Chapter Twenty-Seven #2
I feared I’d return to a state of panic: tasks half done, décor half up, something or someone on fire and needing my attention.
Instead, when I descend, showered, shaved and dressed in my kilt, the farm is calm.
Eerily so. I can hear murmuring in the kitchen, so I poke my head in to find Jonathan, Stuart’s husband, piping lilac buttercream on to the third layer of the wedding cake, the other two laid out on the counter next to him, gleaming with fresh frosting.
He’s wearing a canvas apron over his denim overalls, his square glasses pushed back up on his forehead as he bends over in concentration. He’s shorter than Stuart, and a decade older, half his hair already gone silver and fine laughter lines threading the creases around his eyes and lips.
On the other side of the kitchen, the caterers are setting up, pulling sauces and half-prepared food out of huge tubs, mixing bowls and oven trays piled beside them. I leave them be. My interference will cause more chaos than it will solve.
“The conquering hero returns.” Jonathan’s green eyes spark with merriment. His voice rings with an American twang. “And with quite the story to tell, I hear.”
“Your husband has already given me my marching orders.”
“I had no doubts.” He turns the cake, producing a flat knife to smooth the buttercream. “He worries about you.”
“I know.” I sigh. “I wish he wouldn’t. I’m fine.”
“Whether or not that’s true, it won’t make any difference. He’s still going to worry.”
And now I’ve given him even more to worry about, I think with a spark of guilt. “Where is everyone?”
“Bride and family are in their rooms getting ready. Groom has gone on a walk with the best man – think they took a flask of whisky with them, so they might be gone a while. Mason and Ross are out with your hiking friends. Last I saw Stuart, he was with you. That woman of yours is in her room.”
“She’s not my woman,” I snap.
Not anymore. Not now Ethan has come and whisked her away. Will she even stay for the rest of the wedding? She has to. But she’s already bailed once.
What are they doing in her room?
Jonathan’s hands still on the buttercream. “Interesting.” He resumes smoothing. “And everyone else is either here, or changing, ready for the first arrivals.” He shrugs. “There’s nothing for you to do.”
“I was worried you’d say that.”
I need a job. A task. Something to occupy my hands and mind.
“What can I say? We’re entirely too capable. You should check out the barn. The transformation Stuart’s worked there is nothing short of magic. If we weren’t already married, I’d propose to him on the spot.”
“He has a knack for seeing potential in everything.”
Jonathan gives me a significant look and smile. “That he does.”
“Sure you don’t need me?”
He shakes his head. “No. Go get reacquainted with the farm. But Angus?”
“Yes?” I pause in the doorway.
“He’s put a lot on the line for you. Don’t fuck it up, okay?”
There’s nothing I can say to that, so I leave the kitchen, not quite running, but certainly striding quickly, as if my steps can carry me away from my guilt.
The courtyard is quiet, nothing like the hubbub from earlier, and my formal shoes click on the flagstones as I slip inside the barn’s double doors.
Jonathan is right. It is nothing short of a miracle.
Pale purple cloths cover long wooden trestle tables, on which blown glass vases had been placed at intervals, filled with bouquets of dried flowers, which lend the formal settings a rustic feel, perfectly in line with the barn’s exposed wooden beams. Everything has been thought of, from the elegant table plan by the entrance, to the linen napkins tied with twine, and the chiffon drapes hung from ceiling to wall, lining the length of the space.
Motes of dust drifted in the air. I try to imagine the hubbub here tomorrow, one hundred people filling the seats, the hum of their conversation, the clatter of cutlery, the clink of glasses.
Tonight’s dinner will be a smaller affair: only family, bridal party, and close friends. Assuming the weather holds, we’ll host it in the walled garden, and if not, we’ll move inside the main house, where we’ve extended the dining room to accommodate all the guests.
I should check that is prepared, I think, even as I marvel at the room.
It’s beyond my wildest dreams. All the back-breaking labour to convert it, to remove all traces of husbandry, re-painting the walls and re-laying the floors, all those hours I spent on my hands and knees going over every inch and cranny, and I still never imagined it would look like this.
It’s perfect.
For the first time, I feel a spark of hope.
The door clicks closed behind me. I spin around.
The sight of her steals the breath from my chest.
It’s Rowan, but not the Rowan I know. There isn’t a hint of neon or Lycra in sight. The woman in front of me is still beautiful, but it’s a harnessed beauty, trimmed and coiffed, every inch of wildness removed, except for a few strands of her hair that have loosened from her low bun.
Her dress is almost floor-length, slitted from hem to thigh and silvery-blue, hugging every one of her curves all the way down to her shimmering heels. Thin straps frame her collarbone, descending to a deep cowl neckline that shows off a hint of cleavage.
