Chapter Twenty-Eight
Kirk
Three weeks have gone by since the debacle on Aonach Eagach, and I've barely done anything physical since.
Gretchen won't allow it. Ahmno bad enough off that she needs to treat me like a wee bairn, but I cannae deny that I enjoy the way she bathes me.
It makes me so bloody horny that I want to mount her like a stag---from behind while she's on all fours.
At least the team was able to salvage enough footage to complete the stunt.
But I've had enough of being coddled. My shoulder has healed well, and I'm ready to get back to work. I catch Gretchen eyeing me suspiciously from the kitchen as I test my range of motion, rotating my arm in slow, careful circles.
"Don't even think about it, Balfour," she calls out, waving a wooden spoon in my direction like a weapon. "The doctor said six weeks minimum before any strenuous activity."
"The doctor doesnae know my body like I do." To prove my point, if only to myself, I flex my fingers and feel only the slightest twinge. "Besides, ahmno planning anything dangerous. Only some training to keep my muscles from atrophying completely."
Gretchen snorts, turning back to whatever delicious concoction she's preparing. The lass has taken over my kitchen these past weeks, insisting that proper nutrition is essential for healing. She's not wrong, but I'm starting to go mad with boredom. My muscles are crying out for exertion.
"I know that look," Gretchen informs me, abandoning her cooking to plant herself in front of me, hands on her hips. "That's your 'I'm about to do something stupid' face."
"I dinnae have such a face," I protest, though the way her eyebrows arch tells me she's not buying it. "I'm only stretching, lass. Nothing more."
"Uh-huh." She narrows those gorgeous hazel eyes and studies me as if I'm a bomb she's trying to defuse. "And I suppose that's why you've been eyeing your climbing gear for the last twenty minutes?"
Has it been that long? I glance at my equipment stacked neatly in the corner and realize with a twinge of guilt that Gretchen has caught me red-handed. The climbing harness has been calling out to me like a siren song all morning.
"I'm going mad cooped up in here," I confess. "A man needs adventure, mo leannan. It's in my blood."
Gretchen sets down her wooden spoon and crosses the room, her expression softening as she reaches me. "I know this is hard for you, Kirk. But I watched you nearly die on that mountain. Do you have any idea what that did to me?"
I capture her hand and press a kiss on her palm. "Please stop saying I almost died. It was a controlled situation, even with the malfunction."
She rolls her eyes and sighs. "Men. You're all so damn stubborn."
The lass returns to her cooking while I contemplate the weeks after the stunt that nearly turned disastrous.
My entire family has insisted on visiting us---meaning me and Gretchen---at least three times a week every week.
In between their visits, the Carvers also have insisted on giving me a "look-see," as Alvena phrased it, on a regular basis.
I dinnae mind that. But I do mind being treated like a bloody invalid.
Gretchen and I have also moved in together. It's "more expedient," as she likes to tell me.
During my convalescence, I've also endured the well-meaning but bloody annoying attention of my friends and their wives.
Thane brought a bottle of Dùndubhan Masterpiece single-malt that he insists has "healing properties for a Scotsman's shoulder.
" I didnae argue with him on that point.
Rebecca came with him, and they both fussed over me as if I were a newborn lamb.
Fiona Sterling brought her brawny husband Domhnall, and the two of them kept trying to convince me to visit the distillery for a "safe" tour that wouldn't strain my shoulder.
Even the fucking mailman asks about my health when he delivers packages. The entire village seems to have appointed themselves as my personal health committee.
"I'm going out," I announce with enough volume that Gretchen glances up from her cooking.
"Out where?" she wants to know, suspicion lacing her voice.
"Just for a wee walk," I reply, trying to sound casual.
"Uh-huh, sure it's 'just a walk.'" The lass aims a batter-laden wooden spoon at me. "I know how sneaky you are, Mr. Balfour. You aren't fooling me."
I growl softly like a ruddy animal. "I'm going mad, gràidh. If I cannae have my cock inside ye soon, I'll become a cautionary tale and a study for the psychology journals. I at least need to get outside before I break something---or someone. Please let me fuck ye. Now."
Gretchen doesn't seem intimidated by my growl. In fact, she seems amused, which only makes my frustration grow. "After your doctor-approved twenty minutes of exercise."
