Chapter 5

 

 

In case anyone asks, you picked the Julia Snelling sterling silver and pearl cock ring from the gift registry.

Please tell me you’re joking . . .

Would I joke about something as serious as a wedding gift? Or love?

I stare down at my phone, not sure whether to laugh or succumb to an aneurism.

Flynn . . . I type out. You fucker.

Keir . . .

Hitting call, I step out into the hallway.

‘I asked you to choose something from the registry, pay for it with the credit card, then have it wrapped, delivered, and all that shit. Not for you to wind me up, you arsehole.’

‘Who’s winding you up?’ he replies in a cool tone. ‘I did as you asked. I also picked up your shirts from the cleaners, plus the kilt you’re wearing. I mowed your lawns, got the electrician in to fix the broken light in the pool, paid for a term of Sorcha’s gourmet school lunches . . .’

‘You didn’t mow the lawn. You just paid the landscape company bill.’

‘I pay all your bills. Sort out any maintenance issues in your home—everything. In fact, why don’t you shove a broom up my arse, and I can sweep the floor as I’m running around after you?’

‘You shouldn’t give me ideas,’ I half huff, half laugh. ‘Come on, man. A cock ring?’

‘What can I tell you? It was on the registry.’

‘How is it a gift? A his-and-her gift?’

‘I dunno. Ask the people who chose it. It’s got a pearl,’ he then says, apropos of nothing. ‘A vibrating pearl.’ Oh. Well then. 

‘You’re a bastard.’ And I’m laughing.

‘And this is payback for my birthday.’

‘You asked for a stripper,’ I reply, trying not to laugh. And mostly winning.

‘Not a bloke! And definitely not one as old as my grandad!’

 

Ah, that was at least one laugh for the day. I can’t imagine there’ll be many more. The last thing I want to do is spend my Saturday at a wedding—especially at a wedding of someone I have a less than fabulous connection to—when I have a child with chickenpox at home. Yep, the vomiting turned to a mild fever, and a fever into a rash, and a week later, poor wee Sorcha looks like something from a plague painting. So yes, I could think of other places I’d rather be than at the wedding of a girl whose father was intent on driving me insane.

‘Keir!’ Joe, the man in question, slaps me on the back in one of those manly, magnanimous I’m so macho gestures. ‘So pleased you could make it.’

Like I had any choice. We still haven’t agreed on a price for the parcel of land he owns—land I need. Land he’s using to worm his way in on the deal. A daughter he’s using to get in on my business.

Not happening, Joe. Not in a million years. 

‘Wouldn’t have missed it for the world,’ I say, stretching the truth like an elastic band. Hopefully one that won’t ping me in the arse later. Seriously, I’d rather be at home dabbing calamine lotion on Sorcha’s scabs. Yep, I’m just that excited to be here, and I don’t give a fuck if he has “dropped a hundred and fifty k on the day”.

Claridge’s ballroom sparkles in its Art Deco splendour, mirrors lining the walls reflecting the opulence by candlelight. Tables heavy with linens, silverware, and glass stand behind us, a dance floor constructed in front.

‘Doesn’t she look a picture?’ I follow Joe’s beady gaze to the top table beyond the dance floor where his elder daughter and her new husband sit.

‘Aye, she’s a bonny girl. He’s a lucky man.’ I take a sip from my whisky, washing down the lie. Not that his daughter doesn’t make a beautiful bride—she does. But weddings are complete shite as far as I’m concerned.

Love is blind, or so they say. But there’s nothing like a divorce to sort your eyesight out.

‘He is lucky.’ Frowning, Joe pulls the snowy white handkerchief from his top pocket, dabbing the sweat from his shiny forehead. ‘He’s also pissed—drunk from too much champagne.’

That’s not true, and I think we both know that because the groom is off his face. I saw him doing a couple of lines in the toilets not twenty minutes ago.

‘These creative types, eh?’ he says, almost as though he’s read my mind.

Joe might’ve mentioned once or a hundred times that the groom is the front man for a boy band. Not that he looks very boyish right now, but I suppose a hundred quid a day habit is bound to leave you looking a bit worse for wear.

