KiltedForPleasure (20 page)

Blanking his face, Callan took a deep drink from his tea. “I don’t have an expression.”

“You do.” Douglass shrugged. “Lovesick. Guilt. Take your pick. If you do try to speak to her there are only two responses: I’m sorry and I love you.”

Callan pinched the bridge of his nose because just the thought of saying those last three words made his throat close. “Why didn’t you ever re-marry? I know Da didn’t because mum was the end all to be all for him.”

“Bollocks. Your Da is a whore and likes it that way. Eventually he would have cheated. You see he abandoned you the moment I took you in. My brother is a shite.”

Callan snorted, because Douglass had a point. “And you?”

“I’m pretty much the same. I’m only angry at the boys’ mum because she left them. I wanted it to work, aye. Who gets married with the intention to divorce? But I’m a shite and I like it that way.”

He laughed at his uncle’s honesty but shook his head. “While I’m here is there anything you need me to do?”

Douglass glared at him again, his face flushing with anger. “You came to me for the truth so here it is: You love her. I’ve said it more than once during this conversation and you haven’t denied it. You fix this by groveling, begging her to be yours. Most people are blessed to find real love once. You got it twice. If you piss it away
I
will never forgive you.” Douglass swiped his cup and scoffed at him. “Now you’ve offered to help. You can go downstairs, prep and figure out how you’re going to beg her to be yours. Don’t darken my door until she is.”

Callan sat there, shocked at the swift turn of his uncle’s opinion. “Where did this come from?”

“She’s leaving in two weeks. If for one moment you can’t imagine not having her in your life and if it hurts to even think it, then give her a reason to stay.”

And those words hit him and finally sunk into his thick skull. He hadn’t seen her for a little over a week and he’d been going stir crazy even though he knew she was still in Scotland. Still close enough that he could just catch sight of her coming out of her cottage if he timed it just right. Which he hadn’t, yet. He was close enough that maybe she’d forgive him. When she left, what then?

He ran a hand through his hair. Sweet Mary, he
wanted
to love her. Since Diana’s death he’d slept around but none of those women made him wish he could love them with all that he had left.

“Grovel, you say?” He considered his options and came up blank.

“Aye.”

Callan frowned. He’d been married, so groveling wasn’t a new concept. He was at a loss for the best way to show he was sorry. He had to do something that proved he meant every action. “I’m going to need more than words.”

“Think fast, laddie. She’ll be gone in a blink if you keep dragging your arse.”

The ache, the new one, throbbed harder. “Aye.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Callan beat his 4:30 a.m. alarm and began what he figured would be his ritual for the next two weeks. He washed his face, brushed his teeth, threw on some clothes and started a pot of coffee. He stared blankly out the kitchen’s window as the Coffee-mate dripped. Likely, he’d need the entire fucking pot just to tack together a full sentence, but it had to be done.

Last night Tristan and Ian had showed up to check on Papa Baird and to help in the pub. One of those daft bastards had pulled out Baird’s whiskey. He shook his aching head and chuckled.

Sometime around his third Robert Burns’ sorrowful poem, maybe fifth, Callan shut up long enough to think about how to make amends and not just think he should. Victoria had been hurt and angry, rightfully so, but she had believed he couldn’t admit that he cared for her. She’d been right. He couldn’t undo his decision to push her away. All he could do now was show her what he’d been too scared to feel, because she did matter. So much.

If his grief had taught him nothing else it was that the little things mattered the most. They were the things you missed the hardest, and at the moment he missed the scent of vanilla on his sheets, making dinner while she tapped away on her laptop and kissing her until it felt like there was no darkness left in him. He missed how she made the cold inside him go away just by throwing her dimple in his direction.

Enough mental wanking
. Callan groaned and opened the cabinet to pull down a cup and some headache pills. When his glass was full, he stepped outside to wait for Victoria. Last night hadn’t only been about drinking and Robert Burns. He’d found out her schedule. She’d changed her running time to five in the fucking morning. Seven was her previous time and he had problems getting up for that.

But he was determined.

