Working It (25 page)

I am about to argue with him when his words hit the mark somewhere deep in my conscience.

Putain!

Last year, I told Vivian to stop trying to be the woman she thought others wanted her to be and to start being the woman she was inside. I told her to get real, be authentic.

Who knew a year later, a cocky, sexy, flirty cowboy would give me the same advice?

A fish tugs on my line and I almost drop the rod.

“I have a bite!”

“Reel it in, a
ghràidh
,” he commands, wrapping his hand around mine. “Nice and steady.”

With Calder’s help, I reel the flopping, writhing fish in. Calder removes the hook and slides the fish in the cellophane bag beside the other.

“Yes!” I jump up and pump my fists in the air. “I did it! I did it! I really, really did it! Ha! And you thought I wouldn’t catch a fish. Score one for France, baby.”

Hands on the Stick

One minute, I am jumping up and down, punching the air, and doing my little fishing victory dance, and the next minute I am wailing like a baby. I am not shedding a pretty, silent tear. I am standing still, mouth wide open, tears flowing down my cheeks.

Calder comes over to me immediately, wrapping his arms around me, and pressing my head to his heart.

“What is it?”

I don’t think. I just open my mouth and say the first thing that comes out. “I was afraid I wasn’t going to catch a fish, and then you would think I was a big, fat l-l-loser.”

“Are you kidding me?”

I’m not. OhMyEffingG! I am not kidding.

I shake my head.

Calder pushes me away from him so I am forced to look up into his handsome face. He looks into my eyes, recognizes my sincerity, and presses his mouth against mine, kissing me with a tenderness that provokes fresh tears.

I want to tell him that I love him. I want to stand on my tip toes, press my lips to his ear, and whisper, “
Je t’aime. Je t'aime de tout mon cœur.
”

But I don’t.

I pull away, bend down, pick up a rock, and throw it into the sea. “You must think I am one of those weak females who weeps at greeting card commercials and hangnails.”

“No.” He shakes his head and sighs. “I didn’t think you are weak. I ken you are strong, but….”

I turn to look at him. “But what?”

“’Tis nice to see you this way.”

“What way? Whiny? Pathetic?”

“Real. Thoughtful. Needy.”

“Needy?” I take a step back. “I am not needy!”

“Really?” He steps closer and pulls me back into his arms. “There’s nothing wrong with being needy, sometimes, a
ghràidh
. It means you need someone…and I like to be needed by you.”

We don’t speak again. We stand with our arms wrapped around each other as the sea crashes into the rocks below, sending a mist as gentle as Calder’s kisses to fall on our faces.

We pack the backpack and walk into the forest, hand in hand. Calder leads me the log cabin we passed earlier.

“Is this your cabin?” I ask, as he reaches up and removes a key from a hiding place over the door frame.

“Nay,” he says, sticking the key in the lock. “This is Stiffy’s cabin. He said we could use it.”

“That was nice of him.”

“Aye.” Calder takes the key out of the lock and pushes the door open. “After you, my lady.”

I step inside the cottage. It’s sparsely decorated, but clean and cozy. There is a pull-out couch in front of a stone fireplace, a thick rug on the flagstone floor, and a small but serviceable kitchen. A large picture window offers a panoramic view of the woods and ocean beyond.

I excuse myself and head to the bathroom to clean up. I wash my hands with the sliver of soap someone left on the sink, pinch my cheeks, rub the tinted lip balm I stuck in my jacket pocket into my lips, and comb my hair with my fingers. I do a quick pit check, sniffing for any offensive odors and catch a whiff of the L’Heure I spritzed on my bath towel before drying off this morning.

I finish my toilette and walk out of the bathroom. A fire is crackling in the fireplace, creating a welcoming warmth in the small cabin, and Calder is standing at the stove, frying the fish in a heavy cast iron pan.

“That smells delicious.” I look at the crusty golden fish frying in the pan. “Are you frying them in butter?”

“Coconut oil.”

“Are those diced potatoes?”

“Aye.”

“You brought potatoes and coconut oil?”

“Aye.” He grins at me. “A highlander is always prepared.”

“What else is in that pack of yours, Mary Poppins?”

Calder reaches into his pack, pulls out a bottle of white wine, and hands it to me.

“Did you pack a corkscrew?”

He lifts his shirt, giving me a glimpse of his taut abs, and unfastens a Leatherman from his belt.

