One Hot Scot by Donna Alam

Author:Donna Alam [Alam, Donna]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Amazon: B01M6DL2H0
Published: 2017-01-12T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-Two

Fin

He’s got the arms for it, I suppose. Do gardeners have big arms, or is that some kind of porn-workman-genre thing? Because arm porn, if it isn’t a thing, it surely should be. And he’d make a fortune.

He’s so big. And masculine. And that ass. Wonder how many squats it takes to get an ass that firm?

I’m so screwed.

And I was so sure this day couldn’t get any worse.

I’d woken this morning from another watery nightmare, arms flailing and saltwater stinging the back of my throat. Only this time it was different; different as in worse. This time, Marcus was there. Marcus and his PA—as in personal ass-piece—had stood on the deck of his yacht, laughing as I’d struggled against the current, my legs growing heavy under the effort of staying afloat. He’d wrapped his arm around her waist, anchoring himself before he’d used his boot to push my head under, ignoring my begging and desperate cries for help.

It was only a dream, I know, but the echo of it had followed me all day. I’d wanted to end it—the day, not my life—draw a line under my marriage once and for all. I needed something symbolic; some way to take my power back and it seemed I’d decided just how.

I’d stopped wearing my wedding ring, regarding it as a sign of my own stupidity, one I’d kept in the bottom of my make-up bag. But yet not fifteen minutes ago, the baguette-cut diamonds had glittered in their platinum band, weighty and solid as always, though this time not on my hand, but rather in. I’d stood on the freezing cold shoreline, contemplating the level of cliché of pitching it in.

Because, yep, that was my big gesture. Cure all ills.

A more sensible plan would’ve been to sell it—I’m sure I could’ve lived off the proceeds for a year or more—but it seemed I wasn’t feeling so sensible. Either then or now. A sensible person would’ve at least remembered to pick up her jacket before dashing out. I’d gone as far as to raise my hand when I’d noticed the pale circle of skin where the ring once sat, memories rising like mist from the ocean. Though not those of Marcus. No, my body had heated and tingled in all the wrong places as I’d recalled the best bad idea I’ve ever had.

Twice.

Warming rapidly, I’d lowered my hand as tiny sparks of awareness began plucking at the edges of my focus. I’d turned, not truly expecting anything, and yet, there he’d stood. Rory. Like I’d conjured all six foot something of him.

As though my imagination is that creative.

I close my eyes as I crush the dish towel between both my hands, right now recalling that other impressive length of him. Long, thick and hard. Just how the hell did he get to be so striking? Tan and tattooed, ripped and so very, very masculine. As Nat would say, he’s built like a brick—

Oh, shit house.

Fucking Rory. He coughs slightly and

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