"I can walk longer than that."
She stabs her spoon in my direction again. "Twenty minutes, tops."
"Bloody hell, woman. You're a tyrant. I can walk on my own outdoors."
"Okay, fine." She wipes her hands on a dish towel. "But I'm coming with you."
"That is not necessary." I grab my jacket from the hook by the door. "I'll just be down by the loch."
"Oh-ho no, I insist." Her smile is sweet but her eyes are sharp as daggers. "I could use some fresh air too."
I know when I'm beaten. Three weeks of her hovering has taught me that Gretchen Carver is as stubborn as any Scot I've ever met. Maybe more so.
"You win," I sigh, holding the door for her. "But you'll need a jacket. It's nippy out there."
Gretchen snatches up her coat, and we head outside into the crisp Highland air for what feels like the first time in weeks. The fresh air smells so bloody good that it clears my head like nothing else could.
"See?" Gretchen says, slipping her hand into mine. "Fresh air without jumping off anything. Novel concept, isn't it?"
I grunt in response, yet cannae find myself smiling at the way she teases me. As we wander down the path toward the loch, my body already feels more alive with every step. The confinement of the past weeks has been worse than the pain, if I'm honest. A man like me wasn't made for sitting still.
"Ahh, I feel reinvigorated already, just getting out and stretching my legs," I tell her, hoping she'll relax her vigilance. "My shoulder's healing fine. See?"
I roll it carefully, demonstrating the improved range of motion.
Gretchen watches me with a critical eye. "I'm not saying you haven't improved. I'm saying you need to follow doctor's orders to be sure you don't re-injure yourself."
We reach the edge of the loch, where the water laps gently against the rocky shore.
The mountains reflect off its surface like a blurry painting, and for a moment, we both stand in silence to take in the view.
It's moments like these that remind me why I've never left Scotland despite opportunities abroad.
I only go overseas for lucrative special projects, and I always come home after.
Gretchen leans against my good side. "It's beautiful here. I could imagine living in Scotland forever."
"The Highlands have seduced you, aye?" I wrap my arm around her waist, pulling her close, and feel the tension in my body begin to unwind.
"I know you're going stir-crazy. And I know I've been, um, hovering."
"Hovering?" I chuckle. "Lass, you've been like a helicopter with separation anxiety."
She elbows me gently in my good side. "I'm serious, Kirk. I was terrified watching you on that mountain. I've never felt that kind of fear before."
Her confession catches me off guard. I turn to face her, cupping her cheek with my hand. Her skin is cool from the Highland air, but her eyes are warm.
"I'm sorry I frightened you. But this is who I am, Gretchen. I cannae change that any more than I can change the tides."
She sighs. "I know. I wouldn't want you to change. But I do with you could be more careful."
"Careful is a relative term in my line of work." I tilt her chin up so I can look into her eyes. "But I promise to be more mindful of the risks. For you."
The wind picks up, roiling the loch's surface. Gretchen shivers slightly against me, and I pull her closer, sharing my warmth. In over the past weeks, something has shifted between us. What started as a holiday fling has deepened into something neither of us expected.
"Let's head back," she suggests after a moment. "Your twenty minutes are nearly up, and I don't want your dinner to burn."
I open my mouth to object, but Gretchen's already turning back toward the village, tugging my hand. The lass has no idea how maddening this is---being treated like a bairn when I've spent my life defying death for sport and profit. Still, there's something endearing about her concern.
"I'm thinking of a new stunt," I tell her casually as we walk, testing the waters.
Gretchen stops so abruptly I nearly crash into her. "Excuse me? You're what now?"
"This is who I am, lass. Take it or leave it."
Her eyes narrow to slits. "And when exactly were you planning to tell me this?"
"I'm telling you now, aren't I?"
She shakes her head, but her slight smile assures me she isn't angry.
Once we're back in the flat that I've come to think of as our home, Gretchen gives me the surprise I've been hoping for.
She takes me into the bedroom and insists that I lie down on my back.
Then, while we're both still fully clothed, she climbs onto me with her hips straddling mine.
"Your dream has come true, Balfour. I'm going to fuck you until your eyes roll back in your head and the bed starts bouncing."
How do I respond to that declaration? I grin.