“Here you go,” he says, handing me the tool.

I find the corkscrew tool and twist it into the cork. “Did you bring wine glasses, too?”

His mouth drops open and I laugh.

“Relax,” I say, opening one of the cabinets. “Maybe Stiffy has wine glasses.”

I search the cabinets, but I don’t find wine glasses. In fact, I don’t find a single drinking vessel. Something tells me old Stiffy consumes his beverages from aluminum cans. This is a beer-swilling, Cheetos-eating man cabin if I ever saw one.

“We could always share the bottle,” Calder says, wiggling his eyebrows at me. “That is, if it won’t insult your refined French sensibilities.”

“
Mon cher
, I am French,” I say, putting the bottle to my lips and taking a sip. “I would drink wine out of your navel if I had to.”

Calder turns the dial until the gas flame barely flickers and looks at me with a raised brow. “Oh, really?” He reaches around and grabs the back of his shirt, pulling it over his head and tossing it aside. “Well, here’s your chance.”

We are on each other in seconds, yanking off clothes, falling onto the rug in front of the fire, running hands over naked flesh. It is hot and urgent. It is the manic, sweaty, slightly rough kind of sex people have when they’re super horny.

After, Calder grabs a wool blanket from his backpack, and we snuggle together. We lay there, staring at the flames, drinking wine from the bottle, and sharing dreams of things we want to do together.

Usually, I don’t like to make long-term plans with a lover. Love affairs have short shelf-lives, and unrealized plans can be painful. It’s different with Calder. I find myself daydreaming about a life that, frankly, terrifies me. I see us being together for years, spending holidays diving in Fiji or skiing in Saint Moritz, buying a pied-à-terre in Paris, settling into a work-hard play-hard life.

And it makes me want him again.

I push the wool blanket down, exposing our naked bodies, and pour wine onto his abdomen.

“You are a woman of your word,
banfhlath
.”

I follow the glistening, sweet paths the wine traveled down his sides with my tongue, licking and lapping his skin until he groans and pulls me on top of him.

It’s only been minutes since we climaxed, but Calder is hard again, his rigid cock pressing into me, possessing me. I ease onto him and begin riding him, moving up and down in a slow circular motion that has us both shuddering and collapsing into each other.

Spent and satiated, we lie side by side, our feet warmed by the fire. I want to stay here forever, floating on cloud nine, far above the petty problems of life.

I am high on love. Higher than I have ever been before.

And I am scared. Scared that once we leave this cabin I will come crashing down from cloud nine. Something will happen, a misunderstanding, a fight, a shift in affections, and this shimmering illusion of happiness will vanish.

Calder raises his arm and looks at the big Breitling wrapped around his wrist.

“We have to go soon,” he says, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “We better eat and clean up.”

The fish and potatoes are more than a little crispy on one side, but it is still the best meal I have ever eaten.

Calder extinguishes the fire. I scrub the cast iron skillet. We lock up and make our way through the forest. The light is dying, the sky a sad gray watercolor version of the earlier sky, the air bitter and wet.

We hear the dull thunk-thunk-thunk-thunk of the approaching helicopter and pick up our pace, emerging from the forest as Stiffy is landing.

Stiffy climbs out of the cockpit, opens the passenger door, and grins at Calder. I climb into the helicopter. Stiffy climbs in beside me. Calder winks at me and closes the passenger door. He climbs into the cockpit, straps himself in, and begins running some kind of checklist, flipping switches, checking dials.

Stiffy hands me a headset and I put it on.

“Is he really going to fly us back to Sitka?”

Stiffy nods. “You have to give it to the Scot, he knows how to plan a PD date.”

“PD?”

“Panties dropping.”

Stiffy can’t know what Calder and I did in his cabin, but my cheeks flush with a guilty heat.

Calder looks over his shoulder at me and grins one of those heart-stopping, sigh-inducing smiles.

“Ready,
banfhlath
?”

“I think so.”

He laughs.

The helicopter lifts off the ground smoothly. I might be biased, but I am pretty sure Calder’s takeoff was smoother than Stiffy’s. I find myself staring at his hands on the controls.

Those strong, sure hands touched my lips, my breasts, my…

Watching Calder piloting a helicopter is exhilarating. It is the purest, most potent aphrodisiac I have ever experienced. Listening to him talk to the control tower over the radio is the sexiest thing I have ever heard. Way, way sexier than the sexiest, slowest Michael Bublé ballad.

