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  ‘Firstly, I didn’t say I was perfect. Second, it is my bed, and you’re the first woman to sleep in it.’

  Hmm. Fancy that. The year is almost over, and I possibly am meeting my first gentleman in 2018. Of course, I don’t say that.

  ‘The escort business having a bit of a downturn, is it?’

  ‘I can tell you the bespoke cabinetry business is booming. The escort business I know nothing about.’

  I’m sure that’s what they all say.’

  ‘And rightly so. Surely, their business is all about pretend, not truth.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose.’

  ‘But me, I like to keep it real. So what’s your story, Isobel?’ He props his elbow on the sofa behind us, toying with the stands of my hair. ‘What’s all this about men who’ve been no good for you?’

  ‘I hadn’t thought about it like that.’ My words are soft as I gaze down at the neck of my bottle. ‘And while it’s a pretty thought, surely I’m the common denominator?’

  ‘Except there’s nothing common about you.’ His compliment slides over me like silk but still, I’m not convinced. ‘So tell me about these men.’

  ‘What men?’ I huff out an unpleasant laugh.

  ‘The men in your life.’

  ‘Professionally, I work with sharks and men who are either gay or would like to think they still live in the era of Mad Men. I’m sure most of them think women shouldn’t be allowed out of the kitchen.’

  ‘Having sex, obviously.’

  ‘Chance would be a fine thing. The most adventurous line in sexy times for me so far has been a little foreplay on the sofa, so long as the football isn’t on. Kitchen sex? The stuff of fairies and unicorns.’ As in, not real.

  His face is a picture of faux shock. ‘No kitchen fucking?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Shower sex?’

  ‘A stranger to me.’

  ‘What about when . . . what about—you’ll know this one—when you’ve been out for a few drinks, staring at each other over some pub table. You know, when the conversation has strayed into dirty talk and all the things you want to do to each other when you get back home. The cab drops you off, and you’re so turned, you can’t get the key in the lock, and he’s so hard behind you. He’s nibbling your neck, his hands around you already trying to loosen you out of your clothes. Then the door opens, and you fall inside, and you end up fucking on the hallway floor fully clothed.’

  ‘That sounds . . . ’ I swallow deeply. ‘Like something out of an erotic book.’

  ‘It’s that heady period at the beginning when you can’t get enough of each other, and you’re constantly trying to get naked. Fingers and lips, teeth and tongues because touch is just not enough. The need all encompassing.’

  ‘That also sounds like something out of a piece of erotic literature.’

  ‘What about fumbles in the great outdoors?’

  ‘What, me?’ I ask after a beat.

  ‘Who else could I be talking to?’

  What I don’t answer is that I was hoping he was about to tell me another sexy story, one to make my heart beat faster and my underwear a little damper. To think, there are actually men like Greg in the world. And to think I’m having my day in the sun—or snow, rather—with him.

  How will I ever go back after this?

  And then I realise he’s waiting for my answer.

  ‘Well, I can’t speak for the rest of the eight and a half million people in London, but I’ve never had a boyfriend do me in the kitchen, the shower, or full clothed in the hallway. As for après sexy times, isn’t that for youngsters who don’t have anywhere to go?’

  ‘You haven’t lived until you’ve felt the breeze on your arse cheeks and the long grass tickling your bits.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it,’ I reply, straining not to laugh even as my insides pulse with desire. I want that. All of it. For someone to want me so badly they truly can’t think of anything else.

  ‘Seriously, don’t knock it till you’ve tried it. Obviously not in this weather,’ he adds, oblivious to how I really feel as his gaze glides to the window. It’s still snowing, a blanket of white cutting us off from the rest of the world.

  ‘This year, I’ve had sex less times than I have fingers.’ I don’t quite know why I’m telling him this. But something about him just makes me want to confess. Like how I told him I wanted to have sex in front of the fire.

  ‘That’s not so bad. Quantity over quality and all that,’ he answers, sending me a quizzical look.

  ‘Sadly, not the case. I should’ve also said that I’ve been in two relationships, both not lasting very long, but whatever.’ I wave my hand as though erasing the thoughts. Bad choices and time wasted. ‘I do try. But I don’t date just anyone, you know. Try to separate the wheat from the chaff before they even get a whiff of my bedroom at the six-week mark. Unfortunately, the chaff seems to be very good at disguising itself as quality, when, in fact, it’s usually rubbish.’