Finally, he saw her silhouette. His breath caught. Aye, he’d missed her. Minutes later, she was at the end of his yard. Her jumper hugged her bouncing breasts and there was a beautiful flush to her cheeks.
She
was beautiful. His body reacted like it always did—his heart pounded, his mouth dried and he turned rock hard.

Her steady stride faltered and then she glared at him in a way that made him shift in discomfort. As she started to pass him, that pissed-off stare intensified. If he were a lesser man, his prick would have shriveled to a nub.

“Good morning, lass,” he said.

She stopped but the glare didn’t. Now it had curse words and probably just curses on all his dangling and favorite bits.

“What did you just say to me?”

The sharp whisper cut him. “Good morning, lass,” he repeated himself.

She replied with something so foul his brows went up.
Sweet Mary
. “I deserve that. Good morning, nonetheless.”

She scoffed and continued on her run. He pushed out a breath. “That went better than I hoped.”

And so went his new morning ritual. On the third day she walked up to him, snatched his cup from his hand, poured out the contents onto his shoes while giving him another glare filled with curses and then she threw the mug toward the dip in the moor. The actions needed no translation: Fuck you and your morning coffee.

When she turned back to him, she smiled and her dimple deepened. “Good morning, laddie.”

Since that felt like progress, on the fourth day he made her breakfast. He’d fried up sausages, tatties, but scrambled her eggs and included a cheddar and onion scone. That stopped her, but in a good way.

She walked up to him, glanced at the plate and then took it. He went into the house to get his own plate and they stood their and ate breakfast together. Callan didn’t bother to talk. He’d pushed them far enough already, and the only reason that probably happened is because she must have wanted to see him too. She could have changed the time of her morning run. Or, run in the opposite direction.
But she hadn’t
. So he would leave the rest up to her.

Fuck. How sad was it that he just wanted to see her? Let the wind pick up her scent and breathe her in again? Pretty fucking pathetic, but his heart didn’t feel so cold as they stood there in silence.

When she finished, Victoria handed him the plate. “I thought you hated mornings.”

“Oh, I despise them. If it were possible to piss on them, I’d drink three pots of coffee and then chase it with a gallon of water.”

Her lips didn’t even twitch in a laugh. “Sounds about right.” She sighed, but there was no give in her gaze. “Two words.”

“What?”

“There are two words in the English language that you have yet to use. So you can stand out here every morning until I leave and I still won’t even consider forgiving you until you say them.” She turned back toward her cottage but threw over her shoulder. “Thank you for breakfast.”

“Burke,” he said, gripping their plates in his hands. He waited until she faced him so he wouldn’t say this to her back. He wanted to make sure when Victoria looked him in the eye she would know Callan meant it. “I’m sorry.”

The hardness in her expression didn’t lessen. “I’d hoped it would take you another week to figure that one out.”

Victoria nodded and turned back toward her cottage. His heart sank right into his stomach. Why hadn’t he appreciated what had been given to him freely? Grief had frozen him in time and then the fear of ever experiencing it again had done the same. He had no defense, because Victoria had finally proved him wrong. He was daft enough to want to love again. He wanted to risk it all. No. A broken heart didn’t compare to losing a spouse, but that didn’t mean it felt like tickles and rainbows. And he was capable and willing to experience it again for her.

He let his gaze follow her until he couldn’t see her anymore and then went into his workshop to finish out today’s job.

The next morning she stopped at the spread on the plaid blanket and then just shook her head. “You can’t even grovel right.” She sounded irritated. “You’re supposed to look and act depressed and miserable. At some point I believe you are truly sorry for being a dickhead and all is forgiven.”

She placed her hands on her hips. Her tights elongated her legs. The jumper hugged her full breasts. And for him, she’d never stop looking gorgeous even when she glared at him.

He frowned at her words. “What am I doing wrong?”

“You’re cooking. You’re not supposed to have an appetite. You’re not supposed to even have the right mind to plan out morning breakfast. You’re clean shaven, matching and your hair always looks tousled so that’s not anything new.” She swallowed. “And it doesn’t change the fact this is still about your ego. You just don’t want me to leave Scotland angry with you.”

