Page 5

Chapter Five

Amy

What was I thinking?

WHAT WAS I THINKING?

I came back to my room, giving Hamish way more real estate in my head than he deserves, and changed into my frumpy pajamas as a defense mechanism against doing what I was thinking about back at the piano bar.

Finding him, having a fling, and–

And . That’s the problem. The and .

And what?

I can’t just sleep with my sister’s new cousin-in-law. Do you know how many complications that would create? No matter how many orgasms the man could give me–and trust me, I’m creative enough to imagine plenty of them–it’s not worth blowing up the extended family just to be banged senseless.

But then– then –I had to see that .

Watching the desk clerk treat Hamish’s finger like a cherry stem she was tying into a knot with her tongue was revolting. But when he stared at me, I swear I felt a flicker of regret.

Plenty of lust, too.

And it wasn’t just mine.

But ewwwwwwww . Now I can’t get that image out of my head. Does the man walk through life with women flinging themselves at him all the time? Is that the reality? Because the fantasy of Hamish McCormick is so strong, it almost made me make a fool of myself.

Almost.

Thank God for almost .

Ring!

The phone on the desk lets out a sound that makes me squeal with surprise. Why is someone calling me in my room at three a.m.? Did something happen to Mom, Dad, Shannon, or Carol?

I grab the receiver, unaccustomed to using a landline, the spiral cord in my hand feeling strange.

“Hello?”

“Ach. Amy. I wanted ta say–”

I hang up.

Because if Hamish McCormick thinks he’s going to sweet-talk me, he’s–

Ring!

I ignore it.

But the man is determined. I’ll give him that. I count more than one hundred rings over the next five minutes before I give up and answer.

“Aye, pet, let me explain.”

“Explain why you let that desk clerk turn your finger into a Blow Pop?”

“What’s a Blow Pop?” His voice goes very, very low, making me shiver yet turn to warm caramel at the same time. “Because a Blow Pop sounds like something ye and I should share.”

“Shut up.”

“I can, ye know. Shut up. How about I come to yer room, and we don’t talk? Words are overrated, Amy.”

“How do you know my room number?”

“I followed ye! Knocked on yer door!”

“Right. Quit stalking me.”

“I’m nae stalking. Just want to have a friendly chat.”

“At three a.m.? The only reason men like you call women at three a.m. is… Oh, my God! Is this a booty call?” My skin tingles with amusement and, I’m not too proud to admit, happiness.

I’ve never had a booty call before.

It feels kind of good. I know it shouldn’t, but it does.

“It isna, but… it could be.”

His tone brightens, as if I’ve invited him over.

“You are a pig.”

“But I’m a pig ye want to share a blow pop wi’.”

“That sentence makes no sense.”

“Which is why ye need to invite me over, so we can unnerstand each other better.”

“I get the sense that your idea of understand doesn’t involve clothes.”

“See? We’re already coming to an agreement.”

“We are not!”

“I really do need yer help, Amy. Please.”

“What kind of help?” Is he… giggling? How drunk is this guy?

“Ah need ye to come help me wi’ ma ball sweat.”

“You–excuse me? Did you just say ball sweat? ”

He starts panting.

“Aye. The weather here in Boston is atrocious. I could slurp the air.”

He makes actual slurping sounds.

“What does the humidity in Boston have to do with your testicles?”

“Say that again.”

“What?”

“Testicles.”

“Why do you want me to repeat the word testicles? ”

“There’s something special about the way yer tongue hisses when ye say the ess sound, Amy. Verra sharp.”

“Sharp?”

“Like a dominatrix.”

“You want me to help fix your ball sweat because you think I’m a domme? ” This conversation has gone from stupid to ridiculous.

“Hmph.” The sound is distinct, from the back of the throat yet through the nose, and I can tell I’ve finally said something that shuts him up.

I’m about to hang up when he asks in a low purr, “Are ye?”

“Am I what?”

“A domme.”

“SHUT UP!” I snap into the phone. “And go away.”

“I’m nowhere near ye, pet.”

“We’re in the same building, and you’re harassing me.”

