Page 113 of Screwged for Christmas

Thank God the door was open. I was ready for something to go my way. Any ground I might have gained with Malcolm would have been lost if I had to wait for him to unlock the door for me.

But my victory was short-lived. I was standing in a modern high-end kitchen. Professional stainless-steel appliances paired with wooden prep tables and cabinets. In one corner, a black metal Aga stove dominated the alcove.

A gray cat dozed on a cushion near the stove opened one green eye to inspect me. Unimpressed, it went back to sleep.

I glanced around, thinking the kitchen looked like Downton Abby and the Food Network’s secret love child. I adjusted my backpack for lack of anything better to do.

Malcolm was soon inside, shutting the door behind him. “I see you met Smoky.” He nodded to the cat. “Follow me. We’ll get you taken care of.”

He took my hand and led me along darkened hallways lined with large portraits of long-gone ancestors. Smaller paintings of rocky hilltops and loyal dogs also caught my eye as we moved along briskly. Thick wool area rugs covered the stone floors. Intricate woven tapestries hung against the walls, depicting hunting scenes from long ago.

“Malcolm.” I tried to pull my hand away, but he held fast.

Locking eyes, we stood there a minute in silence. He gave my fingers a squeeze but didn’t let go.

The castle was, not surprisingly, huge. Then again, a Tiny House castle would be rather pointless. The lighting was dim with the wall sconces accentuating the moody feel of the place as we progressed up a wide staircase to the second floor.

Malcolm turned left at the top of the stairs, taking us down a long hallway. In the end, he opened a heavy wooden door.

“Here we are.” He led me inside. I hadn’t seen another living soul inside the house since we entered.

“In a place this big, you could have your own wing.”

Malcolm shot me a glance, raising one eyebrow and it did things to me that made me blush hard.

“You have your own fucking wing?” I whispered.

“There’s no need to whisper, Holly. These stone walls dampen sound.”

Malcolm’s bedroom was massive and surprisingly dated. It contained a four-poster bed with drapes and heavy, dark furniture. There were more landscape paintings on the walls. Judging from fleeting images of the sun and blue sky, Scotland was pretty cloudy most of the year.

I moved around the edge of the room, as far away from Malcolm as I could get, while he set to work on starting a fire in the fireplace.

The antique room furnishings were hard to reconcile with the Malcolm I knew in New York, who was never without the latest iPhone.

“Grab a blanket. It takes a bit to get the fire going.” The massive stone fireplace was romantic but not very efficient at making the place less frigid.

“You’re going through a lot of trouble here. What about the hotel you promised?”

“No rooms anywhere else. Sorry.”

He most certainly did not sound sorry. He sounded smug.

He also didn’t seem happy to see me, though would it have killed him to kiss me?

Not that I wanted him to kiss me. It was just the point. Last time I saw him, he was enthusiastically fucking me six ways to Sunday.

Finished lighting the fire, Malcolm brushed his hands and stood.

I was on the other side of a dark green velvet couch. The barrier was on purpose. I needed to avoid doing something stupid. Like, say, vaulting over said couch and tackling him.

He ran his hand through his wet hair. Damn, he looked good. “Did you have plans with someone for the holidays?”

“What?” I squinted at him.

“You heard me.”

After seven months, the first thing he wanted to know was if I had plans for the holidays?

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