Aprons for Gayle

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

Thanks to Mr. for the Scottishness, and DeathandTaxes for checking the juicy bits; that was a HUGE help.

This chapter covers some suggestions given to me from a request a few chapters back.

We last left off on Sunday after Hamish and Gayle had a huge fight over him lying to her about Hodges not being gay. He gave her the spare bedroom.

*****

Wednesday, September 18th, 2013

Hamish and Gayle sat down for breakfast that morning at the kitchen dining room table. Whatever had happened between them on Saturday afternoon still hung thick in the air. They were cordial to each other, but the tension was palpable.

She desperately wanted to talk to her aunt for help about what happened to come to some explanation as to what she was feeling. But considering their sexual relationship, it wouldn't be wise. Her father was out of the question, and Catelyn was too young to understand. She needed her mother. Gayle felt lost and confused, and she didn't know how to get out of this funk.

She'd been in her 'new' en-suite bedroom for three nights, and normally she should have been thrilled. But she wasn't. She was miserable. She was lonely. She wanted things back the way they were.

The 'clink' of silverware on a plate made her jump a little, and she looked at Hamish. "So do I. Gayle, they

can

change."

Sighing, she replied, "I need to stop having internal conversations with myself. I never know when I've actually blurted them out. Sir, I was PMSing, and I might have exaggerated the situation, but -"

He shook his head adamantly. "No, Gayle. Your feelings are justified. I've wanted to talk with you since Sunday, but I didn't know what the fuck to say."

"Me either."

"We'll have a chat when I get home tonight."

She gave him a small smile. "Please. Thanks. I'm going to town this afternoon for some make-up and a handbag for Saturday. Do you need anything?"

"Yes, actually. Pick up my dry cleaning CleanGear, please. It's next to the Bank of Scotland on Riggs Place."

"Sure. I remember where that is."

"Great." Finishing his coffee, he said, "Just for tonight, you don't have to wait for me by the chair. You may be dressed, but I'd still like my drink."

Nodding, she asked, "And your slippers?"

"

Always

my slippers," he replied with a grin.

Hamish's office in Cupar ...

As soon as he walked into his office, he hung up his jacket and hollered to his assistant, Neill, to clear his calendar the 24th.

Stepping into the room, Neill reminded Hamish, "You've got that conference call with Claire Robertson at ten that day regarding her father's estate issue."

"Shit. Right. Reschedule it for Monday, please. Get Richard Patterson from the bank on the phone for me."

"Will do. And Hamish, your brother called this morning. He sounded bladdered again."

"Fuck. I thought he'd given up in June. What did he want?"

"He said he wanted some furniture and other personal items that belongs to him."

"Well, he's not going to get them, especially the furniture. He'd just sell them and waste it on that cheap mead. Anything else?"

Neill handed him a gift bag with the words, 'Hunter Goldsmith' on it. "I had to sign for this. Rachel's been busting my balls about a diamond tennis bracelet for her birthday. I was tempted to keep it."

"Don't I pay you enough?" he joked. "Thanks, Neill."

After Neill closed the door behind him, Hamish pulled out the two black felt jewelry boxes and put them on his desk. He was so proud of himself for being sneaky by asking Jessie what color necklace and earrings would go with her dress for the charity event in a few days. He wasn't so happy with himself when he had a dickens of a time deciding what he really liked, as well as what he thought Gayle would like.

Sucking up his ego, he eventually called Jessie for help, and on Monday he hid the credit card in the kitchen so Jessie could take it, pick something out that would be appropriate, pay for them and have them delivered to his office. She hadn't told him what she bought, nor the cost. It didn't matter to him at all. All he wanted was to make sure Gayle would be happy with it.

Admittedly excited, he chose the smaller box and opened it. He smiled at the small two-carat diamond earrings. "Nice and simple. Well done, Jessie."

Setting that aside, he opened the long, narrow box, and his chin dropped when he saw the bracelet. "Bloddy hell! You know I'm a cheap bastard! I'm going to have to sell my Rover to pay for this!"

Reluctantly, he took out the receipt to see if he'd lose one or two balls while zombified butterflies swarmed angrily in the pit of his stomach. Looking at the itemization, he almost had a coronary at seeing the total cost: 1,216 G.B.P. for the earrings and 16,700 G.B.P. for the bracelet.

"Now I'll have to sell the Mercedes, all the property's acreage and possibly even Bessie if anyone would take her ... no, not my wee hound."

But then he saw the hundred pounds charge. In a state of utter confusion, he read the handwritten note at the bottom:

'Mr. McDougal: It is my pleasure to provide this jewelry on loan for your generosity your family has given my shop in years past. You will notice the charge of 100 G.B.P., which is the loan fee. However, it would be greatly appreciated if you would return both pieces before noon on Monday. Enjoy your evening with your special lady.'

"I'll be damned," Hamish said aloud.

He gave George, the owner, a quick call to thank him for his kindness and promised he would return them promptly.

Sitting back in his chair at the strange circumstance, his mind wandered to Gayle. He knew he had some making up to do, and he hoped the jewelry would do the trick. If it didn't, he had something else up his Scottish brogue sleeve on the 24th.

Turning to his computer, he turned on the camera application that was connected to the table clocks in both drawing rooms of his home that he'd been keeping an eye on Gayle with, as well as the cameras above each of the three entry doors strictly for security reasons. Being that Ian had called him, he felt it necessary to keep those three on, just in case. He disconnected the two cameras inside the house, and the two boxes went blank.

