Surprise Package Page 15

  ‘Sisyphus,’ I offered.

  ‘Knackered,’ he countered, a line drawing between his brows.

  ‘You’re so . . . stubborn!’

  ‘I am not. I’m just right,’ he’d grumbled.

  Urgh!

  ‘Did you no’ hear me? I said your phone has charge.’

  ‘I heard you. I was just thinking.’

  ‘And you can’t do two things at once?’

  ‘I’m not going to deign to answer that,’ I reply, turning back to the window.

  ‘Aye, well, how about you deign to look at the thing before it blows up.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ As I ask, I’m already on my way to the kitchen where the thing is plugged into the electrical outlet after I’d grabbed my charger from my car.

  ‘Blows up from texts.’

  Our arms brush as I pass him, neither of us reacting to the almost electrical pull. Though he does turn to follow me with his eyes, at least.

  ‘Mo,’ I mutter, swiping through the barrage of texts, some of them so nonsensical, I sort through the thread to find the first one sent.

  What do you mean there’s a strange man in the cottage?

  God, yes, I left him a voicemail message.

  Is he buff? Should I fly my tight little bottom up there for a bit of fun?

  Then a few hours later, the tone of the texts change.

  Where are you?

  I got your message last night, but I might have been a little too squiffy to understand.

  Where are you, exactly?

  Why isn’t your phone switched on?

  Darling, this stranger in your holiday rental, it doesn’t matter if he’s buff or if his package feels heavenly, you must take care.

  I promise, I didn’t send him there.

  Sweetie, call me. You’re worrying me.

  Izzy, if the man is wearing a kimono and nothing else, stay away from him. And if he has a little dog and a bottle of lotion, don’t sniff any strange scented handkerchiefs. And for God’s sake, don’t put any lotion on your skin.

  There are also a one hundred and fifty-seven missed calls ranging over the past few days.

  ‘He must be so worried,’ I mutter as I call him.

  The call rings, then connects, then cuts out. I try again. In fact, I go through this process a whole heap of times before a busy signal finally kicks in.

  ‘There are probably still issues with the towers and stuff,’ Greg supplies.

  ‘Yeah, I’ll text him now. Hopefully, he’ll get it at some point, and I’ll call again when I get to the airport.’

  The airport. Urgh.

  I’m alive and healthy, I type out. Re the kimono and lotion references, rest assured, I haven’t been shacked up with Buffalo Bill. I did meet a very nice man called Greg who I may or may not have accused of being a male escort. And blamed you. It’s all good now. Lots to tell you. Talk soon.

  P.S. Sorry for worrying you. Blame Storm Uma or Erma or whatever the thing is called.

  I look up from my phone to find Greg holding a plastic bag, loading it with the contents of the fridge.

  ‘What are you up to?’

  ‘Chucking the perishables away. I won’t be back ’till Boxing Day, and I don’t fancy returning to a house that stinks of rotten food.’

  ‘Fair enough. Oh, I’ll have that,’ I say, taking the container with remains of the roast beef from his hand. He straightens and smiles as I rip off the lid, pulling it out to tear into it, caveman style.

  I question his smile silently with a lift of a brow, but his just fades away. As he turns back to the fridge, I notice the muscles in his jaw have clenched tight.

  I’ll bring you around to my way of thinking, Greg Hamley. Just you wait and see.

  The countertops are wiped and dishes washed and left to drip-dry. The Scrabble board put away. There is literally nothing else to do but carry our bags outside. Which Greg does. His first, ducking out the backdoor with both a garment carrier and a sports bag. He stamps slushy snow from his boots as he comes back in, locking the door behind him and slipping the key in the front pocket of his jeans. He glances at my weekend bag sitting at the base of the stairs. Anything rather than look at me, it seems.

  ‘Right. Well. I’ll put your stuff in your car.’

  I hand him the keys, though follow him outside, watching as he opens the rear passenger door to lift my bag onto the back seat. Neither of us have our coats on, and the weather is still freezing cold, but in a couple of steps, I find myself behind him with my arms wrapped around his waist.

