Ten Days with the Highlander (Love Abroad) Page 4
He stood. “You mistake me, Miss Paxton. I don’t have any questions because, as I said last night, I’ll partner with you over my dead body. I aim to live long and prosper in my neck of the woods without turning my town into a tourist trap.”
“Oh.” She sat back down like a deflated balloon, blinking. “You didn’t like the presentation?”
“Presentation was excellent.”
Except there wasn’t a single thing about the town in the presentation. It could be any generic town in any country. All she’d had to do was change the title page to reflect the city. She hadn’t even bothered to add a Scottish flag or a thistle.
She looked puzzled. “I don’t understand. You could do so much with this place with the extra revenue. Halve the size of the rooms to increase occupancy potential, add more bathrooms. Do something about the existing plumbing. It sounds like you have ghosts living in the pipes. They moan like they’re being murdered.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. It was on the list of things to do, but he was a patient man. It would get done.
“I should have warned you, the plumbing is a bit temperamental.”
She paced the small area, her brows furrowed, and stepped over Hello Kitty who refused to move for anyone. “But this place is charming, the pub is fantastic, and you have a goat, as well as a cat that can open doors.” She stopped pacing and stared at him. Her frown deepened. “This place will be a goldmine.”
“No, it won’t.” He stuffed his hands into his pockets. “I’ve lived in your world. You’re here to conquer this town, to turn it into a retreat for bored tourists, without a thought of what it will do to the town or the people in it.”
Her expression turned troubled. “But with the money you’d make you could modernize this hotel.”
“I already told you—I’m restoring this hotel.” He stood. “I’m aware it has issues, but not everything needs to be chrome, sharp lines, and beige. By retaining history, we’re maintaining a way of life we’ve lived, loved, and have come to cherish.”
“But—” she sputtered.
He drew a long, calm breath. “The answer is no.”
“I don’t understand why you won’t even consider it.” Her hands were now on her hips, eyes shooting emerald sparks in his direction.
He turned to walk away, then stopped, an idea forming in his mind. He turned it over, ran the numbers. If he could convince her that not everything needed to be pulled into this century, that not everything benefited from change, maybe, just maybe he could get her to see the beauty of the land, the people, and the folklore they all held close to their hearts and had done for centuries. Then she might leave them alone.
He moved closer. “What if in the ten days you’re here, I can show you the beauty of the land and the people, and convince you to leave this town?”
Different emotions flitted across her face. Georgia Paxton didn’t try to hide how she was feeling. He liked that…he liked that a lot.
“I won’t charge you for the rest of the stay.”
She assessed him, seeming to weigh her options. She must have liked her odds, because she lifted that stubborn chin. “Fine.” She took a step toward him, and again her vanilla, sunshine scent lassoed him. “But I’m going to convince you in ten days that partnering with LiveAbout will be the best deal you’ve ever made.”
He couldn’t help the shout of laughter that bolted out of him. Maybe she did have a set of balls after all. He moved even closer. “I admire your fortitude, but nothing will convince me that partnering with your company will be the best deal I’ve ever made.”
She gave him a devilish smile. “Ah, but I can be very convincing, Mr. Sofa.”
This close, he could make out the determination in her eyes, the beautiful flush creeping across her cheeks. “Miss Paxton,” he murmured, “you’ve met your match.”
There were mere inches between them, a scant distance that did absolutely nothing for Callum’s sanity. Her sunshine scent, her bewitching smile, the rise and fall of her chest. He cleared his throat and edged back a few steps.
She gathered her hair, did some sort of twisting thing, and tied it into a messy knot at the back of her head.
“Show me around, La-Z-Boy recliner. I can’t wait to meet your town.”
He checked his watch. “Why don’t you stay here for a few hours? I’ve got to be at the pub for lunch, then this afternoon I’ll show you some of our sights.”
“Why don’t I come with? It will be lunchtime eventually, and I’m wondering if there’s something similar to spotted dick on the menu.” A ghost of a smile touched her lips.
