‘And the cottage name was on the fence post—and the key was exactly where the letting agent said it would be. And I also recognise the interior as the place I booked!’I think. Maybe?‘This is definitely the right place.’ It has to be.
‘Think what you like and say what you like, but this is my house.’ His accent renders the wordhoose, his tone firm. ‘And I haven’t rented it out.’
‘Okay, fine. Prove it,’ I retort.
‘I don’t need to.’
‘Maybe because you can’t?’
‘See this food,’ he says, turning to the produce littering the benchtop, gourmet and otherwise. ‘I brought this with me earlier today. See that throw on the arm of the couch? Mine.’
‘You have exquisite taste.’ It’s definitely cashmere; I brushed my hand against it as I passed.
‘Aye, well, that’s the decorator’s taste you commend. The rest I did myself. But the whisky you hold in your hand? The glass? All mine.’
I attempt another sip of my drink at his reminder, my second attempt going down much more smoothly than the first. ‘Okay, well, if I’m wrong, I’m wrong.’ Even though I know I’m not. ‘It should be easy enough to confirm, just let me see your driver’s license or a utility bill.’
‘Not that I have to show you—’
‘Oh, you do,’ I answer sweetly. Sweet with a sting in its tail. ‘That is, if you want me to leave.’
‘—but I can’t.’ My responding expression is a might smug. ‘This is the first time I’ve stayed here. I don’t have anything official with me, nothing with the address, anyway. Not that it matters, because this place? It’s been in my family for generations.’
‘What a pity you don’t havegenerationsof proof.’
‘Ocht, it’s been abandoned since the sixties, so of course, I don’t have any proof. I mean, I do. There are plenty in the village who know me. The solicitor has paperwork and stuff.’
I don’t reply but for the sceptical rise of one brow. Taking another sip of the burning liquid, I relish in the heat it sends to my extremities this time.
‘Fine. Where do you keep your coffee mugs?’
‘I don’t drink coffee,’ he answers instantly.
‘Then why is there a bag of beans behind you?’ His expression hardens, but it doesn’t deter me. ‘Come on, where do you keep your drinking receptacles?’
‘What for?’Whit fir?‘You have a glass already.’
‘I just want to know where you keep them. That is, unlessyoudon’t know.’ As his mouth becomes little more than a thin line, a bark of laughter breaks free from my chest. ‘Ha! I knew it. You don’t know where they are, do you?’
‘It doesn’t mean anything,’ he mutters.
‘No, nothing at all. Except what kind of person doesn’t know where they keep their cups and mugs, for God’s sake!’
‘There’s nothing for it. We’ll have to wait until the mornin’ to sort this out. If you behave yourself, I might let you stay.’
‘I think you mean ifyoubehave yourself, I might letyoustay. And just so we’re clear, I’m not sleeping with you, escort or not.’
‘Not,’ he retorts resolutely. ‘And I did’nae remember inviting you to. That’s my bed that you almost dragged me out of earlier by the dick.’
‘Ha. You’d be so lucky,’ I retort.
‘Lucky? Try confused. I might’ve been dragged into bed by it a few times, but never out of it.’
I ignore his smirk and his dimple and the strange, squirmy feelings washing through me right now. It must be the whisky because this isn’t any kind of attraction I’ve experienced before. I don’t like men who annoy me.
Do I?
‘You can take the sofa,’ I reply airily.