  ‘I can’t believe you’re going to let me slip through your fingers.’ The words come out wavery with a sad sounding laugh. A laugh that makes my eyes sting. ‘Just look at me—I’m all that and a box of biscuits.’ Greg doesn’t answer, though my body moves with his deep exhale, his hands tightening on mine. ‘God,’ I whisper, pressing my cheek to his back. ‘I am so going to miss your annoyingly large self.’

  Chapter 24

  GREG

  I lower my head, my mind whispering her name. How can this be so difficult? It’s only been a few days. I’ve had longer holiday relationships than this—women I’d barely thought of once I’d left the hotel. So why is every molecule of my being screaming to take her in my arms?

  I can’t help wanting her, but it is wrong to keep her. But maybe, just maybe, we can do this one more time. Get lost in each other for a little longer. Prolong the pain of our parting.

  One more kiss.

  One more fuck.

  One more time.

  Turning in her arms, I slide my hands down her back, pushing our inevitable parting away for a little longer as she returns my embrace. I want to say that I’ll miss her, but what I should offer her are reassurances that she’ll be fine.

  That this is for the best.

  For both of us.

  Instead, I do neither of those things as I slant my mouth over hers. It’s barely a whisper of a kiss, but no accident, her body roused by touch. One kiss becomes two, two becoming and endless stream as she opens her mouth, accepting my tongue and offering me her own. She whimpers as I band my arms tightly around her and back her away from the car, slamming the door closed by some form of automated action. The car isn’t in the scope of my focus now.

  The soles of her boots shuffle and hiss with resistance against the snowy ground, if there is such a thing, a path of compacted earth which is now just wet and muddy. My own steps are more solid, more purposeful, as I take us in the direction of the front door. I groan as her cold hands slip under my shirt, my abs contracting with need as much as the shock of her touch.

  We stumble at the doorstep, her back hitting the blue painted wood as I realise the thing has swung shut.

  ‘Turn the knob,’ I growl into her neck, pressuring the soft patch of skin with my teeth. One hand slips from my abdomen to grab the denim over my stiff cock. My growl turns in part to an indulgent chuckle. ‘The wrong knob, Isobel.’

  ‘It’s the one I want.’ Her hand presses my length, teasing with more than just her words. The sweet vapour of her breath is like a cloud between us.

  ‘And I’m gonnae give it to you.’ I drag my hands up her body, cupping her breasts as I coerce her nipples to hard points beneath her fluffy sweater. I’m mad for her—I won’t ever be able to touch enough of her to satisfy my hunger. ‘But not here, out in the cold.’

  ‘Tell me you’ll see me again,’ she coaxes, her words husky with desire.

  ‘Blackmailing wench.’

  ‘I prefer master negotiator.’

  ‘My God, what flavour of torture are you?’

  ‘The rewarding, persistent kind.’

  ‘I’ll give you persistent.’ With very little thought, I bring my thigh tight between her legs in an echo of that first morning in the kitchen.

  ‘Just think of all the good things, Greg. All the good times you’ll be missing. We’ll be missing.’

  ‘Why are you such a pain in my arse?’ The noise that sounds from the b
ack of my throat is part plea, part frustrated growl as I feed my hands under her sweater, my fingers spanning her ribs.

  As she rocks her hot centre over me, her eyes are glazed, and her breath is ragged. I feed my thumbs into the cups of her bra, releasing her nipples to the frigid air. Her tits are high and tight as I lick the hard buds each in turn, my desire hot against the cold air.

  Her body shakes, though with cold or desire, it’s hard to tell, as I rub my thigh against her pussy, and she moans like she’s already on the brink of climax.

  ‘Open the door, Isobel. Open the door before I—’

  ‘Unhand that women!’ From behind me, a strident yet theatrical voice calls.

  ‘Mo . . . ?’ Isobel’s gaze immediately moves from languid and lust filled as she rides my thigh to suddenly a little stupefied.

  ‘I always wanted to say that,’ the voice adds a little more excitedly. ‘I think I came over all Noël Coward there for a minute.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Isobel asks as I slowly lower my thigh from between hers. It’s as though the pace of lowering it might detract from what we were clearing up to. I’m thankful that the bulk of my body shields hers as I hook my fingers into the cups of her bra, pulling the fabric back into place before I lower her sweater.

