Chapter 18
IZZY
Whatever Greg is cooking down there smells heavenly, so I’ll forgive him for not coming upstairs to wash my back . . . and parts otherwise.
Actually, I really do feel a little bit peeved, though I’m really trying not to be. I attempt to put on a brave face, mainly because I feel a little silly. I’d put myself out there, I suppose. Pushed myself a little out of my comfort zone by calling down to him. I’m not a natural coquette by any stretch of the imagination, and I felt a little silly tempting him in, what I hope was, a sultry tone.
And what did I get for trying? More feelings of silliness, a sense of inadequacy, and rebuffed. Turned down for a piece of beef, of all things.
Stop, I silently plead with my reflection. Just stop making this all about you. Smack that internal whiny little voice and pull up your big girl knickers. You go for what you want in your professional life. It’s time you apply the same attitude to your personal side.
Especially the very personal.
The hair at the base of my skull is still damp, so I pull it up into a messy topknot before sliding on my mismatched underwear—a lacy white bra and a pair of black tanga-cut knickers. Not that it matters because it’s not likely he’ll be interested in them anyway. Stop!
I pull on my skinny jeans—jeans are good for several days of wear as far as I’m concerned—before sliding my arms into Greg’s white business shirt. Given the remote setting of the cottage, a button-down shirt seems to be an odd thing to have, I consider, as I fold the sleeves to the elbows, though I suppose he might’ve brought clothes for every eventuality. Or maybe just for storage.
Or maybe this place isn’t really his, and it’s really been your holiday cottage all along.
I push awaythatbecause really, why would that matter right now? If it weren’t for Greg, I’m not sure what I would’ve done. It’s a good job he brought both adequate clothing and food stuffs plus all the little luxuries like rum, chocolate liqueur, and wine, and I should thank my lucky stars for it—and for him—even if I’m in the right place and he’s not.Or whatever.
In the dressing table mirror, my complexion is flushed, but I think that’s from the bath rather than from still being cross with myself.Get over yourself, Izzy.I shake my head in exasperation, then make my way down the stairs.
‘The roast beef smells delicious, but you know it’s not Sunday, don’t you?’
As I reach the bottom of the stairs, I swing a little on the pine newel post, coming to face the kitchen and a vision in a jet-black suit. My heart does a little pitter-pat, because yes, Greg works the hell out of the rugged look, but who knew he scrubbed up so well. The suit, the shining black oxfords, and a white shirt open at the collar. If I thought he wasn’t quite catwalk material before, I was wrong. He’d certainly give David Gandy a run for his money, and that’s without the bonus of his accent.
‘You’ve dressed for . . . dinner?’
‘I’ve dressed for you.’
Oh. My. God. Does that mean I get to undress my gift, as well?
‘I’m only sorry I hadn’t packed my kilt.’ What! Imagine that kind of package—I mean, present!
‘And does a Scotsman wear anything under his kilt?’ I ask oh-so sweetly.
‘If I did, it would’nae be a kilt, it’d be skirt.’ So many interesting sounds in that last little word. With that accent, it’s no wonder he has such a dexterous tongue . ..
‘I feel a little underdressed,’ I reply, touching my hand to my chest with a shy smile. He dressed for me? But why?
‘You’re a wee bit more overdressed than I’d counted for. I thought I’d hidden your jeans,’ he replies pointing at them as his other hand rubs his smooth chin.
Dimple alert! Dimple alert!
‘These were under the bed,’ I reply with an amused half frown as he stalks towards me. Actually, that’s not right. There isn’t enough space between us for me to receive the full stalking effect. ‘Remind me to ask you to walk for me outdoors sometime, would you?’
‘And why?’ As he reaches me, it’s his turn to look bemused as he takes my hand and slides it into the crook of his arm.
‘Just humour me.’
‘Right,’ he answers. ‘Like I haven’t spent the past few days doing just that.’ He leads me over to the dining table and pulls out my chair.
‘My, aren’t we formal.’ I chance a look at him, my little Grinch-y heart filled to the brim. Whatever the reason, he’s gone to such an effort. The suit. The candles. The delicious smell coming from the kitchen. The radio playing softly in the background, a station playing something other than the dreaded Christmas music. ‘This is so lovely.’ I catch his hand, giving it a squeeze before he retreats to the other side of the small table.
‘Well, it’s not quite the hotel you were meant to be staying at today.’ He picks up the wine, weighing his answer for the minute as he studies the label. ‘I was sorry you missed your friend’s wedding but I’m not sorry you’re here.’ His smile is a little wicked as he begins to fill my glass. ‘I din’nae regret that one little bit. Not for one minute. And while I can’t make it so you could see your friend get wed, I can make it so that you’ve a date for the day.’
‘You’re my wedding date?’ My words come out in a sort of strangled squeak.