By the time he lands at the airport, I am so horny I worry I am putting out signals that Stiffy might pick up. As soon as the passenger door swings open, I mumble a thanks to Stiffy, jump out, and race across the tarmac to the parking lot and Calder’s jeep.

Calder follows me a minute later, concern etched across his handsome face. He searches my face.

“Are you okay,
banfhlath
?”

I nod.

He opens the door, and I climb in without saying a word. When Calder climbs into the driver’s seat, I grab the edges of his jacket and pull him closer, planting a kiss on him.

“I am so hot right now,” I say against his lips. “I will die if you don’t get inside me.”

“Do you want to go to my place?”

“No!”

“Here?”

“Here, Calder.”

“What if someone sees us?”

“
Je m’en fou
!”

He laughs low in his throat and slides his seat back as far as it will go. I fumble with his fly, releasing his thick, throbbing cock and stroking it slowly, torturously, until he slides his hands inside my leggings and yanks them down to my ankles.

I kick out of the leggings and climb on top of him, resting my head on his shoulder, inhaling the familiar woodsy scent of his skin.

He keeps his hands on my bum, lifting me up and down in a satisfying g-spot pleasing rhythm. I turn my face into his neck, pressing my lips against his warm skin, kissing, licking, desperate to have the taste of him on my tongue.

It feels so good to be loved by a man like Calder, a man who makes me forget about my need to be independent, a man who tames and possesses me.

I am spiraling into a familiar place. My vision fades. My ears buzz. My breath comes in jagged bursts. I am on the edge of an orgasmic chasm, about to plunge into the velvety darkness of climax, when I murmur, “
Je t’aime. Je t’aime
, Calder.”

I hear myself saying the words, but it’s as if I am merely an observer and not a participant. I close my eyes tight and wait for him to say something, anything.

But he doesn’t.

A car pulls into the parking lot and its head beams momentarily fill the car with bright, unwelcome light. Calder stops moving me. He kisses my lips and pulls out, his big cock slick with the proof of our shared desire.

I climb back into my seat, pull my leggings on, and stick my feet into my boots.

“Sorry about that,” I mumble, not looking at Calder.

“Sorry?” He zips his fly. “If ye ken anything about me, Stéphanie, ye should ken that I am never sorry about making love.”

His words feel like a bucket of ice water poured on the tinder of my smoldering desire. I have always known that Calder is a flirtatious charmer, but being reminded of his numerous amorous conquests so soon after having him inside me stings.

Popping My Love Cherry

“Fuck yeah!” Vivian bounces on my bed. “You really told him you loved him?”

I nod.

“That is fucking awesome! What did he say? Of course he said he loved you, too, but how did he say it? Did he look deep into your eyes and speak the words in Gaelic? Did he cry?” Vivian snorts and slaps her forehead. “What am I saying? Big, brawny, badass Highlanders don’t cry. He probably grabbed you around the waist with one of his big, brawny, badass arms, pulled you against his big, brawny, badass chest, and said, ‘Ye ken ye belong to me now, woman.’”

I roll my eyes. “You have the imagination of a romance novelist. Seriously? How do you come up with this stuff?”

“It’s a gift,” she says, blowing on her fingernails and rubbing them against her shirt. “A wonderful, burdensome gift.”

“How does Jean-Luc compete with your overworked fantasies?”

“Luc doesn’t have to compete with my fantasies.” She closes her eyes and lets out a heavy sigh. “Luc is that magical, shimmering fantasy that makes all other dreams look sad and shabby.”

She sighs again.

“Blech!” I pretend to stick a finger down my throat. “That is about the most nauseating thing I have ever heard.”

“Step out of the jealous. It looks hideous on you.”

We laugh.

“I’ll bet you are going to be glad to get back to the South of France and that sexy fantasy man of yours.”

“I am.”

“What else do you have to do to get ready for the big day?”

Vivian rattles off a mind-numbing list of pre-wedding to-dos, as I knew she would. Asking her about the wedding is the
diversion parfait
. Vivian is like a toddler with ADD. It is easy to divert her. All you need are shiny things or snacks. She talks for an hour, telling me about the flowers and champagne and guest lists and seating arrangements.