Chapter 17
GREG
‘You’re up early.’
Isobel appears not to hear me. For the first time since her arrival, she’s awake before me, and not only awake, but also downstairs and dressed in one of my T-shirts and a pair of thick herringbone socks. If there’s anything more primally gratifying than finding a woman wearing your gear—the women you’ve been sunk to the hilt in best part of previous evening—I’ve yet to find it. It’s the stuff of cavemen, I’m sure.
The caveman kills the woolly mammoth.
Feeds his family woolly mammoth meat.
Lies his missus on the woolly mammoth pelt, then feeds herhismeat.
In the kitchen, I come up behind her, sliding my arms around her trim waist as I place my lips on the soft curve where her neck and shoulder meet.
‘Day three of captivity finds Isobel in the kitchen.’ My soft rasp against her skin makes her shudder. ‘Is she lost? Is she awake because she spent an uncomfortable night sleeping in the wet spot? Or was she foraging for food?’
‘One of those things probably,’ she answers, placing her arms over mine as she turns her gaze reluctantly from the window.
She seems distant, and at first, I wonder about last night’s shower. It was intense for sure. Maybe a little too much so. But, no. We were good following. Well, one we’d managed to get our legs to work. She’d climbed into bed, her skin wrinkled and pink, complaining she looked like a prune. Meanwhile, I’d managed to make my way into the kitchen on unsteady legs to retrieve a couple of beers and some snacks for sustenance. We’d spent the next hour tucked up in bed talking about nothing.
Would you rather give up cheese for life or oral sex?
Her answer; oral. Mine, I’d rather die, actually.
Would you rather have penises for fingers or vaginas for ears?
Her answer, vaginas for ears and a selection of hats. Mine, vaginas for ears, though I’d probably be arrested daily for public indecency.
‘My money’s on you foraging for grub.’ For a wee totey thing, she has a really good appetite. It’s probably a reaction to the availability of real, actual food as opposed to the coffee shop offerings and microwave evening meals she says she lives on usually.
Her head turned towards me, I place a smacking kiss on the part of her mouth I can reach. What it would be like to wake up kissing this woman every morning I can only imagine.And I’ll stick to imagining.
‘You’re very quiet.’ I tighten my arms around her, my nose in her hair.
‘I was just thinking about Clare. She gets married this morning. She must be so excited.’
Christ, it’s Saturday already. But time flies when you’re snowed in with a woman as delicious as Isobel, I suppose. The start of the working week looms—I have orders to fulfil, a couple of tenders to submit, and a meeting with the bank this coming Monday morning. I really can’t afford for the weather to keep me here any longer than this weekend, yet I really don’t want to step away from this experience to go back to my own life.
‘Now you’ve gone quiet.’
‘Sorry, darlin’. I was miles away there for a minute.’ Miles and a lifetime away. ‘I’m sorry you’ve missed your pal’s wedding. There’s a chance it might’ve been cancelled anyway, what with the weather and all. You might get another chance to go.’
‘I hope not,’ she answers immediately. ‘I hope it all happens today. Her family travelled to the hotel earlier this week, so I’m sure she’s got all the people she really needs around her.’ I sense more than feel her shrug. ‘I imagine it would be devastating to find you can’t get married after months and months of planning.’ Her back presses against my chest with a deep sigh.
‘You’re a good friend.’
‘Am I? I don’t think so.’
‘Nonsense. You came all this way to go to her wedding, and you want her day to go ahead for her despite the fact you’ll be missing all the shenanigans.’
‘Clare isn’t the type to go in for shenanigans, and Hamish, her fiancé, is an accountant and sounds like a bit of a stuffed shirt.’
‘They’re getting married in the Highlands. Trust me, there’ll be shenanigans.’ Pipes, kilts, and whisky are a recipe for such mischief.
‘Well, I hope they have a lovely day,’ she says, turning in my arms and sliding her hands around my waist. ‘And I imagine the photographs will be amazing with all this snow. It’s probably just as well I can’t get there. I was destined for a spot at the single’s table, anyway.’
‘The single’s table?’
