Chapter 8 #2
She knew what he was really saying. Why wasn't she working as a photographer?
Why was she clipping doggie toenails and brushing canine teeth instead?
Kate had a deep, deep love for animals. They were her life.
She'd turned something she loved into her own business.
And the question was, why didn't Lucy have the courage to do the same? That was what he was really asking.
Ian didn't push, and she was grateful for that. It was none of his business anyway.
They cleaned up in silence and before Ian could return from stowing the basket on the boat, Lucy followed him out, not caring about getting wet. He said nothing, just lifted her onto the boat and climbed in behind her.
When Lucy spied the castle in the distance and realized they weren't heading toward it, she gave Ian a questioning look.
"Whisky tasting remember?" The boat slowed. "You still up for it?"
Oh yeah, she was up for a drink. Several, in fact.
She was irritated, mad that he made her think about one of her greatest failures. Trying. That was her failure. She never even tried. Fear of failure. Fear of everything. "Absolutely. How fast can this bucket move?"
"Fast as you want it to, lass."
"And you know what? Stop calling me that." She didn't want him to be so perfect, so nice, and accommodating. She didn't want to hear the subtle Scottish accent or words that set butterflies dancing in her belly. She didn't want any of it.
As they came upon the village, Lucy had to admit it, too, was picture perfect, lining a pretty curve of land that hugged the loch.
Ian moored the boat and they walked up the dock, past several fishing and leisure craft to the Lazy Lion Pub across the street. He'd been quiet after her outburst, and she couldn't tell whether he was hurt or pissed or simply didn't care.
It didn't take long for Lucy to get drunk.
"It's meant to be sipped," Ian told her for the third time.
Lucy downed her glass. "It's a whisky tasting. I'm tasting. It's all good, MacLaren. Don't worry about it."
He let out a snort, took a sip of the amber liquid, and then fiddled with the crystal glass, wondering what the hell to do next.
Lucy was well on her way to getting wasted.
Not exactly the way he'd envisioned the day going.
He'd ticked her off, asking about her photography, and by doing so, making her face some things she obviously preferred not to face.
She hiccuped.
If she kept up her current pace, he'd have to carry her back to the boat.
Grant, the bartender, eyed him when Lucy asked for another drink.
Ian gave a slight nod. One more. Because maybe she needed this.
From what he did know about her, she didn't take risks.
Her entire trip was probably the biggest risk she'd ever taken.
In a lot of ways, Lucy Walker was finally spreading her wings, learning who she was.
In a weird way, he felt proud of her. And humbled that he was able to go along for the ride.
He shook his head.
What did he care? He needed a great review. He needed to make sure Lucy left Scotland with happy memories, ones she'd never forget.
She hiccuped again.
Ian lifted an eyebrow.
"What?" she asked.
"Nothing."
"You don't approve of my drinking?"
"From where I'm sitting, you're a grown woman..."
"Glad you noticed." Oh yeah, he'd noticed all right. "But you didn't really answer the question."
Ian angled in his seat to face her. She did the same and their knees touched. "None of my business, Lucy. If this is the way you want to let loose, it's your choice. Done the same myself."
"Mmm," she hummed thoughtfully as she brought the glass to her lips and sipped. Her eyes stayed on him, those big expressive eyes that glittered gold and copper in the low light of the pub. "I did need to let loose, I guess." She licked the whisky from her bottom lip and Ian almost had a coronary.
She finished her drink, set it on the bar, and then grabbed Ian's hand. Warmth from her skin, the way her slim fingers played with his palm, his wrist, turning his hand over, made his heart go into overdrive. "You're a decent guy." She glanced up at him with sadness.
His chest constricted into a tight knot.
It felt like she was breaking up with him, which he knew was crazy seeing as how they weren't even a couple. But damned if he wanted to hear her say they couldn't be together, so he cupped both sides of her head, leaned in, and kissed her whisky-glazed lips.
So goddamn soft.
A low moan of approval hummed in her throat. His shirt twisted as she grabbed it and pulled him closer. Lust leapt in his belly and ran hot and heavy through his veins. He wanted his tongue on her, wanted to taste her, but Grant's low chuckle as he walked by made Ian back off.
The look they shared, the heat, the significance, the inevitability.
They'd see this through.
But not now.
Ian stood. With a shaky hand he pulled out a few notes and tossed them on the bar top. Lucy got off her stool and began making her way to the door. Ian caught up, surprised when she opened her hand behind her. He took it, and she led him out the door and into the cool afternoon.
His lust dropped to a low simmer as he helped her onto the boat. "Maybe you should sit down for the ride," he suggested.
"Ugh. No thanks. That'll probably make me sick. I'll stand."
They didn't speak after that. Ian was pretty sure Lucy's thoughts were occupied with the same things that occupied his—the fact that sooner or later, they'd be together. That being with Lucy seemed to be set the minute she'd arrived at Balmorie.
It shook him up. It made no sense and yet, when he looked into her eyes, it made perfect sense.
Cold unease whipped through him. He had to stop thinking, stop making more of it than it was. Just fucking stop. Take a step back. No, not a step. He should run. Yeah. Run screaming.
Ian was so worked up by the time he docked the boat and walked Lucy inside the house that he nearly collapsed in relief when she thanked him for the day, and hurried upstairs. No conversation. No touching.
For a long time he stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at nothing, feeling more lost than he'd ever felt before.
The shuffle of footsteps told him Hamish had come into the room. The old man stopped beside him and was quiet for a while. "This calls for a drink, eh lad?"
"Does it?" he echoed flatly.
"If the way you look at that lass is what I think it is, seems a damn waste of time to fight it, or pretend it isn't what it is.
Or that the occasion doesn't call for a drink.
" Any other time Ian would have laughed at that.
Hamish was always coming up with occasions to have a stiff drink.
But Ian wasn't laughing; he felt a little sick, to be honest.
Hamish slapped him on the back and chuckled, as though he knew exactly what Ian was going through. "Come on, lad. Let old Hamish set you right."