‘But I wasn’t talking about the bride,’ Joe says quite suddenly. ‘I meant Amelia, her sister. It goes without saying the bride is the star of the show, and while both my daughters are stunners, I’ve always thought Amelia’s something special.’

And I’ve always thought parents weren’t supposed to favour one child over the other, I manage not to say.

‘Aye, she looks bonny, too.’

‘And ripe for the plucking.’

Who the fuck says that about their own daughter? I keep my expression impassive, watching as Joe mentally plays back his words. ‘That is,’ he blusters, ‘what I mean to say was some lucky man will pluck her up soon—snatch her from the marriage market.’

Amelia’s gaze catches mine from across the room where she sits to her sister’s right. And the look she’s giving me? Fucking blatant. And while I wouldn’t say it to Joe, I reckon Amelia has been plucked plenty.

And as for any kind of snatch . . . yeah, I’m not going there. Not even remotely, I think, remembering how at dinner last week, she’d opened her legs wide under the table, sliding me a similar look.

Confidence is one thing, but desperation is never sexy.

Never degrade another man’s daughter. Not as a father of a daughter yourself.

I mentally berate myself as Agnes’s words fill my head, and I sigh heavily. It’s been a while since I degraded any girl. In fact, these days, I’m lucky to get five minutes alone to degrade myself. You’d think in a house the size of mine I’d be able to grab a few minutes alone with my hand, but no.

And as for relationships, divorce definitely has a way of making you think twice. Hell, twenty times. And casual is just a myth constructed by people who want to fool themselves. Look at Mac and Will, my best mates. Their religion was a casual fuck and now look at them. Fiancées. Wives. Babies. Not that there’s anything wrong with those things. And they’ve both chosen well. I, on the other hand, must’ve been dropped on my head as a baby because my choices have not been so stellar. And now that I’m responsible for a whole other person, I’m mindful of my past and how the choices I make in my life impact her life.

Bottom line? Despite Will’s assertions that weddings are the perfect pulling ground, half-drunk bridesmaids aren’t on my to-do list.  

And neither is Amelia.

Realising Joe is still waiting for an answer, I grab at the first thing I notice. ‘Cameras at the ready. It looks like it’s time for the first dance.’

A vaguely familiar face walks to the edge of the dance floor with an acoustic guitar in hand. Despite the decent cut of his suit, the fella looks in need of a wash and a shave. He’d give Scooby Doo’s mate a run for his money on the grooming front.

As the familiar strains of a recent chart-topping song beginning to play, Joe excuses himself, bustling away as a smattering of oohs and ahhs sound from tables nearby as the bride and groom take to the dance floor.

The ginger begins to sing a soft ballad about love and the passing of time. Of dancing in the night-time. Of growing old together. It’s a song I’ve heard play on the radio—one Sorcha has hummed along to on the way to school. The sentiment is very pretty, the words sugary fake.

‘It’s a beautiful song, isn’t it?’ I turn to the husky voice to the right of me. Dark hair, pale skin, and the bluest eyes. I can literally feel the smile creeping across my face.

‘Hello, Paisley.’

‘Oh, it is you!’ She begins to laugh softly, the smile almost immediately slipping from her face. I follow her gaze as she looks over her shoulder to where a cherubic looking blonde holds up both thumbs, her face a rictus of manic grin.

‘Friend of yours?’ I ask as she turns back.

‘Yes.’ Her expression twists, her nose scrunched like a wee rabbit. ‘And my boss, and she doesn’t know about us.’

‘Us?’ I repeat, the connotations fizzing low in my belly.

‘About the other day, I mean.’

‘When I caught you looking at cock?’ It’s not like me to be so crass. I mean, I’m a bloke and probably as crass as the next one, but around women, I’m usually a little better behaved. But she laughs anyway, looping one arm around the front of her waist.

‘All in a day’s work,’ she responds. ‘But I meant about interviewing you. By mistake. I didn’t tell her.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yeah. I mean, Antonio showed up not long after you.’