Man, she was gorgeous, tenacious, and with an opinion. He mentally shook his head. If she were any other woman…
Pity.
This time, she wore her coat. He handed her his beanie, which she accepted with an apologetic smile.
“Thanks. Every time I go outside I seem to trigger some sort of monsoon.” She turned the woolen hat inside out. “I love the hand-sewn note. Are they individual?”
“Aye. Mavis chooses your beanie and scarf for you. She sizes you up, and after a few minutes of contemplation, she hands you a hat.”
“Like Harry Potter and the wand shop?”
He chuckled. “Maybe. I hadn’t thought of that before.”
She studied the note. “‘Give way and life will take you on an unexpected journey,’” she murmured. Crystal-green eyes met his, a smile on her full lips. “Does that have something to do with traffic? Like a yield sign? Or maybe if you partner with me, life will take you on an unexpected journey?”
“Ah, no.”
With the beanie on her head, soft layers of hair falling past her shoulders, she slipped out the door.
Callum followed, then lunged for his guest who was about to walk into an oncoming car. He pulled her back into his body as the car drove past, an angry toot of a horn in its wake.
“Jesus, you’re looking the wrong way, woman.”
“Oh,” was all he heard but her body trembled, his arm he figured the only thing holding her up.
He turned her and scanned her face, his hands on her shoulders. Apart from deathly pale, she appeared unscathed.
“Going to have to remember that,” she said in a shaky voice. “Look the wrong way first. Well, my wrong way first, but not your wrong way.” She brought a trembling hand to her face. “Wait, is it right or left?”
He gently shook her. “Georgia, are you all right?”
She seemed to come out of the trance, and she stared up at him. “Yes, sorry. I babble when I get shocked, or surprised, or worried.” Pink slashed her face.
He dropped his hands from her delicate shoulders, grabbed her hand, and crossed the road. They walked in silence the short distance to the Rose and Thistle. When they reached the pub, he went to push open the door and was surprised when her hand, still in his, landed on the door, too.
He stared at their joined hands, as did she. Both went to detangle their fingers at the same time, resulting in, “Shite, sorry, I didn’t mean to…” to her “My fault, in shock, I didn’t realize.”
A full blush covered her cheeks. “You must think I’m an idiot.”
“We call them eejits here, and no, I don’t believe you are.”
With their fingers finally free, he unlocked and pushed open the door to his empire. Pride burst through him every morning he opened the door and every evening when he closed up. He’d spent a lot of money restoring the old girl, and she shone. His memories weren’t enough, so he’d gone through pictures at the local council of what the pub had looked like back in the day. Talking to the community, he had a sense of what she had been, and started the renovation based on the photos and memories, adding modern necessities.
The scent of beer and whiskey that had soaked through to the strong wooden bones of the old building. The lingering smell of smoke from the hearths. It smelt of home, of accomplishment, of a simple life lived well, surrounded by people you loved and loved you back.
“Aye,” he said, hands on hips.
It was hard to articulate what the place and this town meant to him, after making the decision to walk away from his father’s architecture firm, with the words echoing in his ears that he’d never measure up to his potential. He realized he’d stayed in the corporate land too long, the life nearly sucked out of him. The disappointment on his dad’s face was forever etched into Callum’s soul, but in coming back here for a weekend to visit his mum—who’d been hiding health issues from him—he’d found out this place and the hotel were for sale. That sealed the deal, and breathed life into him. Until then, he hadn’t realized how much he’d just been going through the motions of life, not enjoying a single minute. There was more to being here than he cared to admit even to himself at times.
He refused to let Georgia take that away.
She tugged off her coat. “I didn’t get to see much of the place last night. Show me around?”
“Sure.” He walked on creaking boards to the back of the main bar and opened a door that led down into the guts of the pub. He climbed down the steep staircase first, flicking the light as he went, and held out his hand, which she took. Soft, delicate, and warm, it fit into his with room to spare.
