‘You did this yourself?’ It’s small and stylish. Functional and very bijou. The perfect lover’s retreat.
‘Aye, most of it. I had help with the roof, and I had a company install the heating, but the rewiring, the plastering, and the bathrooms and kitchen? That was all me.’
‘You’re a man of many talents,’ I say, raising my bottle to him in a toast.
‘Many, many talents, and you’ve only just touched the surface.’ He dashes the glass neck to mine, a certain gleam in his eye. ‘Still, this place kept me occupied.’
‘Because full-time work and running your business isn’t enough?’
He inhales as though to speak but then takes a sip of his wine instead.
‘Not that I know anything about house building, but you’ve done a fabulous job,’ I say, filling the gap in the conversation. ‘I’ve no doubt you’ll have people queuing up to stay for romantic weekends.’
‘Romance.’ He gives a chagrined huff. ‘Is that why you booked a place up here to stay?’
‘Yes, that’s why I booked to stayhere.’ For the first time, there’s a touch of hesitancy in my tone. Maybe it’s because I don’t want him to be wrong, especially about me.About my luck in the bedroom.Maybe I don’t want to believe today was a onetime thing. ‘I flew up to Inverness, then battled the extremes of weather to get here.’
‘For romance?’
‘For my friend’s wedding.’
‘Yes, but you booked the cottage for a romantic interlude.’
‘What can I say? I had high hopes. High hopes dashed again.’
‘I’m not complaining. Even if I had it in mind to be alone before you turned up on my doorstep yesterday, or rather my bedroom.’ I wonder if he’s always this unguarded as my heart does a little dance and I try to hide my smile by modifying it to fit around the bottle mouth. ‘And I never said I saw this place as romantic unless you’re into sheep.’
‘Scotland, where the men are men and the sheep are scared?’
‘That’s a terrible joke,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘A terrible, terrible joke.’
‘Sheep don’t do it for you, then.’
‘Girls with legs like sticks of strawberry liquorice are more my thing.’ This doesn’t make much sense until I remember my neon pink base layers.
‘What about you and your love life? Why are you here all alone?’
‘Ah, that’s a bit of a long story. One that ends in the same way as about forty percent of marriages in the UK.’
‘Divorced?’
‘Aye, about three or four years ago.’ He lifts his bottle again. ‘We share a last name now but that’s about it.’
‘Wow. But you date, right?’
‘I’m a bit long in the tooth for that, even if I was told a few months ago I’m the same age as Bradley Cooper.’ His gaze takes a faraway look. I can’t say I like it even as I make a mental note to check how old he is once I have access to the internet.
‘Bradley Cooper’s hot.’ That brings his gaze back, accompanied by the quirk of a brow. ‘I wonder if he’d sleep on the sofa for me?’
‘That’s not the kind of question you should be asking yourself. What you ought to be asking is could Bradley Cooper make you come like I did.’
‘My God, you can’t say that kind of stuff!’
‘Why not? You brought up anal.’
‘I think it’s time to change the subject.’
‘You think?’ And I swear, it’s like we have some sort of dirty telepathy going on, because as his tongue make a leisurely swipe of his bottom lip, the motion resonates between my legs.