  ‘Six weeks?’

  ‘Yes, I give the relationship six weeks before I decide if it’s worth taking the extra step.’

  ‘You mean sex,’ he states. He doesn’t ask. ‘If you’ll pardon the pun, do you not think that’s a little rigid? I’m pretty sure I’d be as stiff as a pole by the six-week mark.’ The latter he mumbles, but I hear it all the same.

  ‘I’m trying to do things differently. Trying to attract a different kind of man.’

  ‘But six weeks?’

  ‘Is there an echo in here? Yes, six weeks.’

  ‘No matter how well the dates go?’

  ‘It’s hard to say—’

  ‘I’ll bet!’

  ‘No, I mean, if I felt something, maybe a spark or a connection, some kind of sign that it might be worth it, then maybe we’d get to the bedroom earlier.’

  ‘And has that happened?’

  ‘No,’ I answer a little defensively, forcing my shoulders not to slump.

  ‘Except with me.’

  ‘There’s no need to be so cocky about it.’ My tone is a little haughtily. ‘I think I must have Stockholm Syndrome.’

  ‘After a few hours?’

  ‘Oh, go away.’

  ‘Where?’ The word hit the air as a chuckle, his arms outstretched. ‘And no need to be so tetchy about it. Whatever the reason, I’m glad you didn’t make me wait six weeks.’

  ‘We would’ve probably killed each other before the six-week mark.’

  ‘True,’ he agrees. ‘Death by fucking. Can I just ask, though, why six weeks?’

  ‘I want to settle down,’ I answer baldly. ‘I’m trying to find men who have the same things in mind. Finding the one. Starting a family. The kind of man who’ll wait six measly weeks for that very reason. The flaw in that plan is the one who waited was because he really just wanted to get me into bed.’

  Something crosses Greg’s expression, something unreadable yet quick. Before I have the chance to hazard a guess, he asserts, ‘The married one.’

  I nod and slide a lock of hair behind my ear, not wanting to think about it or look at him. ‘Oscar. Also known as he-who-shall-not-be-named.’

  ‘Good riddance to him. Unfaithful piece of shite.’

  ‘Yes, his poor wife.’ I can’t help but feel guilty even though I had no idea. None at all. He just seemed far too available to be married. He answered my calls nine times out of ten and returned that one soon following. He even spent the night with me, post my six-week waiting mark. We just didn’t go to his place because he lived on the other side of London. I thought I’d dodged a bullet by not having to schlep out to his place. But really, it was because his wife probably would’ve had something to say about my visit.

  Married. I still feel sick about the whole thing.

  ‘He was also unfaithful to you, as well.’ Greg’s expression is like granite, his words just as firm. ‘And shite in bed, so you’re well rid of him.’

  ‘But was it him, though, really?’ My gaze finds his briefl
y. ‘And the ones who came before? I’ve always thought it was me. They always seem to get—’ I halt in my explanation. This isn’t the kind of thing you discuss, especially not with other men.

  ‘Get off?’ I bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from answering, though I nod again. ‘Can’t be just you, though, can it? I think we’ve established that already. And very thoroughly.’ His long fingers brush my face, his expression unreadable. ‘Maybe they just weren’t right for you. Good riddance to them. Selfish lovers are no one’s idea of fun. Love is rough enough,’ he then announces.

  ‘The roughest.’

  ‘Wanna talk about it?’

  ‘Really?’ I turn my head to look at him.

  ‘Why not?’ he answers with a simple shrug.

  ‘Oh, Greg, I’d need a lot more to drink to discuss my disastrous love life,’ I reply, turning his own words back on him.

  ‘Let’s talk more about your sex life, then.’

  ‘More wine needed still.’

  ‘I’d better open the wine, then.’ He makes to move but before he does so, he speaks again. ‘But we’re only discussing your sex life from here on in. Ask not what you can do for your cell mate, but what your cell mate can do for you.’

  He does open another bottle of wine, this time a Sauvignon Blanc, but not before we rustle some dinner up in the kitchen together. Soup left over from lunch along with toasted cheese sandwiches. We eat on the floor in front of the fire, discussing everything and nothing as we play endless games of Scrabble on a very retro-looking board.

  Like friends. Friends who’ve had sex.

  ‘It’s a strange thing to have in a house, a game of Scrabble. I mean, given you said you’d never stayed here before.’ I don’t mean to give him the side eye, and I wonder if he’s noticed the not-so-subtle Izzy inquisition.

