Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Ross stood outside, wanting to hit something.
How could he care for a woman who'd rejected him so easily?
But he supposed, if he was being honest with himself, he had always cared. Even when she didn't meet him. Even when he'd returned to Scotland and hated her, he still cared about her. Which explained a lot when it came to his relationships since then.
Seeing her standing in the office in another pair of x-rated jeans and blowing that damn bit of wavy hair from her eyes—sexy didn't even begin to cover it.
He'd wanted to walk right up to her, tuck it behind her ear, and then kiss the daylights out of her, push her against the desk and do all the things he remembered doing and all things he'd learned since the age of eighteen.
Beyond the road, the green hills spread out like a glossy magazine ad. It gave him pause and he focused on the view until the chaos eased from his body.
He couldn't believe she was here. In Scotland. In the distillery and—
A yell and a crash echoed from the building.
Heart in his throat, Ross ran inside and into the office to find Harper's feet sticking in the air, the rest of her lost in a sea of boxes. She was cursing—a good sign all was well.
Relief filled him as he moved closer and peered over the pile.
Harper up glared at him. "Oh, now you show up. Could have used your help five seconds ago." She struggled to free herself and Ross had to admit—now that the scare was over—she looked pretty amusing stuck like that and mad as a hissing cat. "This is all your fault."
"My fault." He leaned forward and offered a hand, which she smacked away.
"Yes, your fault." Boxes tumbled as she tried to wiggle her way free, having to turn over, present her amazing, heart-shaped bum to his view in order to push herself to her knees.
The calm he'd managed went right out the window, replaced by a quick jolt of lust. His mouth went dry.
On her knees, she wiggled again, trying to find a foothold between the boxes and push herself to her feet.
Jesus.
Blood rushed to his groin. He scrubbed a hand down his face, trying not to look but unable to do anything else. Finally, in desperation, he leaned over, grabbed her waist, lifted her from the pile, set her on her feet, and then stepped away, heart pounding.
She stumbled back and tossed her wayward hair from her eyes. "Well that's one way to do it, I guess. Where did you go?"
"No where. You all right?"
"Yeah. Just trying to reach those boxes up there." She nodded toward the top of the long book case. "Got one down and stepped off the end of the desk."
"Lucky you didn't break something." Ross glanced around the room. "We're going to be here all day."
"I can manage if you need to be somewhere. Really."
Her hopeful voice only made him more agitated. Was she that eager to get rid of him? He did have things to do. Work, for one. "No. I'm good."
Ross pulled the rest of the boxes off the bookcase and begin to go through each one.
Harper returned to searching as well and they worked together for a long while in silence.
They found a few interesting items and Harper quizzed him on a few things, but, for the most part, she gave him a wide berth.
A few hours later the office was done.
Harper dug through the picnic basket, unwrapped her sandwich and dove in. Mouth full, she gestured to the basket. "There's an extra sammich in there. You want it?"
At his nod, she tossed it to him as he sat down in his mother's old chair. Harper leaned her hip against the desk. "I can't believe we didn't find it. Can you think of anywhere else it might be?"
"She loved the burn that runs behind the still house. She had a small studio attached to the back. We can check there. Other than that, I don't know."
"The burn is the creek, I take it."
"Aye. They used to use its water to make the whisky. Not so different than Dean's. Though yours was limestone filtered, ours runs over peat."
"So you were paying attention back then."
Ross smiled. "When you weren't distracting me."
He hadn't meant to go there, but the words came out effortlessly. He was relieved to see Harper take it in stride. She smiled at him and gave a slight shrug. No arguments from her. At least she wasn't denying what they'd had back then.
They finished eating and after, Ross led Harper across the road to the old stone still house.
With every step he took, the enormity of what he felt for Harper seemed to increase exponentially.
At the same time so did the questions and lingering fears.
He shoved his hands in his front pockets, trying to keep his mind focused on what they'd come here to do.
But inside he was still wound tight. He wanted to touch her.
Kiss her, feel her skin against his, to demand answers. ..
A flush of anger spread through him; he didn't want to feel a goddamn thing.
He shouldered open the thick wooden door. Inside, the still house was damp and cool. The smells of old barley and mash clung to the place. Harper entered behind him, her movement slow as she soaked in the large space, the massive cast iron mash tun, the copper stills, the pipes...
"Wow. This is amazing. You didn't sell off the equipment."
It was all still there, waiting.
Ross cleared his throat, not wanting to think about why he hadn't or what was stopping him from using it himself. "Not yet, no. The studio is this way." He moved past her and headed to the back of the still house.
Sunlight shone through the windows and the sound of the burn became louder as they went outside.
The water rushed quick and clear over the rocks.
The patio needed sweeping, the grass bank needed cut, and the worm tubs against the still house wall, which held the copper coils leading inside to the stills, were filled with leaves and debris instead of the cooling water from the burn.
To the right of the patio was the small stone addition.
Ross held the narrow door for Harper, pausing to admire the burn and the landscape beyond it before drawing in a deep breath and following.
Inside, the long, rectangular room looked as he remembered. A row of windows facing the burn gave the room its light. Against the opposite wall sat a long table that held art supplies stacked neatly in piles. A few canvases were leaning against the wall or stacked under the table.
"This is really nice." Harper paused to gaze out the row of windows. The entire wall was windows and provided 'the most wonderful light', his mother would always say.
Seeing her standing there, the light bathing her profile, making her hair glow, gave Ross heart burn. He winced a little and rubbed his chest.
"Where should we start?" she asked, turning toward him.
It took him a moment to gather his wits and answer. "Over there by her desk."
A frown creased her brow as she regarded him, no doubt wondering what the hell was wrong with him.
She moved toward the desk, but paused at the end of the long art table.
Her hand smoothed the back of a chair there.
Ross didn't need to look to know the back of that chair had his name carved into it and the table itself was marred with faded marker drawings from his youth.
Her eyes went all sweet and sexy. "This was where you sat."
He nodded.
"This is where your love of art and design took shape," she said, leaning back against the edge of the table to face him, her hands resting on either side of her. Her smile was genuine, her eyes soft and golden, and it killed him.
He didn't want her to see into his past, into the things that had shaped him. He wanted to be in control, not stand there and let her knock him off-balance like this. And he was damn tired of looking at Harper and not touching.
Her look went sober.
Aye, she knew where his thoughts had turned. The smile died slowly on her lips and her eyes went wider. The air between them went heavy and electric. Her hands gripped the edge of the table tighter. She licked her lips. It was the last straw.