Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
ROBBIE
I pack my tools into the saddlebags of my motorcycle then fasten the buckles. I was lucky the stables had the wood I needed for the repair job, but this setup isn’t going to work long-term. If I’m serious about making a go of being a self-employed tradesman, I’ll need something bigger than my bike to haul equipment around. A van, most likely.
Not that I’ve got the cash for one. Especially not now I’ve quit my job at the resort.
I get on my Speedmaster, the evening sun beating down on my shoulders. Still, that was a nice wee bit of work. Janice was pleased with the fence repair, and the payment will definitely come in handy. Small mercies.
The engine rumbles to life beneath me, the familiar vibration humming through my body. Time to head home, crack open a cold beer, then let loose on the punchbag hanging in my garage. I’ve been hitting it a lot these past few days.
The police have already paid me a visit. DS Sinclair even made a joke about it having been a few years since we “hung out”. There was a time when we saw rather a lot of each other, back when I was Bannock’s resident teenage troublemaker.
I haven’t been arrested—yet—but I suspect the cops are building up a case against me. It’s only a matter of time. And the waiting? It’s fucking torture.
Movement catches my eye. It’s Cat, leading that chestnut horse—Bracken, was it?—towards one of the fields. She’s got her riding gear on again, those tight jodhpurs hugging her arse.
I allow myself a moment to look because, well, I’m only human. Cat McIntyre is undeniably beautiful. I especially like the way those delicate features of hers somehow manage to look both innocent and mischievous at the same time. She’s got this energy about her, like she’s constantly buzzing with life.
But... she’s way too shiny and sweet for the likes of me. Too untarnished. Too McIntyre.
And yet, Christ is she forward! She didn’t even attempt to be subtle earlier when she compared me to that stallion. What was it she said? “Strong, wild, and impossible to ignore”? Cheeky! Oh, and let’s not forget the way she eyed me up the other day when I was chopping wood. She might as well have licked her lips.
I watch her for a little longer, admiring the way she moves with such easy confidence.
She looks like her mother did.
The thought hits me out of nowhere, and suddenly I’m seeing it again—lashing rain, crumpled metal, blood. Death.
My heart rate spikes. I grip the handlebars tighter, forcing the image away. Not now. Not ever, if I can help it.
I pull my visor down, kick off, and navigate out of the stables’ grounds. As I do, I spot Cat again. She’s mounted now and in a field that runs parallel to the exit road.
When she sees me, a wide grin splits her face. She says something to Bracken, and suddenly they’re picking up speed, galloping alongside the fence line.
Jesus, she can go fast on that thing. My pulse quickens as I watch her urge the horse faster still, her body moving in perfect rhythm with the animal.
She pulls ahead of me and throws a challenging look over her shoulder. I could easily overtake her—my bike is capable of much more than this leisurely pace—but I’m enjoying the view too much to rush.
Cat crouches forwards, her arse slightly raised off the saddle, those jodhpurs hiding absolutely nothing. Every curve, every line of her body is on display. She glances back at me again, a knowing smirk playing on her lips.
Damn, maybe she’s not quite as sweet as I thought.
From this angle, I can see the way her thighs grip the saddle, the subtle flex of her calves with every stride, and that tantalising gap between her body and the leather that sends my thoughts spiralling into dangerous territory. She leans even further forwards, urging the horse faster, and the shift in position offers an even better view—a glimpse of pure temptation that makes my breath catch.
For a moment I’m entranced. So entranced I nearly veer off the side of the road and have to jerk the handlebars to right myself.
Fucking hell, MacDonald. Eyes on where you’re going.
I shoot Cat one final glance then turn off the single-track road and onto the main road, acutely aware that my jeans are feeling suspiciously snug in certain areas. When I get home, I definitely need to have a go at my punchbag. Now, as well as being falsely accused of theft, there’s something else I need to work off.