‘Mission accomplished, then?’ The fizzing turns to a tightening.

‘I booked him for Barcelona, if that’s what you’re asking. But I don’t think that’s what you are asking.’ I give her a very bland non-answer in the guise of a shrug. ‘Though I have wondered why you came over to the table? Why you sat down even, Mr . . . ?’

‘Keir,’ I supply. ‘Just Keir.’ She’s thought about it. Thought about me. I wonder if her interest extended to me time masturbation, too. ‘And truthfully, I’m not sure. All I can say is an attractive woman waved me over.’ I shrug again. ‘I followed my feet.’ Or my dick.

‘Your feet, huh?’ With a knowing smile, her gaze turns to the happy couple.

‘You could almost believe in love,’ she says softly. ‘Listening to him sing.’

Her tone is even, but something in her posture belies her words. The way her fingers are almost white around the stem of the glass, and the slight shimmer of moisture in her gaze, one I’m sure isn’t a reaction to watching the newlyweds shuffle around in front of us.

‘What’s his name again?’ I turn and give her my full attention; for the first time in a long while, my interest is piqued. As well as other things.

‘H-his name is Robin Reed.’

‘Aye, I’ve heard this one on the radio. It’s all right, I suppose. A wee bit like soup.’ She coughs a little on her sip of champagne, her blue eyes lifting to mine.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘The fella’s music is a bit like soup. You know, the stuff you feed people who are ill. People who can’t handle anything excitable.’

She brings her hand to her mouth to cover an indelicate snort. When was the last time I made a woman laugh? And more to the point, when was the last time a woman’s laughter made me feel like that? Warmed internally. Accompanied by a familiar, though often ignored, tugging in my balls.

‘People love his music,’ she challenges with a cock of her brow.

‘I’m sure some people do,’ I reply like a kid seeking an adult’s attention. ‘Boring people. Soup’s not very exciting, hen,’ I add, mockingly serious.

‘Hen?’ She looks down at her outfit—a fitted midnight blue gown, knotted at one shoulder and leaving the other bare. Her dark hair is worn off her neck in a crown of loose braids. There’s something a little sexy milkmaid about the style, the artfully curled loose strands further giving the impression of her having recently enjoyed a roll in the hay.

Imagine that.

And I do.

Right now, I’d fucking join her.

‘That’s right.’ My gaze joins hers, examining her clothing. Her curves. The full heaviness of her breasts that would be a handful in a large man’s hands. Her tiny waist and rounded hips made for holding. I suck in a deep breath of air, shaking my head infinitesimally. Maybe I can blame the whisky for being this barefaced.

‘Or are you going to tell me that being called hen is too familiar? That I should call you something gender neutral or insist I call you Ms?’

Christ on a bike. I sound like a right cock.

‘No, not at all.’ Her words are a cool relief I don’t understand. ‘I’ve just never been called hen before.’

‘It’s Scots,’ I reply. ‘And maybe it’s because I wouldn’t mind rufflin’ your feathers.’

‘Oh, my God.’ Her words are more breath than anything else, her cheeks heating as she fights a smile, giving me her profile again. ‘You can’t say things like that.’

‘Why’s that?’

Her eyes dart sideways, then immediately back again. ‘We’ve only just met.’

‘That’s not true,’ I say. ‘We had coffee together. Talked about anal and saw dick.’

‘You really are the worst,’ she says, giggling.

‘The worst . . . company?’

‘The worst kind of tease,’ she qualifies.

I send her a knowing smirk, not trusting myself to speak. I can’t reply to her assumption because it would be in a completely different vein. A tease? I’m a fucking tease, all right. The kind who’ll have you on your back for hours, licking and sucking every inch of your skin all while you sob for release. Or at least, I used to be.

With a short sigh, I thank the Lord I’d worn a heavy hunting kilt tonight. Because no Scotsman worth his name wears anything under his kilt. Except maybe lipstick, if he’s had a lucky night.

‘So,’ she starts nervously as though she can read minds. Or smiles. ‘Bride or groom?’ Her eyes return to the stage.