“How am I harassing ye? We’re nae even touching.”

“You’re using your mouth to harass me.”

“Oh, that’s a waste of ma fine mouth, then. I can use it on ye in much better ways.”

“Go powder your balls, Hamish.”

“So ye want me to touch maself while ye tell me what to do? Sounds good to me. A bit o’ foreplay.”

Is that the sound of a fly zipper being lowered?

“What are you doing?”

“Exactly what ye ordered. Touching maself.” His moan makes it clear he really, actually is.

Great. Now my mind is stuck on that visual.

“I did not order you to do anything! You called me! You’re the one who interrupted my sleep, calling at three in the morning, right before the most important day of my sister’s life, and blathering on about ball sweat.”

“Blathering?”

“It means you are saying a lot of stupid shit!”

“I ken what blathering means. I would say blether, but–”

“How about being a Chatty Cathy? A stupid Chatty Cathy.” Sure, it’s old-fashioned and something my mom says, but it fits.

“New American slang to remember.”

“Is there a Scottish equivalent?”

“Don’t know, lass. We do have a lot of words to describe stupid.”

“ Hamish must be one of them.”

“Nae,” he says thickly. “It’s actually a form of James.”

“You’re named after your uncle?”

“Half-uncle. But aye.”

“There is no such thing as a half-uncle.”

“Ah. Right. Ma da calls James his half-brother, so we always referred to him as our half-uncle.”

“You’re even weirder than I thought, and by weird, I mean–”

“But tha’s a funny one. Different words fer stupid. Aye, we have plenty. Numpty. Bampot. Choob. Doaty. Dafty. Dobber. Though that last one can also mean–”

“Please stop.”

“Ye asked.”

“I did not! Quit gaslighting me!”

"I want to light yer fire."

He cannot seriously think these cheesy lines work?

"And speaking o' dobbers, I've got ma hand on mine, like ye wanted."

"I never asked you to do that!"

"Nay. Ye ordered me. Mentioned ma balls. Mmmmm ."

"You are not masturbating on the telephone with me right now, Hamish!"

"I'm -- " his breath hitches, " - not?"

If it were any other guy, I'd slam the phone down and call security. But it's Hamish. And as much as I want to write him off as Ewww Gross Asshole, he's hot. Too hot. Too contradictory and compelling and hard to stop thinking about. I don't know if charisma is the right word to describe this quality he has, but it draws me to him. Makes me wonder.

Makes me want .

"D'ye want me ta stop?" His voice is low and husky. "Say the word and I will."

I lick my lips, my ears ringing as I'm suspended in time.

"No, I finally say. “You're a grown man who gets to do whatever you want to your body."

"Happy to extend that concept ta yours, sweetheart."

A laugh, deep and throaty and dare I say - sultry? - comes out of the base of my neck, at the collarbone, a sound I've never made in my life. It vibrates down my chest, under my breasts, pooling at the navel and beelining straight down for my clit.

“Amy?” His voice is suddenly earnest. Intimate, even. “Why did ye ring me in the first place?”

“I didn’t call you! You called me.”

“Nae. I dinna have yer phone number.”

“You clearly do. You called me.” I squint at the clock. “You followed me to get my room number, remember?”

“I’m a smart fellow, then.”

“Look. It’s now 3:11, and I want the last nine minutes of my life back. I’m quite sure I lost a few IQ points.”

“Why don’t I come over and help ye lose yer virginity?”

His laughter makes it clear he’s joking but I freeze, my stomach dropping, throat going tight. A pull, something close to a magnetic force, makes my skin move toward him, heat warming me, his draw nearly irresistible. Men like Hamish are rare in my life - so rare I’ve never felt this before. Every cell of my body fills with a flushed feeling, a craving that’s wholly new, all-consuming, and that won’t let go of me. All I want is him. His hands on me, mouth roaming and exploring, our bodies performing acts of giving and beauty with each other, sweaty and hot, urgent and fun.

All I can manage is, “Ha ha.”

“What do ye really have to lose, Amy? I’m a grown man. Yer a lush, gorgeous woman. We’re both a little pissed and horny. What’s it have to be so complicated fer? Come on.”