They walked through the humidity-controlled wine cellar. One for red and one for white. Bottles of every type of whiskey, brandy, and gin lined the walls, along with a collection of other alcohols. The scent of hops and beer was strong as he led her to where the metal kegs were stacked, plastic lines like veins running from valves upward to where pints were pulled.
“How do you get the beer down here?” she asked, looking around.
He grinned. She was observant. He led her to a wall at the back end of the pub where a wooden door blended into the foundation of the building. He flicked a switch, the door opened, and a metal pulley system whirred into life. A hatch opened the six-foot shaft that led directly to the street outside. A soft, misty rain danced on her upturned face.
She peered up. “I cause rain even when I’m inside?”
“We like the rain up here. Keeps the visitors away.”
“Not me.” She turned and grinned. She gazed back up as the pulley system waited for an empty barrel to be loaded. “Cool system.”
“Yeah, in the old days it was all done by hand, ropes, and a lot of pulling.”
She nudged his shoulder. “See, some things need modernization.”
He flicked the switch that reversed the pulley system, the door to the outside grinding to a close. “Aye, and some don’t,” he said a little harsher than needed, hoping she’d get the message. He admired her for trying, but he wouldn’t be changing his mind.
“We’ll see about that.”
He scanned her happy face. “Are you always sunshine, flowers, and searching for pots of gold under rainbows?”
“I am.”
“We do that here, you know.” He headed toward the staircase and gestured for her to go first up the narrow stairs so if she slipped he’d catch her.
Halfway up she stopped and turned, and damn if he wasn’t caught checking out her lush ass that filled those jeans.
“What do you do here?”
He stuffed his hands deeper into his pockets. “Search for pots of gold under rainbows.”
“Really?”
He shrugged a shoulder. “My grandmother believed that Scottish fairies hid their treasure of gold, and when a rainbow appeared you only had until the rainbow disappeared to dig it up. When the rainbow disappeared, so did the portal to the gold.”
She raced up the rest of the stairs, where he joined her.
“I’m going to Google that when I get back to the hotel.” Her face fell. “Well, I would if you had functioning internet.” She muttered to herself, “I’ll never win the eBay auction.”
He steered her toward the dining area. “Don’t worry, I’ve got the perfect remedy for you.”
Chapter Five
“This is fantastic.” Georgia smeared a pickled vegetable spread across a slab of bread, added sharp cheddar cheese, and bit into the open sandwich. She’d never heard of a Scotch egg or this particular lunch until Callum placed what he called a ploughman’s lunch in front of her. Turns out that a boiled egg, coated in sausage meat, rolled in breadcrumbs, and deep-fried was a brand of heaven she’d never known before. It was now on her list of favorite foods that included Colonel Sanders’s finest, s’mores, the strawberry jam she’d had that morning, and now a Scotch egg.
“Standard lunch fare around here. We do a hot dinner service, but lunch is a ploughman’s.”
A steady stream of customers was perched on stools, and talking amongst themselves at tables. A fiercely debated game of darts drowned out the classical music playing in the background.
The phone attached to the wall behind Callum rang. He excused himself to pick it up, had a short conversation, scowled, then let out a quiet string of profanity.
“What’s up?”
“Clarissa, my waitress, can’t make it in.” He shook his head, his full lips flat. “Better get my arse into gear.”
Figuring out that meant he had to hustle, she pushed her plate away. “I could help.” At his raised eyebrows, she continued. “I made my way through college working at a diner. Some skills you never lose.”
He scanned the crowd, with more people walking through the door.
“I’d appreciate the help.” His dark eyes softened, and she had to fight the gooey smile that was trying to curl her lips.
She slid off the stool, collected her plate, and walked to where he stood lining up glasses on the bar. “Pay me in Scotch eggs, ploughman’s lunches, and coffee.”
“You’re an easy girl to have around.”