She isn’t wearing a bra, that much is clear.
And with a cut that tight, I bet she isn’t wearing pants either.
My heart sinks. I don’t get to have thoughts like that about her anymore. It’s over. Done.
“Hi.”
“Hi yourself. You don’t clean up half bad, London.”
I can’t take my eyes off her. I wish more than my eyes were on her. Stop it, I tell myself, but I can’t.
“I could say the same for you.” Her blue eyes sparkle as she drinks me in. I’m not above a little vanity sometimes; it feels good to see the way they linger. “You look stunning. Wait, can a man look stunning? Er, I mean, you look handsome. Very… civilised.”
“My eyes are up here,” I tease.
“Right.”
When her eyes flick up to mine again, sparks shoot between us. My hands twitches. I want to hold her, touch her, dig my fingers into her soft hips, spin her around, and slide that tight little dress out of the way so I can feel the heat of her.
I can’t. She isn’t mine.
“Where’s Ethan?” I ask her instead.
She frowns, her brows and the top of her nose crinkling sweetly. A hint of sadness enters her eyes, then clears as she smiles. “He’s gone.”
“Gone?”
“Back to London, I assume.”
“And you’re…” I don’t know how to say it. “You didn’t go with him?”
Rowan frowns again. “Why would I…? Oh. Oh! You think— Really? That I would— After everything he…”
“London.” I grind the word out. I can’t take it. My arms long to hold her. My lips to kiss her. “Full sentences, if you wouldn’t mind.”
She takes a deep breath. Her breasts rise and fall under the thin fabric.
My hands twitch. “No, Angus. I am not going with Ethan. We are not getting back together. He’s gone home.
Alone.” Rowan takes a slow step towards me.
“I like your kilt, by the way. Is it true what they say about Scottish men and their underwear?”
I step back. Clear my throat. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Not if you like that dress in one piece.”
Rowan inches forward again with a dangerous smile. “Are you saying you can’t resist me?”
“I’m saying that if you keep looking at me like that, that pretty pink lipstick won’t be there very much longer.”
She stops, bare inches from my chest. “I’m single. You’re single,” she says huskily. “What’s stopping you?”
Fuck, this woman is testing my self-control.
The conversations I’ve had, the promises I’ve made, they’re all rapidly flying out of the window.
I want to flip her around, bend her over and brace her hands on the trestle table, and take her where she stands, feel the warm wetness of her as I sink into her, hear her moan as I stroke her to ecstasy.
“Don’t you have bridesmaid-ly duties to be doing?” I ask instead.
Don’t fuck it up, Jonathan’s voice whispers to me.
“I’m not a bridesmaid anymore. That honour has been passed to someone else in light of my dereliction of duty.
” She says it flippantly, but she won’t meet my eye.
“But, yeah. Mum asked me to check on the flowers. Once she’d reassured herself that I was alive and not about to jump off any bridges, I think she wants me out of Sophie’s way. ”
Again, that flicker of sadness, the hint of a frown despite her upbeat tone.
I wonder how often Rowan pretends to be sunny, when it’s raining inside.
“So no, right now, there is nothing for me to do.” She looks up at me under lowered lashes. “Unless…”
“This is a bad idea.” But somehow my hand is on her waist, stroking her skin through the fabric.
“You’re right. We shouldn’t.” She bites her lip. “Not right now.”
“Definitely not here.”
We’ve both been moving towards the wall, and now Rowan leans back with her hands pressed against it, as if she is trying to force herself not to touch me. I know the feeling well.
“What would you do? If you could?”
I groan. “London.”
“What? It’s just a question.”
But it isn’t, judging by her stiff nipples, the rise and fall of her chest, her flushed cheeks. I want to devour her.
“First, I’d find out how high this slit goes.” I let my fingers trail up the hint of exposed thigh, dancing over her sensitive skin.
This is a bad idea.
“And then?”
“Then I’d see if my suspicions are right, and I’m not the only one missing their underwear.”
“You’re not.”
“Fuck.” I’m breathing heavily already, and I’ve barely touched her. Won’t touch her. Not here. Not now. This is nothing more than words. “I’d trace the line of your hips, and dip my finger into your pussy to find out how wet you are.”
Rowan moans. “Dripping. I’m dripping for you, Angus.”
“Then I’d worship you the way I really want to. On my knees. Your legs spread. Tasting every part of you, until you come undone on my tongue.”
“Please.”
“London…”
“Please. I need you to touch me. Angus, please.”
I draw in a breath, my willpower at an all-time low. There’s no one around, after all. How bad can it be?
Then the door to the barn swings open, and a newly familiar head of sleek blonde hair appears.
“Seriously, Rowan? Oh, come on!”