Page 54 of Loched in Love

He moves with a slow and methodic grace that makes my breath catch, entirely unbothered by the intrusion.

“Relax, my flower,” he says, lying back down on the mattress and looking entirely too appealing. “They’re only bringing food.”

“Yes, but they think were just normal tourists, not this,” I say, gesturing broadly at his oversized frame, his massive chest, and at the faint and shimmering scales that subtly catch the morning light on his skin when he’s relaxed this way and not hiding himself.

If anyone were to look too closely, they’d notice how his skin turns a blue green in some spots or that his turquoise gaze tracks movement a little too fluidly to be human.

I gaze again, longingly, at his chest and scales. “Put your shirt on, you’re too distracting.”

I frantically scan the room. Shit. I don’t have my robe.

I look toward the chair where my clothes from last night are piled, but they’re a lost cause and streaked with mud and lake water from where Vivian’s storm dropped on top of us.

The knocking comes again, a bit louder this time. “Hello, anyone in there?” Beatrice calls out.

“Just a moment!” I yell my voice cracking slightly.

In a total and complete panic now, I yank the top sheet off the bed and twist the white cotton around my body to make a makeshift and rumpled toga. I tuck one corner of the sheet in tightly over my boobs and clutch the excess fabric in my other hand, so I don’t trip and fall on my face.

“Don’t you dare laugh,” I warn him, glaring as he leans back against the pillows with that deliciously wicked smirk playing on his lips.

I rush from the bedroom, holding onto the sheet for dear life and pad my bare feet across the hardwood floors to make it to the cabin door.

I let it open just an inch and poke my head along with one bare shoulder out. Beatrice’ and Arthur’s voices erupt as they enter the cabin. She wears a bright and quilted vest with tiny birds embroidered over it, her silver hair in short ringlets around her head, while Arthur stands behind her in a thick tweed jacket.

“Oh hello love, look at you all tucked away,” she chirps, beaming as she sets a heavy and cloth-covered basket onto the kitchen counter. The sudden and rich aromas of savory meats, and warm butter fills the cabin instantly. “We were worried sick when the lightning hit an old oak tree down the road. Blew the transformers right out it did. We brought a full English breakfast with proper sausage, eggs, grilled tomatoes, and some freshly baked scones with clotted cream.”

“And a massive pot of strong tea.” Arthur says, his voice warm and jovial as he tips his flat cap to me. “Guaranteed to warm up the bones after such a strong English gale wind. Is that big chap of yours awake yet? He looked like he could eat enough for three men when you got in last night.”

I offer them a tight and slightly breathless smile, clutching the bedsheet tighter against my collarbone and subtly shifting my weight to block the view of the bedroom hallway. “Thank you both so freaking much, this is all incredibly sweet. He’s … he’s still waking up. The storm kept him awake,” I blurt, trying to save face.

Beatrice gazes down at the white sheet wrapped precariously around me in a knowing but highly amused maternal wink spreads across her face, making my cheeks instantly burst with heat. “Ohh, I just bet it did. A big fellow like that needs his rest. Now make sure he eats those scones while they’re still hot, and I’ll leave you to it.”

Before I can even begin to reply to her, the floorboards behind me groan as if suddenly put under a large weight.

The small cabin suddenly feels much smaller as Lachlan steps out of the bedroom.

He hasn’t even bothered to button his flannel shirt, and the thick plaid fabric hangs open, completely exposing his broad and heavily muscled chest, along with the faint and shimmering green hue that suddenly catches the morning light along his ribs. He’s so tall, his messy red hair practically brushes the ceiling rafters, and he looks every bit the wild creature of the loch, and seems completely unperturbed by his lack of clothing.

“Good morning,” Lachlan rumbles, in his thick Scottish brogue. His voice is deep and gravelly, and I swear I can feel it quake the room.

Oh my god.

I freeze, my hand gripping the cotton of my makeshift toga tightening so hard that I can sense my knuckles turning white. I turn and pray to whoever’s listening that Arthur and Beatrice don’t notice how Lachlan’s skin almost shimmers in the morning sun, or maybe I can now see it better because I know it’s there?

Beatrice stops mid-sentence and her mouth forms into an O of surprise and her gaze goes wide as she takes in the absolute wall of a man standing in the small hallway. For a moment, the talkative and cheerful English woman is completely speechless.

But Arthur doesn’t miss a beat and lets out an amused chuckle. He looks Lachlan up and down and, cool as a cucumber, tips his flat hat a bit higher on his salt and peppered head. “Right then, suppose I spoke of the devil, and glad to see you survived the gale, mate. Though it looks like you’ve been keeping yourselves plenty busy.”

“Arthur!” Beatrice gasps aloud, and swats her husband’s tweed covered arm, though a big and delighted grin spreads across her face. She looks back at Lachlan, then at me, no doubt taking in my twisted bedsheet and flushed face. “Oh, don’t mind him my dears. We were just leaving the breakfast, a proper fuel for a big lad like you.”

Lachlan steps closer, towering over the elderly couple.

The contrast is ridiculous; he looks like he could pick up them both with one arm. As he gazes down at the wicker basket on the counter, the scent of savory sausages and butter clearly catches his attention.

“Thank you,” Lachlan says, his accent thick and rolling. “The storm was loud, and we appreciate the food.”

“Think nothing of it,” Arthur replies, giving Lachlan a friendly if cautious pat on his big shoulder. “Eat up and we’ll leave you to your rest.”