call him, the sperm donor.’
‘Oh, that’s... wow.’
Shooting her a tight smile—the best I can manage while speaking about the monumental prick—I carry on. ‘Yep. We used to come here for our summer holidays. Mum, me and Kit. We stayed at the cottage, you know, the cottage from our first night?’Fuck me, blushing looks good on her.‘Funnily enough, the auld bastard left usthathouse in his will.’
I sniff, turning my gaze to the café window. We weren’t worthy of the Tremaine House, just the cottage it seems, for his bastard sons.His only sons.Hidden away from the rest of his life until he saw fit.Fuck that. By the time he’d wanted us, neither Kit nor I were the least bit interested.
I realise, at that point, that I’m chewing the inside of my lip.
‘We used to visit him, but no one ever mentioned who he was. Just a family friend we were told. Then, his wife died—she was disabled and had been for a long time. They never had children. Kit and I were accidents and our mother, his slip from married grace.’The sanctimonious shit.I can’t help my bitter tone; I thought I’d be fine—be able to wing it, though it now seems not. The whole situation is fucked up and something I’d prefer no one else to know, but I have to do this. I have to get her to open up. ‘So, after his wife’s death, he decided he could make room for us, presumably no longer weighed down by guilt. Kit and I were about twenty-three and not the least bit interested. It was too little too late and we told him so.’ The last time we came up for a holiday we basically told him to get fucked.
Stunned. She looks fucking stunned.Christ, why did I let my mouth run off so much? I should’ve stuck to the bare facts.I’m so fucking stressed, it takes me a moment to realise she’s reaching across the table for my hand.
‘Oh my. That’s just... terrible. What about your mom? How did she feel?’
