Chapter 10

10

T here’s a charge in the car’s atmosphere on the way to the pub, tension snapping like electricity between us. Once inside, I wait for Henry to disappear into the kitchen and then walk into the janitorial closet and close the door. I sag against it, slowly sliding down until my butt is against the cold concrete floor. What the hell was that? All three guys should be my sworn enemies. My arch nemeses. There must be a glitch in the space-time continuum–that's the only way to explain what happened this morning.

I stare out into the darkness as everything sinks in. I can't stop the grin that pulls at my lips or the giggle that strangles me as I try to hold it back. I know with one hundred percent certainty that he'll be phenomenal in bed. That man knows his way around a woman’s body. If he can make me feel like that with his thigh, I can only imagine what he can do with his hands. His cock. Not to mention how selfless he is. He wasn't even thinking about getting there until I forced the issue. That turned me on more than how he manhandled me, dragging me up and down his leg until I exploded.

Fuck.

I need to think about something else. Anything else. A vision of the vibrator circling over my clit while Henry watches pops into my head without warning. I fly to my feet, jerking the door open and running straight into Henry’s broad, incredibly muscled chest.

"Fuck me so I can get this out of my system," I demand, pushing him against the wall, my hand flat against his chest.

"Not a fucking chance, Red," he says, his voice husky, his gaze dropping to my lips.

"I don't have time for this, Henry."

"Yes, you do." He pushes off the wall, backing me against the closet door. "You have all the time in the world because of us, and I plan to make that up to you."

"With lust?"

"If that's what you want to call it,” he says, looking down at me, his eyes dark.

"What does that mean?"

He shrugs, the corner of his mouth ticking up.

"I wish I hated you. It would make things so much easier,” I say, not meaning a single word.

"Does that mean I have a chance?" He steps closer, caging me in with his arms, his biceps bracketing my ears. He slides his nose along mine, our lips a hairsbreadth apart. "I started writing a song about you. Do you want to hear it?"

I meet his big-eyed, ocean-blue gaze, my stomach flip-flopping. I nod.

"In the Highlands, where the mist embraces,

There lived a woman with tender graces,

In the pub's warm hum, a love did brew,

With every pour, her heart anew,

Slowly falling, like leaves in the fall,

In Scotland's arms, she found it all."

I swallow hard. I don't miss the ambiguity, how it could be about a man or about my love affair with my homeland. "Tender graces, eh?"

"Artist's prerogative," he says, winking.

"Okay, lover-boy. Time to get to work." I roll my eyes, pushing him toward the front of the pub, my cheeks hot .

The pub is slammed from open to close, and both of us are dragging by the time I lock up. We drive back to the house in silence, the bite in the air a sweet caress after the dank air of the pub. I need to figure out how to get more circulation in there. No. That's not my responsibility anymore. I haven't had the time to think about what I want to do now that the pub isn't part of my future, and the uncertainty keeps niggling at the back of my mind. I could always help Charlie and the guys with the castle, but I've never been one to do something because it's what's most convenient. I like taking the path of most resistance.

"What are you thinking about?" Henry asks, his gaze glinting in the moonlight as we pull into the driveway.

"I'm thinking about the fact that I have no idea what I'm going to do with my life now.”

A look of regret flashes over his face, but he recovers quickly. "You would do well with anything you put your mind to."

"I agree, but I live on a tiny island in the middle of the ocean. There's only so much I can do here. There's already a café. No need for a restaurant since the pub already serves food." I sigh. "I'll figure it out eventually."

"That makes me feel like absolute shit, Isla."

"It should," I say honestly. "But I promise I will figure something out. I always do." Henry gets out of the car and stretches, a delicious sliver of his abdomen glowing in the moonlight. He walks around to my door, and I let him open it, taking the hand he holds out to me.

"I'll help in any way I can, Isla. Just say the word."

"Thank you, Henry." I glance down at the cottage, wondering how wise it is to invite him in and get more attached than I already am. I meet his midnight blue gaze, butterflies exploding in my stomach. Fuck it. "Do you want to come down with me? I'll make a fire and some hot cocoa. I think I may even have the stuff for s’mores."

"Sure. I'm going to shower first. Meet you down there in ten?"

"Okay." I pull my jacket tight around my shoulders, fighting back a shiver, and start walking toward the cottage.

"Isla, wait." Henry jogs toward me, slipping his jacket off his shoulders and carefully draping it over mine. "I can't stand to see you shiver like that."

"Thank you." I clench it around my body and hustle down to the cottage before I freeze to death. Once inside, I flop onto the couch, bringing the jacket up to my face and breathing him in. This is dangerous. Allowing myself to get caught up in my feelings is a really bad idea. I’ve kept the embers of my heart banked for years, and now Henry comes along and douses it with gasoline. Ugh.

I nearly have a heart attack when he bursts through the door, a guitar slung over his shoulder.

"Sorry! I didn't realize it wasn't closed all the way. Don't you want to change?" He asks, looking down at me snuggled deep in his coat.

"That's probably a good idea."

He holds his hands out and helps me up, wrapping his arms around me once I'm on my feet and giving me a long hug. I relax into his body, his sweater bumpy against my cheek. "Go on. I'll start the hot cocoa," he says, pushing me toward my bedroom with gentle hands.

I fully expect him to be floundering in the kitchen when I come out wearing a matching lounge set, but he's not. He's setting two cups of hot chocolate on a tray, along with the ingredients we’ll need to make the s’mores. A man that doesn't need to be told where things are and what to do? I’m in so much trouble. I open the door to the deck, barely stopping myself from inhaling as he passes by. He sets the tray on the table between the chairs and begins building the fire with military precision.

"Impressive," I murmur, sitting down on the edge of the chair, leaning forward to watch him.

He looks up at me as he's striking a match, the fire reflecting in his eyes and highlighting the fullness of his lips. God, those lips.

"I used to go camping a lot back home. I've perfected my technique over the years."

"Are you going to camp while you're in Scotland? I've heard there are a ton of great spots."

"You've never been? "

I shake my head. "The pub took up too much of my time."

"Once Dylan and Theo can run the pub by themselves, I'll take you camping,” he promises.

"That sounds nice. I'll ask Jack if we can borrow his stuff." Henry sits down, and we both take a steaming mug, sipping tentatively. It's rich, chocolatey, and divine. "I want you to make this for me every morning," I groan, taking another sip.

"Just say the word, and I'll be here every morning to make it for you," he rasps, winking.

I nearly choke on the intensity of his gaze. "That may be moving a little fast, lover-boy."

"Would it, though? Life is short, Red."

I've always hated being called Red, but somehow, when it comes from him, it's different.

"Don't like the nickname?" he asks, reading my mind.

I bite my lip. "The opposite, actually." The orange glow from the flames caresses the planes of his face, deepening the dimple in his chin, darkening his eyes to a bluish-black. My fingers itch to run through his hair at the nape of his neck where it curls against his skin.

He studies me back, stars in his eyes. Without saying a word, he pulls grabs his guitar and picks out a melody, humming under his breath.

"But this love is brave and wild. And I never saw you coming. And I'll never be the same," I sing softly, recognizing the tune.

He picks up when I stop. "This is a state of grace. This is the worthwhile fight." He pauses as tension sweeps us into its current. "These are the hands of fate," he sings acapella, setting his guitar on the deck, the baritone of his voice sliding over me like silk.

"You're my Achilles heel."

"This is the golden age of something good and right and real." He beckons to me, patting his thigh.

I straddle his lap, wrapping my arms around his neck. "And I'll never be the same," I whisper, laying my head against his shoulder and sinking into the safety of his embrace.