Chisholm Brothers 01 Bottoms Up Read online

  So it figured, naturally, that the door cracked open and the devil himself poked his head in. “Mornin’.”

  It was the lingering image of him sprawled naked across white linen sheets that had her flushing clear to her roots, but there was nothing to be done about it, so she brazened it out. “You’re up early.”

  “Looks that way. Got a minute?”

  God help her, he wanted to talk about her big entrance last night. What else would bring him here so early? “I’m, uh, doing the books, although I’d rather be doing just about anything else, so by all means, distract me.” Dear merciful heaven, that wasn’t at all what she’d meant to say. She really needed to shut up now. Distract her indeed. Could she be any more Freudian? Of course, she could quite happily give him a long list of things she’d like him to try. All of them featuring that bed of his as a backdrop. With her naked, writhing body as the centerpiece. The mere thought of which was guaranteed to keep her cheeks flushed for hours.

  Brodie stepped inside the small office, filling the room and making it almost impossible for her to even pretend to concentrate on the columns of numbers in front of her. How had she let it come to this? She’d known the man forever—she should be able to keep herself in check. Except her mind would flash on that moment in the pub last night when he’d given her that inherently masculine once-over, making every inch of her body simultaneously tighten up and go strangely weak. She’d felt every inch the imposter and had panicked…but none of that erased that instant where, just for a split second, anyway, he’d looked at her with the kind of male appreciation she’d never thought to see him direct at her.

  She was going mad starkers, really she was. She wanted his attention, then panicked when she got it. And yet, even now the thought of having to jump through all those ridiculous hoops of girlishness just to secure that attention made her cringe. Wasn’t there a way for her to get him to notice her when she was just being her?

  “Earth to Kat. You okay?” Brodie leaned down a little and tilted his head to the side so he could make eye contact as she studiously continued to pretend she had a clue what was written in the columns in front of her.

  “Tops,” she said. “Just some of these numbers aren’t adding up.” Well, something wasn’t adding up, anyway, though it had little to do with their accounts. “I keep telling Papa he needs to list the parts as they come in rather than just when he uses them, but you know how hardheaded he is.” Which was total bollocks, but she had to make some kind of conversation. If for no other reason than to stave off the moment when he’d ask what the bloody hell had gotten into her yesterday. Which, surely, he was going to do.

  “Want me to take a look?” He started to get up and reach across the desk.

  Kat slapped her arms down on the book, keeping the perfectly added columns from his view, and pasted on a smile as she finally looked up. “I’ll figure it out. I guess I’m just not in the right frame of mind to do simple math this morning.”

  Brodie’s lips quirked. “What are you in the mood for?”

  Kat’s throat closed over. He couldn’t possibly have meant that to sound that suggestive. Could he? No. It was just her imagination, still in overdrive from the whole Brodie’s-bed-with-her-naked scenario she’d just been contemplating. What if she just assumed he had meant it that way and responded in kind? Would he pick up on it?

  Or worse, would he laugh it off as some kind of joke?

  Merciful Mary, but she could use a glass or two. And it wasn’t even nine in the mornin’ yet. Why couldn’t she be cool about this? Daisy would be cool. She’d smile and laugh, verbally spar and parry with him, making it all look effortless and adorable, because for her it would be. Kat had never felt so clumsy and awkward in her entire life.

  “Can you take a short break?”

  “Huh?”

  Brodie just smiled and shook his head. Shoving his chair back, he stood and extended his hand. “Come on. I want to show you something.”

  She looked at the hand reaching for hers and wished with all her might she’d never started thinking of Brodie Chisholm as anything other than a friend. Because so help her God, all she could do was look at his broad, strong hand, with those long, dexterous fingers of his—a hand she’d held hundreds of times with nary an improper thought—and yearn for him to put it just about anywhere on her body.

  Flustered and knowing he must be wondering by now if she’d gone completely ’round the bend, she glanced down, pretending she didn’t see his hand, and slapped the book shut. “Uh, sure. No problem.” She noticed the black grime coating her hands from finishing up Hinky’s car earlier and curled her fingers inward. “Just let me—” She’d been about to say freshen up, but that sounded ridiculous. She was also wearing grime-covered overalls, and she doubted Brodie intended for her to rush upstairs and change clothes, though she had a sudden, intense desire to do so.

  Not the sundress—she wasn’t that far gone, but at least something less…grungy. It occurred to her that her wardrobe didn’t extend much beyond that. The dress had been Daisy’s. “I need to scrub a layer off,” she mumbled. “I’ll be right back.” She scooted out from behind the desk and did her best to skirt past him without brushing any part of her body on any part of his.

  With his freshly shaved face and just-washed mop of hair still damp and curling about his head, wearing loose jeans and a faded green Hagg’s Pub t-shirt, he looked handsome and clean and so damn good. It made her feel even grungier.

  “Don’t worry about that, it’s not—” But Brodie’s protest fell on deaf ears, as she’d already hurried through the open bay to the small washroom on the opposite side of the shop floor.

