Logan
Whoever said bonnie women died out during the fifties had obviously never met this wee, Scottish American hybrid. I’ve lit a fire for us and she’s lying on the couch with her feet up, holding a glass of sherry on her stomach and she’s been talking for roughly two hours now.
Nonstop, but I don’t mind because the less she talks about herself the less likely it is that she starts asking questions about me. Besides I want to get to her know her. In this way.
She tells me about her travels, places she’s been like Costa Rica, Australia and about her job as a freelance journalist. She tells me about her friends and how they’re all lovers of dating apps.
“I signed up once too,” she murmurs, “just to try it out, but it didn’t work out that great.”
Clenching my jaw, I ask. “Is that so?”
She nods, flicking her foot up and down. “The guy was a total creeper, asked me if I was into bondage and role play, within thirty minutes of our dinner.” Rolling her eyes she shudders. “I was about to tell him to back the hell off when he said he needed to go to the bathroom.” She shrugs. “And then he never came back so I lucked out there.”
“Indeed,” I almost snarl and she shoots me a confused glance.
“You sound a wee bit pissed,” she murmurs but I shake my head.
“Who me? Never. Takes a lot to rile me up.”
That’s a lie, because I can get riled up within seconds when it comes to Macbeth.
Shivering a little, her eyes turn round in surprise when I pull a blanket over her. She’s looking at me like I’m some alien and I raise my brows.
“What, lass? Ya looked cold that’s all.”
She smiles a little. “Most men aren’t that considerate.”
“Not if ya look for them on dating apps, ney,” I answers and she sniggers, shaking her head at me.
“Don’t be judgey. It’s not easy out there in the jungle.” Glancing at me curiously she adds, “What about you Mr Keltar. You look like the kind who has women running after you and nipping at your ankles.”
I shake my head, looking her in the eyes. “It’s not like that. There’s only one woman for me.”
“Who?” she ask, then sniggers, “Yourmamaidh?” At that moment a blast of hale hits the window and she gasps, sitting up, her eyes suddenly distressed, pulling at something deep and primitive inside of me.
“Easy lass, it’s just Taranis getting a little frisky,” I soothe and she turns to look at me with a knot between her eyes.
“Taranis?” she asks and I scratch my beard, causing her to look away and blush for some reason.
“Celtic god of bad weather,” I say, giving her a stern look, “it’s the kind of thing you’re going to need to know if you stay here.”
“Who says I’m going to stay?” she asks with teasing eyes and my fists clench on the armrests. She notices and I loosen them and she bites her lip, adding, “But if I do stay, then maybe you could teach me everything I need to know?”
My heart slams in my chest and I sit up straight, trying not to come across as too aggressive. Or eager.
“Aye, that I can do,” I say hoarsely and she nods before yawning involuntarily.
“Ugh, sorry about that,” she says, with a smile and she rubs her eyes, “think I got struck by the jetlag.”
I take it as a cue for me to leave and I stand up. “I should get going.”
Looking up at me, she pulls off her blanket and stands up too. So damn wee, she reaches only slightly above my ribs and it makes my mouth curve.
When thunder rips up around the house, she looks at me hesitantly. “You live close by, right?”
Shrugging I say, “Depends on who ya ask. I’d say it’s pretty close.”
“How long for you to get home?” she wonders and I answer,