  Unfortunately, my modest sentiments aren’t returned as her own hand moves from my dick to my hip where she pushes gently, encouraging me to turn.

  ‘I’m not decent,’ I grate out with an expressive raise of my brows. Her lips are a soft moue, her gaze full of mirth. ‘Don’t you dare laugh. This isn’t funny.’

  ‘No, of course not,’ she agrees, pulling my shirt straight to cover me.

  I turn, preferring not to notice that she’s taken hold of my hand.

  ‘Sweetie! What ever are you doing here?’ The owner of the voice is around five foot eight and wearing the kind of coat that would look at home on a German Field Marshal, circa 1935. Except for the fact that this coat is blue and sports an orange fur collar.

  ‘What do you mean, what am I doing here?’ Isobel returns. ‘I’ve been staying here, remember? The wedding? The fact that you were supposed to be here, too?’

  Thank heaven for small mercies, as my auld granny used to say.

  Isobel relinquishes her hold on my hand, meeting her friend near her wee car where they hug like they haven’t seen each other in years. Meanwhile, I notice two other men walking towards us, too.

  ‘You silly, silly girl.’ My gaze slides from Mo and Isobel as he chastises her for something I don’t quite get.

  ‘Jim.’ I hold my hand out in greeting to local village policeman. I wasn’t lying that night she turned up when I said I used to go to school with him. ‘How’s it goin’?’

  ‘No’ so bad, Greg. No so bad. I see you’ve had yoursel’ a busy few days.’ His head jerks in the direction of Isobel as she animatedly discusses the trials and tribulations of being snowed in. I say nothing. Jim is what my granny would’ve called a sweetie-wife. I prefer the term gobshite, but that would’ve earned me a clout around the ear back then. The man is a gossip, pure and simple, so I share nothing with him. But even though I say nothing, I can read his expression pretty well.

  Gaun, yersel’—she’s pure tidy, that one!

  Roughly translated: lucky me for being snowed in with a woman as gorgeous as Isobel.

  ‘Greg,’ Jim begins again, ‘this here is The Earl of—’

  ‘Will. Just Will.’ The man thrusts out his hand, and though I take it, what I really want to do is give my head a shake or wiggle my finger in my ear. Isobel has brought the polis and a member of the aristocracy to my door? Not that he looks like a toff, apart from the regulation Barbour wax jacket and the Land Rover Defender parked beyond the fence.

  ‘His Lordship—’

  ‘Will. Or Travers,’ the man corrects with a fierce look. ‘Either will do.’

  ‘Aye, well,’ Jim says, pushing his police-issued cap back on his head, ‘he’s a personal friend of Mr Mohan here. And he was kind enough to come out today and help us locate the lady, Mr Mohan’s friend.’

  ‘Locate her?’ I repeat. ‘Like a missing person?’

  Jim nods. ‘On account of her leaving a strange message on Mr Mohan’s phone. He seemed to thing she was in some danger, so he flew up from London this morning. It was the first day the airport opened after the storm.’

  Jim doesn’t have to say he believes the only thing Isobel has been in danger of was a good, solid fucking.

  Again, I neither confirm nor deny.

  ‘Mo!’ Isobel’s exclamation brings my attention back to her. ‘You beast!’ She slaps her friend playfully before throwing back her head and laughing uproariously.

  What the fuck is happening here? Whatever it is, it’s not likely to be sorted standing out in the cold.

  ‘I suppose you’d best come inside.’ Though fuck knows how they’re all going to fit.

  ‘Yes, come inside,’ Isobel says, pulling on Mo’s arm. ‘It’s so gorgeous inside.’

  ‘Yes.’ Mo’s gaze slides my way as he takes a thorough inventory. ‘Gorgeous. I can see.’

  ‘Stop violating Greg with your eyeballs,’ Isobel chastises playfully.

  ‘You mean, I can do it some other way?’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Mo,’ the toff grumbles. ‘Can you just behave yourself for five minutes?’

  ‘Come on, William. You already know the answer to that.’

  But at least we’re all moving towards the front door, Jim bringing up the rear as I pause to allow the others over the threshold.