  Okay, so not like friends at all.

  ‘Dunno what to tell you,’ he says with an unconcerned shrug. ‘I suppose it’s one of the knick-knacks the decorator saw fit to include. I had planned to eventually rent the place out to holidaymakers, so maybe there was a bit of that behind it, too. Mind you, it’ll be strange to do so,’ he says, gazing around the room.

  ‘How so?’

  ‘This was my grandparents’ place, though they haven’t lived in it for many a year. It was basically inhabitable, and no more than a crofter’s cottage when they lived here after first getting married. ‘Still, it’s kept me occupied fixing the place up.’

  ‘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 stay here.’ 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.

  ‘Sheep.’ I clear my throat and gesture to the window where the snow has begun to pile on the other side of the glass. ‘You said there are only sheep out there.’

  ‘And hills.’ His body seems to relax, his movements more languid, though spying the hint of action in a certain vicinity of his jeans does nothing for my concentration. ‘A bit of fishing. Hiking. That kind of stuff. There’s a village a few miles down the road, but for the most part, the cottage is remote.’

  ‘Secluded.’

  ‘No TV and no internet. Nothing to do in the snow.’

  ‘Well, there is one thing,’ I answer, dragging the Scrabble board closer with my toes.

  ‘I thought you were never gonnae offer.’ He makes as though to loosen his fly, choosing not to see my suggestion.

  ‘Oh, I’m sure there would be plenty of manual love going on had I not arrived.’

  A burst of deep laughter breaks free from my chest before he continues with the threat of losing his pants.

  ‘You wanna watch?’

  ‘No thanks. Just because you don’t have a TV doesn’t mean I want to watch you masturbate.’

  ‘Ah, darlin’.’ The look he gives me turns my inside to goo again, and that’s without his upcoming compliment. ‘You, my gorgeous creature, are one of a kind.’

  ‘You’re just saying that because we’ve had sex.’ I lift the bottle to my lips.

  ‘And I’d keep on saying it just to have sex again.’

  Beer does not taste as good coming out of your nose as it does going down your throat.

  ‘You have got to stop doing that!’ I say, wiping under my nose, then swatting his chest for good measure.

  ‘What did I do?’

  ‘Stop making me laugh. I mean it!’

  ‘So I shouldn’t tell you the one about the dyslexic satanist?’

  ‘Why would you ask me that? Now you have to tell me!’

  ‘He sold his
soul to Santa.’

  ‘Greg, that was really bad.’

  Chapter 11

  GREG

  ‘So if you don’t usually live here, where do you? Live usually, I mean?’

  I’ve opened another bottle of wine, and we’ve still got the board game out, though now it sits on the floor between us. I can’t make my mind up whether Isobel put it there because she doesn’t trust herself or she doesn’t trust me. She has good reason not to trust me because, now that I have a taste, she won’t get any peace.

  It’s just an interlude, my mind supplies. Don’t get too attached. You heard what she said.

  ‘On the East coast of Scotland in a place called Auchkeld,’ I reply, brushing the thoughts away.

  ‘And you’re a ruggedly sexy master craftsman.’

  ‘I am a man of many talents, hen. You’ve barely skimmed the surface.’

  ‘Well, I know you’re good with your hands,’ she says, giggling smuttily. Placing her glass down, she manoeuvres herself onto her front so she’s lying across the floor. Because having her in touching distance wasn’t enough, apparently, I also had to be gifted a perfect view of the peaks of her arse. I’d like to strip the layers from her and slide my hands under her hips. Glue my mouth to her pussy and make her come until she’s hoarse, then use her moisture to work myself between those firm cheeks.

  ‘Do you have a website?’ Her words drag me from my smutty thoughts. Reluctantly. ‘I could leave you a glowing review.’ Then she places her tiles down, continuing her ass whooping as she informs me her move happened on a triple score.

  ‘How many points it that now, Scrabble shark?’

  ‘You don’t want to know,’ she replies cheerfully.

  Scrabble has never been my thing. Not that it matters as I can’t concentrate on anything but her flushed cheeks and the way she throws her head back when she laughs. It reminds me of the pulse at the base of her throat and of how, as I’d slid my cock into her, she’d swallowed thickly, a sigh escaping her mouth. Hell, I don’t even think I’d notice if I had a word with a Q on a triple letter score.