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“Aye, I do.”
“But Stuart, when the audit is over, I’m in London and you’re here.”
“I’ll come and see ye, hen. Ye can come here, too. It can work, I’m sure of it.”
“Part of me wishes that I’d stayed at the Gatsby Lounge that night and gone back to your hotel room with you. Because then I would know now what sleeping with you would be like.”
“Hen, ye can find out what that is like. Soon.” I stifled a groan. “I’ll wait for ye.”
A breeze came off the harbour, whipping Amanda’s hair across her face. I couldn’t help myself and reached out, tucking a strand of hair back in place.
“Every time I’m with you,” she stared at my lips, her voice barely a whisper. “I want to ignore the rules.”
I groaned then, resting my head against her forehead, needing to touch her. “When ye say that, I don’t want to behave like a gentleman.”
With a deep breath and Herculean strength, I moved away. She was here to do a job. The CEO couldn’t be kissing the auditor, no matter how much I wanted to.
“Ever heard an ode to a haggis?”
She burst out laughing. “Are you serious? That’s a thing?”
“As serious as a haggis on Burns Night.” I smiled. “And you’re about to find out over noodles and spring rolls.”
* * *
My fist hovered over the wood grain of the door separating our rooms as the dawn light shone weakly through my window. Grinning like a loon, I held back from knocking.
I lowered my fist, sucking on my swollen lip to get rid of my smile.
It didn’t work.
I may have been a smitten fool, but I was smart enough to know I shouldn’t wake a woman up just because I wanted to see her as soon as I could.
Last night was… I had no words. After we’d both showered - each in our own bathrooms - to rid ourselves of the stink of booze, we’d eaten dinner and after, I read her poems by Robert Burns. I’d read ‘Address to a Haggis’, which made her giggle, and ‘To a Louse’, which made her laugh out loud, partly in horror at the idea of a poet writing about head lice.
She had a point.
I’d kept on reading because Amanda giggling was the most beautiful sound in the world. Thank ye, Scottish Bard, for making her laugh.
Once I’d run out of poems about haggis and parasites, I’d read some of his love ballads. Amanda had had a couple of whiskies after dinner and shifted her position on the couch to make herself comfortable. I read ‘The Banks o’ Doon’ as a tribute to her home in Ballydoon.
When I finished ‘My Love is Like is a Red, Red Rose’, she’d slumped down the couch and fallen asleep against me, her hand resting on my thigh and her breathing deep.
I concentrated on tariffs, V.A.T. and my grandmother to keep my lust on a firm leash. She’d stirred, so I’d stroked her arm as if she were a cat, and she’d settled again. I sat near motionless for thirty minutes, tracing lines on her arm and listening to her snuffle. When the fire burned out, I’d carried her to bed and tucked her in. Her hair fanned across her pillow. She was beautiful and radiant, like an angel.
Falling asleep against me was more important than any kiss: it meant she trusted me and felt safe and secure. I’d felt like a king.
And now, I’d woken up this morning feeling energised, blood pumping, and yes, incredibly turned on. But I didn’t want to wake her up to have sex, or even kiss, though my morning wood had other ideas. I just wanted to see her again, hear her voice, say good morning and tell her what a great night it had been.
I could leave her a note. I didn’t have her phone number. Even though we had hired her, and despite living next door, I hadn’t looked up her details from the accounting firm. Amanda was always around so I hadn’t needed to call or text her.
I stared at the door. Or, I could surprise her.
I grinned again.
I needed to go for a run. I was the human equivalent of a Labrador this morning; eager for a pat on the head and in need of burning off energy.
I shaved forty seconds off my best time for a three-mile jog. When I got back, Amanda was still asleep.
