Page 33 of Scotch on the Rocks

“I don’t want your money.”

“That’s not how this works.” If I agreed to this, I needed clear boundaries. This was nothing more than a business exchange. The only option available to me.

“It is if you want my help.” He came down a step, the wind ruffling the silver-streaked strands of his hair.

“Macabe—”

“I don’t want it, spend it on other repairs.”

I bristled. “I don’t need charity.”

“A favour isn’t charity.”

There it is. “You mean I’d owe you?” The prospect was grotesque.

“If you like.” He shrugged too casually.

“I’m not having sex with you!”

He laughed, deep and throaty and, despite my words, I knew this was exactly the way he’d look in bed, head thrown back as pleasure tore through him. I tried to picture his own space,his bed, it would be all straight lines and masculine shades of grey and green, like the peaks and glens he loved.

“You think I’m doing this to have sex with you? Harpy, if sex was all I wanted, trust me, I could have it with a lot less effort.”

My stomach whooshed. “You throw stories of your prowess around an awful lot, I’m starting to think it’s all talk as I never actually see you with anyone.”

“Someone’s been paying attention.” He winked and I wanted to jab his eye out.

This was never, ever going to work.

My hands curled into tight balls, ready to tell him just that but, in true Callum Macabe fashion, his stream of chatter didn’t halt. The man could be six feet below water and still find a way to steal the conversation. One of the most obvious differences between him and Alistair, Callum didn’t simply speak, he performed. A born storyteller. When passionate, his eyes dazzled and he embellished with his hands like a conductor leading a symphony, making it all the more impossible not to get drawn in.

“In fact, you’d be the one standing to gain from such an agreement.I—”Hands pressed to his chest. “Would be working for free, while you’d get the pleasure of using my body however you see fit.”Using my body– it hardly took a genius to understand the innuendo. A traitorous lick of heatcurled through my stomach at the memory of that night. Glasgow. My underwear spread over his thigh.

Just sex,I reminded myself.What you’re craving is good sex.Nothim.

“You really love to hear yourself talk,” I finally said.

“Some consider conversation a forgotten art form.”

I couldn’t contain my snort, he just looked so … pleased with himself. “Yeah, but you’re more like modern art, a placard is required to make sense of the point you’re trying to make.”

Another laugh, this one puffing a white cloud into the air between us. We were still standing in the carpark, I suddenly noted. It became all too easy to lose time when he was purposely irritating.

“All right, smart arse, are you going to show me the damage?”

“Now?”

He shifted his bag until the contents clinked. “No time like the present.”

“Fine … but be quiet, I don’t need any more complaints.” Skirting around him, I held the door open while he followed me into the porch.

“You don’t live here?” he asked, the tread of his boots skimming my heels.

“No. I stay in the cottage around the back.” I pointed to the stone path I’d just traversed around the side of the inn. “I prefer my own space.”

“Sounds like a good set-up.”

I glanced back, feeling his gaze like warm sunshine on the back of my neck, a few degrees past comfortable.Was this his attempt at chit-chat?Our eyes locked, my mouth dried, I glanced away.

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