  ‘Lord, lead me not into temptation,’ Mo trills as he steps inside. ‘Who am I kidding? I’m following a Scotsman!’

  Once inside, I make coffee, or rather Isobel and I do so jointly. I don’t miss the way the three men in the living room watch on, crouched on the sofa like three wise monkeys.

  We don’t need to have seen you shag.

  We don’t need to have heard you shag.

  We don’t need to speak about the shagging you’ve done these past few days.

  Because we know you’ve done it anyway.

  I can see clear as day that they know. It might be in the way she touches my arm, or how her body touches mine as she leans across me to grab a spoon. It could be in the little touches or the way her eyes sparkle when she looks up at me. And these are a worry all of their own—she thinks she’s talked me ’round, and I’ve yet to put her straight. Or it could be that, as blokes, they can scent sex in the air like fucking truffle hounds.

  It could be any one of those things.

  Or it could be because of the way they disturbed us almost fucking at the front door.

  Cock-blocking bastards.

  ‘So you left that garbled message.’ Mo uses his free hand to articulate his point as he talks. With his other, he accepts a coffee cup Isobel passes to him. ‘I’d been to Roan’s that evening, but when I’d sobered up the next morning, you know how it is, sweets.’ He slides her an apologetic smile. ‘Well, I started to worry.’

  ‘What weird message? I didn’t send you any such thing,’ she says, passing Will his coffee next. I give Jim his while ignoring the way he’s staring at me admiringly, like I’m the mutt’s fucking nuts. While the other two are being polite about what they saw, Jim looks a bit fucking rabid.

  My own cup in hand, I carry in a dining chair, intending to go back again for another for Isobel when she sits on the arm of the thing. So I sit, though I make sure not to touch her at all. Neither confirm nor deny.

  ‘It was a voicemail,’ Mo says, pulling out his phone. Isobel’s tinny sounding voice immediately fills the room.

  Mo, you devil, what have you done? I didn’t think for one minute your surprise package would be a dick! An escort, for goodness’ sakes—

  ‘Oh my God!’ Isobel starts to laugh as I frown.

  What were you thinking? I know you love hearing how Will and Sadie fell in love while he was pretending to be an escort, but you seem to forget t
hat Will was only pretending!

  My gaze slides to Will’s who glances over the rim of his coffee cup with an air of long suffering. ‘It’s a long story.’

  ‘It is my absolute favourite story,’ Mo adds.

  ‘Stop! Please, turn it off.’ Isobel suddenly squeals, her eyes the size of dinner plates before she buries her face in her hands. ‘How mortifying.’

  I’m sure had Will really slept with women for money, Sadie wouldn’t have been so keen on marrying him, let alone shagging him! And yes, I know before you even say it, he could’ve made a fortune in that line of work because the man attracts more arse than a toilet seat—’

  ‘I’m a reformed character these days,’ the man himself says.

  ‘I can’t believe you did this to me!’

  ‘I can confirm that Mo didn’t pay me to shag her,’ I find myself saying. ‘What I mean to say is, Isobel and I already established early on in her stay that I wasn’t—’

  Ah, Mo. It’s me again.

  For the second time, Isobel’s voice recording resonates in the small living room.

  It really is a nice package, from what I can tell, so thank you.

  ‘I wish it had been my idea,’ Mo adds airily. ‘I’d have gifted him to myself.’

  Not this him, pal. This him doesn’t swing that way. Rather than comment, I take a mouthful of the scalding hot liquid.

  Though I’m not sure if the plan was yours or his for him to greet me in bed, but it was a little forward, don’t you think? I know your heart’s in the right place, even if your mind is in the gutter most of the time. God knows where he’s going to sleep, and yes, you can take that to mean there won’t be any copulating. It’s just not worth it for me. I’ll call in the morning.

  ‘Mmhmm?’ His lips pursed, Mo sends her a very eloquent look as Isobel stands, moving to lean against the windowsill on the opposite side of the room.

  ‘I’m touched you came all this way for me,’ she says.

  ‘What was I supposed to do? I couldn’t get through to you on the phone, my texts went undelivered, and then you didn’t turn up to the wedding!’

  ‘All because of the snow,’ she replies apologetically.