‘What? Oh, which side. Bride, I suppose. Not that I know her. I’m in business with her dad. What about you?’

‘The groom, I suppose.’ I follow the path of her gaze to the ginger singer. Despite singing about the glory that is love, he is scowling. In our direction.

‘You’d think he’d have made a bit more effort,’ I say cocking my head in his way. ‘Famous or no’, he looks a bit of a sight.’ I’m being kind because he looks like a fuckin’ hobo.

The corner of her mouth turns up, her deep blue eyes rising to mine. ‘Lots of women like that look,’ she answers. ‘Or so I’m told.’

‘It’ll be for the money.’ I tip the remains of my whisky down my throat, placing the empty glass on a waiter’s passing tray. ‘Money does all kinds of funny things to some people’s perceptions.’

‘And you’d know?’

‘Unfortunately, I would. The same as I know a scrote like him wouldn’t have a chance with most women outside of his fame.’

‘Scrote?’ she says on a tinkling laugh. ‘Another from the Scots dictionary?’

‘The man is about as attractive as a scrotum, you have to admit.’

‘Oh, my God.’ She covers her mouth with her fingers, her eyes sparkling above nude-coloured nails. I get a flash of something tugging in my gut—the image of me pushing my fingers between her raspberry-coloured lips. One hand between her legs as her nails bite into my shoulder, the fingers of my other hand feeding her tongue her own taste.

‘So you think wealth makes a man attractive?’

‘Wealth makes anyone attractive, to some.’ Reason number twenty-two on my list of Why I don’t Date.

‘No need to ask which side of the fence you’re seeing this from,’ she says, using her words as an excuse to blatantly check me out. ‘But what about you? Do you think your wealth makes you attractive?’

‘You think you can tell what I’m worth by my clothes?’ I glance down at my bespoke outfit. ‘This might be a rental.’ I tug on the front of my vest, having discarded the jacket to a chair once the ceremony was over; my shirt now rolled at the sleeves and open at the neck.

‘That outfit isn’t off the rack,’ she says, eyeing me again. Turning to face me, her fingertips brush the fabric covering my thigh. I swallow deeply, the tiniest of touches dialling my senses up to a nine.

Flirting. We’re definitely flirting—and she’s just upped the ante by touching my thigh. The sad truth is this is the most exciting sexual thing that’s happened to me in a long while.

Christ, I need to get out more, I think as the words of Will’s earlier texts come floating back to me.

Remember, weddings are excellent for hookups.

I hope you’ve remembered clean underwear.

And that you’ve taken your testicles out of the sock drawer.

And unwrapped them from the cellophane.

They need an airing. In some lovely, willing girl’s mouth.

So some of the texts weren’t exactly sane. But it’s easy for him to make me the butt of his jokes because he hasn’t suffered the turmoil of divorce. Or been forced to raise his child alone. And that’s why I shouldn’t be standing here, swaying closer to this gorgeous creature and effectively leading her on.

Because this is going nowhere beyond a little flirting. 

When was the last time you got your dick wet?

Even in his texts, Will has no fucking boundaries.

‘What kind of fabric or material is this?’ she asks softly, examining the kilt at my thigh.  

‘I can tell you what it’s not.’ My voice strains from her fingers being so close to my dick. It could be my words or my tone that causes her to raise her head to stare up at me from beneath her endlessly long blue-black lashes.

My heart beats bah-dum, bah-dum because flirting or not, I can’t not be straight or honest. It’s just who I am.

‘That material isn’t the boyfriend kind.’

She nods her understanding, and I feel the loss of her fingers almost immediately; though as she stares up at me, my head is filled with a million things.

Is she trembling?

Can she tell I am?

Her hair would be soft in my hand.

I bet she’d taste as good as she looks.

‘Are you staying in the hotel tonight?’ Her long, black lashes blink up at me.

Christ. In suggesting my kilt isn’t boyfriend material, I’ve somehow managed to imply I’m down to fuck. But that doesn’t answer why my heart is beating out of my chest. Or why I want more than anything else to say yes.