  Kat closed herself in, then braced her hands on the tiny porcelain sink. “Get a grip, lass. Yer losin’ yourself here.” She lifted her head and stared at herself in the mirror. Her hair was parted and plaited as usual. There was a smudge of grease across her nose, along with a giant blotch on her jaw. Great. She scrubbed at each one with the back of her hand, which only made them worse. Sighing, she turned on the spigot and grabbed a hand towel from the pile stacked on the small shelf above the loo.

  As she was scrubbing her hands and face, she found herself toying with the idea of unplaiting her braids. It wasn’t the same as putting on makeup or a dress, neither of which was comfortable for her. But hair was hair, right? She wore it in twin braids because it was functional, allowing her to lie flat on her back beneath a car without there being a lump under her head and neck, as would be the case with a ponytail or single braid. She’d really never thought much about it beyond that. Until yesterday.

  Daisy had gone on and on about how lovely she thought Kat’s hair was, what a pretty shade of blond, how thick and naturally wavy it was when she’d insisted Kat wear it down, wondering out loud why Kat still wore it in braids after work hours.

  Kat supposed that was because it was still functional. She liked to play billiards, throw a dart or two, and having her hair out of her face made it easier to play, all of which she’d told Daisy. Who had promptly asked her why she didn’t just cut it off then, wear it short. Too much bother, Kat had immediately replied. Her hair grew like a weed and she hated going to get it cut. It was long enough, hanging past her shoulders, that she could trim the ends of the braids when they showed signs of fraying and splitting, and it was an easy enough matter to trim her own bangs.

  But she’d thought about it later that night, after her disastrous—to her way of thinking—debut at Hagg’s, as she was brushing it out before bed. Maybe she was a wee bit vain, after all. Because she’d been forced to privately admit that, if she were honest, she liked having longer hair for reasons that weren’t entirely practical, too. Granted, she didn’t use it to her feminine advantage, but it made her feel somewhat more womanly, just knowing it was there. She was toying with the elastic bands holding the ends in place, and had just started to pull one off with the intent to unbraid it and fluff it out, just to see what kind of reaction she got from Brodie, wh
en a tapping came at the door, making her squeal in surprise.

  “What are you doing in there?”

  “Hold your horses, for God’s sake,” she barked, feeling immediately foolish for her silly daydreaming.

  She heard Brodie chuckle. “We’re not meeting royalty, Your Nibs, so come on.”

  She decided she should be thankful for the interruption, as it had likely kept her from making a fool of herself twice in a twenty-four-hour period. “He’s your best friend,” she whispered at her boring, regular old reflection. “And that’s a good thing. Be happy with that and get a grip.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing, nothing,” she grumbled, and opened the door, which always stuck, so she shoved at it, not thinking. It came suddenly unstuck, as it did sometimes, and slammed right into Brodie.

  “Hey!” He grabbed at the edge of the door, stopping it short from smacking him on the nose, sending it bouncing back on Kat, who lost her balance. Brodie grabbed her elbow and pulled her forward again, letting the door go so he could grip her other elbow and steady her on her feet.

  Kat’s pulse kicked into overtime. The very last thing she needed was Brodie’s hands on any part of her body, even something as innocuous and innocent as her elbows. Which didn’t feel so innocuous at the moment, or innocent. What they felt like was far too close to her breasts. Her suddenly tight and achy breasts. She felt his fingers dig into her flesh a little as she continued to stare at him…and realized that neither of them was making any move whatsoever to disentangle themselves. His gaze remained steady on hers, those eyes she knew so well, that mouth she’d seen in every possible expression from a scowl to a hearty laugh…a mouth she wanted so very badly to taste for herself.

  Then, as if in a dream, he was releasing her elbow and lifting his hand toward her face. Unable to stop herself, her breath caught in her throat, and she felt herself leaning in, eager for his touch.

  “Here,” he said. Was it her imagination, or was his voice a bit deeper, a shade hoarse? “You missed a spot.” He rubbed his thumb over her nose as her lips were parting in anticipation of him cupping her cheek, pulling her face closer so he could—

  And then his words sank in and she felt her cheeks go hot with embarrassment. She jerked away from him and rubbed furiously at her face, wishing she could scrub off mortification as easily as a grease spot. “Thanks,” she said tersely. “Come on, I don’t have all day.” She went to push past him, but he stopped her by sticking his arm out in front of her.

  “Hold on just a minute.”

  “I don’t care if I have grease in every nook and cranny, okay? As you said, it’s no’ like we’re off to see royalty.”

  “Just calm down and turn back around here for a minute.”

  She did as he asked with a defiant lift of her chin, even knowing her face was likely still red. “By all means, Inspector. We wouldn’t want you embarrassed to be seen with me.” She was speaking nonsense and she knew it, but her pride was wounded—her own foolish doing, of course—and, at the moment, who better to take it out on than the subject of all her foolish fantasies? If he only knew what torture this was for her.