Her words weighed on him. He’d broken her trust and that was the hardest thing to rebuild. “I should have told you what I’d planned to say to Ian and Tristan. I should have told you that I needed you to stay there with me, all night. To just be there. I didn’t.” His throat felt thick as the words spilled out. “I can’t undo how I treated you as second best.”

She sucked in a shuddering breath. “And this?”

“Starting over, if you’ll let me.” He touched her plate. His hands trembled. “There’s nothing like a good Scottish breakfast after a run. I’ve made the same as the day before and added tomatoes, bacon and mushrooms. We also have toast with jam. Sorry about that.” He winced. “I want to show remorse for my actions but not even I can stoop to American jelly. I’m not that good of a man.”

For the first time since he’d started this, she laughed. “You suck at this.”

That sound washed over him and he wanted to revel in it. “I know, but I’m trying. Will you have breakfast with me?”

She bit down on her lip to curtail the smile. “I am hungry.”

Since that wasn’t a yes, he offered the cup of orange juice. She sighed and settled in on the plaid cover without taking it. “I’m leaving, Callan.”

He handed her a plate and she took that. “And until you go,” he said, “I want to have breakfast with you every morning if you let me.”

The hardness in her gaze softened. “You don’t even like being awake this early.”

“It’s the only time of day I can see you. I miss you, lass.”

She focused on her plate at his words and began to eat. A minute later she murmured, “Why now?”

He had expected questions and answered as honestly as he could. “Douglass put his foot up my arse and pointed out some things that were likely obvious.”

Interest showed in the way her ears perked up. “Like?”

He held her gaze. “I adore you.”

She put her plate down, shaking her head. “Why?”

“When you’re not being cheeky, you’re just as ornery as I am.”

“I’m always cheeky.”

“You don’t tell me I’m perfect.”

With every answer anger built in her eyes again. She stabbed at her sausage. “I don’t lie well anyway.”

“You’re kind and it’s what I needed and I didn’t even know it.” He finally picked up his own plate. “And I’m not asking you to forgive me. To be honest, I’m being selfish again. I just want to spend this last week with you until you leave. I don’t want to forget how this feels. How it feels to be around you.”

She stilled for a moment. “And your wife?”

And that was the complication. He sighed and looked at Scotland in the morning light. “There is always going to be a part of me that loves her, misses her. Will I still have moments where I wonder if our children would have had her freckles? Yes. I can not erase her from my past no more than you can forget the ex that betrayed you.”

She blinked. There was a sheen to her eyes but her dimple winked. “Give me a second. I’m trying to imagine you with children. You, Mr. Grumpy.”

And that made him think about her with his children. His heart warmed and he smiled. Children with Victoria? He laughed, liking the idea. “Their first word would be shite. Not that hard to envision.”

Though there was a darkness in her gaze, she kept smiling until it slowly faded. “I can’t do this with you. Not anymore. If I believe you truly are sorry, that you’re going to miss me—Ian hasn’t said anything.”

And there was the fear. He’d hurt her. Proved her right. He scooped up his eggs, his hand tight on the fork. “Eat with me, lass. That’s all I want right now.”

“Liar,” she said, sounding frustrated.

He snorted at the truth and then ate his breakfast. Soon she joined him. Maybe ten minutes later she glanced at him. Tears were brimming in her eyes. That almost killed him.

“I can’t, Callan. I just can’t.”

He didn’t reply right away because he wasn’t sure if she meant she couldn’t love him anymore or that after what he’d done she could never truly trust him. Did it really matter? What did matter was the time they had left. “Aye, I understand.”

Fuck if he didn’t want to. It would hurt less if her reasoning was irrational. Then he could get mad and have that to warm him. Instead he took her empty plate and stacked it on top of his. “Any request for tomorrow’s breakfast?”

She breathed heavily and then shook her head again. “Damn you,” she muttered and then leaned forward to kiss him.

That made the ache worse because how could he not have seen, understood, this was the woman he shouldn’t have let go. Cute as a pixie and with a mouth that made him crave things he couldn’t put into words. This woman. He bundled her in his arms and kissed her like it was the last time he’d get the chance.