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Ballydoon was never this lush - gum trees were grey-green, sometimes silver in the right light. Paddocks were dusty, the dry grass was pale yellow or brown, and the granite boulders glowed rosy hue of orange. After five years of living in the United Kingdom, the landscape never failed to surprise me. So different compared to home.
And so wet. A light shower began to fall. If only I could send this rain in a parcel to home. How we needed rain in Ballydoon. Oban by the sea was as far removed as you could get from my hometown’s mountains, heatwaves and blue skies.
I pulled my coat tighter. It was yellow like Lego bricks and the protective jackets my siblings wore for the Ballydoon Rural Fire Brigade. A bright and cheerful colour that seemed garishly at odds with my surroundings.
I made for the exit, pulling my suitcase behind me. The overnight sleeper service had been surprisingly comfortable. I couldn’t help staying up to do some research on the distillery’s owners.
One thing I knew was they were elusive to find online. For a family-owned business, I’d been expecting a big happy clan photo, decked out in kilts on their website. But all the pictures were of the distilling process, casks, and buildings.
The CEO, Stuart McAlister, had no photo on the company website which still had the former CEO, Morton McAlister, with a brief bio and head shot, and a mention that Stuart was now in charge.
When I eventually found Stuart and his two brothers on social media, only the younger brother, James, had selfies on his public profile; lots of them in different places in the world, all featuring his wide toothy grin and a twinkle in his eye. The other two were private and their profile photos were not of them; Robert was a squirrel, and Stuart was a seal on a rocky beach.
As far as I could tell, the distillery was run by a zoo and a selfie addict.
I managed to download a photo of Stuart; a young man, maybe about twenty-years-old, smiling for the camera, glancing up from a bench on the sideline of a playing field, dressed in a rugby jersey. His face glowed, his grin wide from ear to ear, his eyes were lit up with a spark. And then, the train’s Wi-Fi had cut out. Cursing the Internet gods, I’d called it a night.
I had no idea who was meeting me at the station, but I hoped someone from the London office had got word to the client that I was coming. It hadn’t occurred to me to email them before I raced out of work to pack. Thoughts of looking out for a squirrel or a seal to pick me up vanished when I collided with a wall of solid muscle.
I bounced off the man, catching his scent.Christmas pudding…
“Sorry,” he muttered, as he caught me by the waist before I went sprawling.
My luggage wasn’t so lucky and skittered across the tiles. That voice! I stumbled, my hands flying to his shoulders to steady myself. He was in a windproof jacket, beanie, work shirt and pants with reflective strips above the knees. It reminded me of the outfits my brothers wore for the farm back home.
The Beast!
There was a smear of grease was on his right cheek, as if he had just come off a factory floor somewhere. His beard had been cut back to scruff. Nothing like how he had dressed for the cigar bar.
Again, that faint smell of spice and whisky. I looked into his dark brown eyes, wide with surprise and delight. Something tugged on the edge of my mind but I ignored it.
My gaze went to his lips. He smiled broadly and, lordy, he did have dimples under his beard!
“Whisky Girl,” he growled.
Was I still on the train dreaming about him? Last night, I’d entered more cells on my wish list spreadsheet of things that Reckless and Risky Amanda would do. Each night since we’d met, I’d thought about him: his touch on my arm, his lips on my knuckles when he kissed them, the way he said pleasure.
His fingers flexed on my waist and I grabbed his shoulders harder, my nails digging in. He was real and so close; his breath mixing with mine.
If I just reached up, our lips would touch.
I’d fantasised about kissing him while lying in bed; what his mouth would feel like on mine, my body flush against his, both of us naked…
I pushed up on my toes and brushed my lips against his, so light and brief I barely made contact.
He hesitated for just a second and then kissed me back. His words from the cigar lounge boomed in my mind: the promise of pleasure.
I grabbed the collar of his coat and crushed my lips against his. I moaned, sucking his bottom lip, begging to be let into his mouth. He surrendered with a groan and my tongue sought his, savouring him. He tasted bitter and sweet; coffee and biscuits, with the tiniest hint of toothpaste.
After seconds that passed like minutes and hours, I broke our kiss with a gasp. He pressed his forehead against mine, both of us gulping air.
“Oh god. I kissed you… and you kissed me…” A confession tumbled from my lips. “I regretted leaving on Sunday night. When I saw you here just now, I couldn’t waste another moment wondering what it would be like to kiss you.”
He grinned again and pushed me back against a brick wall with a growl and kissed me ravenously.
I was a woman starved. I threaded my fingers into his hair and kissed him back with just as much fervour.
No one had ever kissed me before like this; so urgent, full of need and desire.