  “Just calm down for a minute, okay? What is wrong with you, anyway? “

  She huffed impatiently, more disgusted with herself than anything, but stood still. “What did you want me to see? With Papa gone, I shouldn’t be gone long.” Though there were clearly no other cars waiting to be serviced. She stood her ground nonetheless.

  “I wondered where he was. I was going to ask after his injury.” He winked. “Let me guess. He’s over at Miss Eleanor’s café having breakfast with a side of flirtation.”

  Despite herself, Kat snorted a little laugh. They’d talked about her father’s recent fancy before, both of them enjoying the rather sweet, blossoming romance. “He turns six shades of red when I mention his attraction and wants nothing to do with anything I have to say about it, but he’s the first one to jump in with his opinions on how I should handle my lo—” She immediately stopped the instant she realized what she’d been about to say. And who she’d been about to say it to. That was the problem with lusting after your best friend. He was too damn easy to talk to and she was too damn used to telling him everything. Except, of course, that one thing. But he knew damn well she didn’t have a love life at the moment, so that would have been a might awkward…“He’s in Sudley, actually, picking up a shipment.” Better to stick with safe topics.

  Brodie’s smile didn’t shift so much as a millimeter, but it seemed, to her anyway, that his gaze lingered on hers a moment longer than absolutely necessary. But instead of quizzing her on the obvious, he just took her arm and said, “I want to show you something. It will only take a few minutes.”

  She closed the bay doors and followed him out of the shop, grateful he’d let the subject drop, determining then and there to keep her mouth shut and speak only in response to whatever it was he had to show her. It quickly became clear they were heading over to Hagg’s. “What do you need to show me at the pub?”

  “Shh. Just be patient. I wanted your opinion before I got it, but I was at auction with Dylan, picking out a few things for Glenshire, and he was being his usual impatient, pain in the arse self, so I had to make a split-second decision.” He glanced at her and his eyes were all twinkly, like they got when he was really excited about something.

  They entered the cooler, darker environs of the pub, which wouldn’t open to the public for an hour or two, at lunchtime. He pulled her through the tables in the front of the pub, around to the back and the door leading to the stairs up to the rooms above. His rooms.

  Kat swallowed a groan. Of all the days…She did not need to see that big, huge bed dominating the open loft bedroom that comprised the entire second floor of Hagg’s. A conversion Brodie had made shortly after taking over the place. He’d torn out the walls separating the second floor into three smaller rooms and created one huge room for himself. One part was set off as a living room of sorts, with an ancient, overstuffed brocade couch and huge ottoman, around which were stacked piles of books and magazines on every subject imaginable. There was a small counter with a toaster oven, a coffeepot, and a sink, with a shelf nailed over it holding the few dishes and utensils he needed. He had a full kitchen right downstairs in the pub, so saw no need to recreate one upstairs.

  The only private area upstairs was the loo, which she happened to know he’d converted into an almost sybaritic paradise, complete with a six-foot-long, deep-sided, claw foot tub that he’d found during a rummage sale of the contents of a manor house, put on by a remaining family member too deeply indebted to keep the place an ongoing concern. Something the Chisholms knew more than a little about, as they all struggled to keep Glenshire afloat, which had been in the family for more than four centuries.

  “So, how is Dylan coming along with the conversion of Glenshire to a bed and breakfast? Do you think you’ll be able to open for business soon?” she asked, trying desperately to look at anything other than the huge bed she’d so recently imagined him sprawled across. Naked, of course. The more she tried to block the image, the more detailed it perversely became.

  “Slowly. He’s still grappling with everything that happened, you know. But it’s all coming around.”

  Dylan, the oldest of the four Chisholm brothers, was the only one who had left the clan and the village, building a life in the city, in Edinburgh with his city-bred wife. Her sudden death had deeply affected the whole family, but none so much as Dylan himself, who finally returned to Glenbuie a changed man. While one of those changes had been his recommitment to the family concerns, no one was really certain if it was such a positive change in the long run given the other, less favorable changes grief had wrought in him.

  As much as she wanted to keep Brodie talking about anything that would keep her mind off throwing herself on that bed and just flat-out showing him what had “gotten into her,” talking about Dylan was not the best way to go. He turned his back to her as h
e went to get a box off the small café table tucked alongside the wall next to the counter and sink.

  With his gaze away from hers, she took full advantage of the opportunity to look at him with all the unabashed desire that had been building up for what felt like eons now. Maybe if she just mentally played the fantasy all the way through, she could get this constant ache for him to finally dissipate. At least a little. She’d just gotten done imagining pulling his t-shirt over his head and unbuttoning his jeans, backwalking him to his feather-down bed before bracing her palms on the broad expanse of his chest and pushing—hard—when he turned back to face her, a small, carved box in his hands.

  “Come here,” he said, eyes dancing with delight. “Look at this.”

  For a short second, she was still in the fantasy…and his eyes were dancing because of her. Of what he wanted to do with her, to her, in that soft, wonderfully decadent pile of featherdown and white linen. And, her body achy and tight, she moved across the room toward him, her gaze locked on his.