I have to fight this, whatever “this” is. If I give in, I’m just another notch on his belt, and for some reason, I can’t give him the satisfaction.

“If that’s your best line, Hamish, someone needs to take your phone away when you’re drunk. You can’t even make a booty call the right way.”

“Do ye know this from experience? Regale me wi’ yer finest pickup lines from all the booty calls ye’ve made, Amy. I’ll wait.”

“I’ve never been so desperate that I needed to make a booty call.”

“Ye mean ye’ve never had the courage to let yer lust be in charge o’ yer body.”

A sharp inhale is my only response because he’s right.

Damn him.

He’s right .

Which makes this all even harder.

“Who are you to try to tell me who I am?”

“Is tha’ how ye took ma words? Telling.”

“What do you mean, telling? ”

“If ye equate being told ye need more courage to live life to the fullest with me telling ye who ye are or defining ye, think it over. That’s… deep.”

“You’re so shallow, you think a puddle on the sidewalk is deep.”

“And yet yer still talking to me on a booty call, Amy. One ye started.”

“I did not!”

“Tell me.” There’s a catch in his throat as he sighs, the sound so intimate, alluring, and authentic. “Why’re ye arguing wi’ me on the phone like this? If ye didna want a good shagging, ye’d hang up. By now, I’d have thought ye’d hang up. So…”

“Shagging?”

“A good lay.”

“See? That’s so arrogant. You assume I want to have sex with you, and that you’re good in bed.”

“Those aren’t assumptions. They are facts.”

“Why don’t you go shag that front desk clerk?”

“She moved on to a man with something much bigger than I have.”

“I do not want to hear about the size of your penis.”

“Wasna talking about ma boaby. I meant his bank account.”

“So the shallowest man in the world got ditched by an even shallower woman? Priceless.”

“Is this how ye talk to all the men who booty call ye, Amy? Because it’s nae sexy.”

“No. Only you, Hamish.”

“I’m the only man who’s ever rang ye fer some fun last-minute sex? I’m honored to be the first.”

"Go away."

"I canna. No' until I finish."

"Are you seriously touching yourself or just jerking me around?"

"I believe the correct term is 'jerkin' off,' Amy."

My skin buzzes, because is he? Is he really? If so, we're having phone sex. I've never had phone sex before. It shouldn’t make my legs a little weak and my pulse migrate to between my legs, but it is.

What's the harm in having fun with him? He's certainly sexually open. Experimental. Explorative.

A little weird, but it's a sweet kind of weird. A "hey let's have fun" kind of weird. A part of me wants to join in, but it's a rusty part. A sheltered part. A piece of me that doesn't get out in the world to do anything. It just watches and waits for its turn, but it's shy.

Scared.

Worried there's something wrong with, well...

Maybe liking this?

"Amy?"

"What?" I snap, startled out of my own thoughts, my body lit up and flushed, ready to leap. Just flirt back. Just say something sexy. Just --

He makes a humph sound.

"Well, then, if yer goin’ ta ring me fer a little fun and then snub me and make ma balls the color of yer beautiful eyes, the least ye could do is help me find a new lass. Have that woman wi' the big social media followin' - whatzername? - Jessica Coffin's number handy?"

And that is the moment I slam the receiver down, unplug the phone from the wall, and throw all the pillows at the door.

He’s such an ass.

But unfortunately, he’s right.

No other man has ever called me for a shag in the middle of the night, and damn it, I am flattered.

But no way in hell am I sleeping with him. At the wedding, I have to stand in front of hundreds and hundreds of people in my stupid tartan dress while Mom’s stupid idea about our cat being a flower girl proceeds, with Hamish McCormick at my side as we walk up the aisle together.

Him in a kilt.

Sweaty balls right… there .

I crank up the air conditioning, shut off the lights, and climb under the covers, hoping for at least five or six hours of decent sleep.

My body does not cooperate.

It buzzes. Hums. Vibrates with need.

Suddenly, I understand booty calls.

And wish I were the kind of person who said yes to them.