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Rory Campbell is one tall stretch of handsome hotness. Thick dark hair flops across his brow, only partially obscuring a face that has all the sharp angles of a Picasso portrait, except in his case, they are arranged in exactly the right way. In fact, his face would be bordering on too perfectly carved if it wasn’t softened by the day-old dark growth along his jawline.
I imagine the rough scratch of scruff along my softer skin and cross my legs to tamp down the thrill that zings through my body with a slight shiver.
He’s not at all what I was expecting as I take a moment to observe him from inside the bar. The man leaning casually back in a chair too small for his heavily muscled physique is nothing like the person I imagined on the other end of the call this morning. That man sounded like an angry, uptight old grump.
This version of the man is panty melting. His Scottish accent—without the annoyed edge to it—rolling off his sexy lips could only be more perfect if he was talking dirty. As I step through the doorway and his gaze turns to watch me walk the few steps to our table, my hand shakes slightly, foamy froth dripping onto my fingers.
The glasses clink as I set them on the hard table between us without any more spillage.
“Thank you again for being so understanding about the luggage mix-up. I really wasn’t thinking of anything but my mother.”
He smiles. “And how is she?” he asks before bringing the beer to his lips. I watch his Adam’s apple bob in his throat as he takes a long swallow.
“Well … really well, considering.” My mouth is dry, and the words come out sounding like I’ve just crawled out of bed after a big night with friends. I clear it before continuing. “And surprisingly cheerful, though I suspect that might change when the drugs wear off.”
“That’s good. I guess you’ll be going back to visit her later?” The question in his voice seems to hold more interest than a polite inquiry. Or maybe it’s just the sexy lilt in his Scottish accent that makes it sound that way.
“Yes, but not for a while.” Until then, I’m hoping he doesn’t have somewhere else to be.
“Aye, right.”
“Plenty of time for me to hear the Rory Campbell story,” I add with what I hope is a friendly smile. Rather than a scary throwing-myself-at-him type when I don’t even know if he has a significant other.
A pleasant, deep chuckle rumbles up from his chest before he raises his glass to his lips. The ringless left hand wrapped around it is twice the size of mine and work worn. The hand of a man used to manual labor.
“Not an exciting story, I’m afraid,” he responds. “I live in Edinburgh, where I work as an architect designing row upon row of ordinary houses.” His voice trails off.
I lean my elbow on the table, propping my chin in my palm. “Wow, you’re right, that can’t be exciting. But surely there is more to your story. I mean, your hands don’t look like they belong to someone who sits at a desk drawing.”
Again, he laughs. “You’ve been checking out my hands? Isn’t that a bit weird?”
“Not at all. A person’s hands can tell you so much about them.” I smile before sipping at my drink, savoring the hint of lime my uncle swears makes his craft beer the best in the city.
“And what do yours tell me about you?”
I place both of my hands on the table in front of me, palms down. “That I’m an artist who likes to paint in oils and can never quite get the paint out of her nails.”
He bends forward, pretending to inspect my hands. “I think you’re right.” He gently turns them over so they are palm up. His touch sends heat coursing through my veins like hot flowing lava. “You really can tell a lot about a person by their hands.” He turns his right one over so our palms are side by side. Apart from the obvious size difference, his callused palm appears rough compared to my soft, smooth skin.
Rory looks up and smiles, his dark eyes drawing me in and holding me captive. The laughter lines framing them possibly placing his age somewhere in his early thirties. I’ve always been attracted to older men—well, not really old, but definitely not the boys who seem to want to date me. My pals tell me I’m way too fussy and cynical for a twenty-six-year-old. They might be right because most of the good men have been snapped up by thirty. Which is why my dating life is a dismal wasteland. But I’d still rather wait for the unicorn thirty-something man to come my way than waste my time with a fumbling, immature man-child.
His voice pulls me back to reality with a jolt. “Freya?”
I blink, then quickly drop my gaze back down to our hands, which are still beside each other, less than an inch apart.
“Did I lose you there?” he asks, and I quickly shake my head.
A half frown pulls his eyebrows down. “I was only saying that I like to work with wood, making furniture in my spare time.” His words float between us, eventually finding their way to my brain.
Clearing my throat, I mumble, “See? I knew there was an interesting backstory there,” before pulling my hands back and tucking them safely one on top of the other on the table. The conversation feels a little too personal for two people who just met. It’s time to reset and bring things back to a more casual footing.
“What brings you to Iceland? Are you here with a partner, friends, or alone?” Okay, so that is probably not the best follow-up, but subtlety and I have never been friends. Besides, Rory and I were almost holding hands, so I need to know if he belongs to somebody else.
One brow rises and his smile widens. “I was meant to be meeting up with my brother and some friends for his buck’s weekend. But he had to cancel at the last minute because his baby isn’t well. So it’s just me.”
“Good … I mean, that’s unlucky. Is the baby okay?”
“Aye, he texted a short time ago to say the doctor thinks it’s just a twenty-four-hour thing. I guess being new parents, anything like a temperature would be worrying.”