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, regret washed across his features.
She shook her head. “Lucky for you, I’m here for the next nine days. I bet at the end of it, you’ll be begging me to stay.”
A smile, slow to start, transformed his face. “I don’t beg.”
Lost in the smile that set off a wave of warmth across her body, his words finally penetrated. She lifted her chin. “Mr. MacGregor, you’ve never begged for anything in your life that you’ve really, really wanted?”
His gaze dropped to her mouth.
“Not that I can recall.” His gaze rose to meet hers and he leaned in. His Scottish burr skittered across her skin. “What about you, Georgia? Have you ever begged for anything?”
She shivered and her body heated, her internal thermometer thrown by him. Oh, this man was trouble. Two could play this game.
She leaned forward and whispered, “Begged like a sinner.”
His eyes widened. She gathered up her plate and walked into the kitchen, barely keeping the laughter inside. The last time Georgia had begged, she’d been around seven, and her sister had received a secondhand Barbie for her birthday. Oh, how Georgia wanted to play with that doll, but Indy had been adamant that this was one thing they didn’t share. Georgia had offered her Hoohoo, her much-loved stuffed owl. All she wanted was an hour with Barbie. She’d dropped to her knees and begged to the sister who up until then she’d loved. They’d wrestled which turned into a full-blown fight and Barbie’s head had sailed across the room. Georgia had felt so bad she’d given her sister Hoohoo in the end.
But judging by the heated eyes and slight flush on gorgeous Callum MacGregor’s face, something else had been on his mind.
After a few moments, Callum joined her in the kitchen, all business, and showed her how to assemble the ploughman lunches. She donned gloves and started assembling, looking up occasionally when she felt his laser stare on her. She hid her smile. Yep. She’d gotten to him.
Callum cleared his throat. “How about you work the room for orders instead?”
“Sure.” Georgia had put together a good number of the lunches—enough to get them
by for an hour or so, she hoped.
She wiped her hands down her jeans. Callum silently handed her an apron containing an order pad and a pen.
“How does the table layout work?”
“Table one is by the door. Work your way around in a semicircle until you get to the middle, then reverse the order,” he said, without looking at her, his body angled away like he totally wanted her out of his space.
All righty then.
She approached a table of farmers. “Howdy, what can I get for you?”
The man’s grizzled eyebrows went up. “You’re the new lass. The Yank from across the pond.”
She nodded, guessing she was.
“Are ye staying with Callum?” Shrewd blue eyes almost made her squirm.
“I am.”
“You could do worse than him.”
She flushed, getting his meaning. “Oh, no. I’m here temporarily.”
“We’ll see, lass.”
Wanting this strange conversation over, she tapped her pencil against the pad. They rattled off their orders.
“Four ploughmen and four Robert Bruces coming up.” She wrote a table description she’d understand, hurried back to the bar, and relayed the drinks order to Callum. She grabbed four ploughman lunches and served the farmers and then headed to the bar.
Callum chuckled when she approached. “The ale is called Robert the Bruce.”
A clutch of postal delivery drivers was next, followed by the farmer who’d created her parking problem. She worked the room, refreshing drinks, delivering more lunches. Her shoulders had sent out strike notices hours ago. She’d have Superman-style biceps tomorrow, and while her boots looked stylish, her feet were throbbing. Finally, the lunch crowd lessened, leaving only two old men arguing about arguing.
She walked to the bar to find Callum shaking his head, his amusement clear.
His smile was infectious. “What?” She plopped onto a barstool, desperate to take off her boots, but afraid her feet would explode and she’d never get the boots on again. She groaned when she wiggled her shoulders.
“Love your descriptions.” He picked up her scribbled notes. “Two spotty chickens to the dungaree dudes, three the Bruce guy to the postal peeps, four Bruces to grumpy farmers. One books frizz to the fruit woman.” He shook his head. “Speckled Hen, Robert the Bruce, and Bucks Fizz.”