He smiled. "It's a start, little fawn. I'm trying."

Later that afternoon ...

Gayle had just started a fire in the drawing room because it was chilly in the room. While the afternoons were warm enough, the mornings and evenings had begun to get downright bone-chilling. Hamish had only just turned on the heated floors a few days earlier because, since the castle was made of stone, it would become uncomfortably cold. It was bearable while she cleaned, but when lounging it seemed only the warmth of the fire would warm her up. She was happy her dad had taught her to build them, and she got a nice one blazing by the time Hamish got home.

"Evenin', Sir," she said as he plopped down in his recliner.

"Hello. Brilliant fire," he noted.

She smiled appreciatively then prepared his drink and handed it to him. After she put his slippers on his feet, she sat on the edge of the couch, took a deep breath then came out with ... nothing.

Hamish observed her anxiety. "You may have a drink, but just one."

"Oh, god, thank you!" she spouted as she went to the bar. Looking over the bottles of liquors, she found herself perplexed. "Sir? What should I drink if I don't want to get tipsy, but I need to be brave enough to talk about ... tough stuff?"

"Whisky," he answered, amused at her question.

"Oh, obviously," she snickered as she poured just enough for three swallows in a glass. "Did I mention I'm not much of a drinker?"

After she sat down, he replied, "No, but I could tell."

"It depends on what mood I want to be in when I drink."

"Really? Do tell."

"Well, when I'm out with my girlfriends and want to dance and be silly, I'll have vodka and orange juice, or vodka with cranberry juice."

"Lass, vodka wouldn't make a squirrel tipsy."

She smirked. "Usually it's three or four to get me pleasantly buzzed."

"Right. Go on."

Finally taking a sip, she coughed and choked and pounded on her chest. "Holy crap!" she gurgled. "Now I remember why I don't drink the hard stuff."

Hamish tried not to laugh, but he couldn't stifle a chuckle.

"To get totally sloshed, which was only once, mind you and an accident, a Long Island iced tea." She paused. "And White Russians I try to stay away from."

"Why is that?"

She sighed. "Gets me horny as hell and completely uninhibited."

He gave her a smirk. "I shall remember that."

Taking another sip, the second swallow didn't burn as harshly as the first. She sat back and forced herself to relax. "Ok, I've been thinking all day about ... what happened Saturday."

"Damn, that Whisky

does

work quickly on you."

"Told ya. Okay, so, since we're basically living together, it's expected to be somewhat ... non-boss, employee. The sex definitely complicated things, and I hadn't realized it would be so tricky. If you were my boss-boss, I wouldn't have care if you lied. Hell, what bosses don't? But having sex changed the equation. I unconsciously - subconsciously? Whatever - expected you to follow my rules of a relationship."

Hamish's eyebrows rose curiously.

"No! That didn't come out right." She sighed, giving herself a moment to collect her thoughts. "I know we're not in a relationship, but being intimate

is

some sort of relationship. There's still trust involved, but I shocked myself at how pissed I was when I found out you lied. You have to remember what my ex put me through. I'm a Scorpio. We are the most jealous, possessive sign, and I'm typical of that. But I wasn't with my ex, so all of this is new to me.

That's

why I bit back."

He nodded, sipped his drink then said, "Go on."

She gulped the rest of the dark liquid down with a soft groan. "I'm not jealous of the women you're dating, just ... where you take them. Does that make sense?"

"Yes, and I understand that. Things slow down a wee bit at work in autumn, so we'll discuss where you'd like to go."

She smiled, grateful he was letting her get everything out. "Thank you, Sir. Ok, so, with all that being said, what it boils down to is that I need to step back and not let my heart get in the way. Truthfully, I've grown to care about you ... as a friend-boss. But I've forgotten that I'm going home the end of January. I do hope we can still keep in touch."

"Hmm. Ms. Boyce, it sounds like you're saying goodbye now." She looked at her empty glass then at the bar. "No. I said one drink."

"Errgh. Okay. And you have completely miscombobulated everything I've been trying to say. I am not saying goodbye."

"I don't quite know what miscombobulated means, but I do know exactly what you're saying. Are you done?"

She smiled and was going to say something snarky but didn't. "I think so."

"Good." He leaned forward in his chair and set his glass on the coffee table.

"Oh! Wait!" He growled, which made her grin, but she grew serious once again. "Sir, can I have a little more time to get over being pissed at you? I try to let it go, but then I think about it and get pissed all over again."

He sat there and stared at her for a second. "Is it my turn now?"

This was the part she wasn't looking forward to. She just knew he would send her downstairs to the dungeon and punish her ... not that she wouldn't have liked it.

"Yes Sir."

"Are you sure?" She nodded. "Are you

positive

?"

She grinned. "Yes Sir. I'm positive."

He waited a second before he said, "Yes, you may have all the time you need. I do understand what you're feeling, and I'm glad you are able to talk to me about it. I've grown fond of you as well, and it's not fair to you that I do not allow you to see other men." His tone was bitter with the last few words.

She sighed. "Sir, do you want to hear the truth?"

"I would."

"A part of me wanted to go, but again, I'm not staying here. What's the use is getting a crush on a Scot?" She blushed and wanted to die. "Besides, truthfully, I look forward coming home ... to you."

He looked at her harshly, then his face softened. "Ms. Boyce, that was very sweet of you to say. I do, as well. Did you pick up my dry cleaning?"

"Yes Sir. They're hanging up in your closet. I sooo wanted to peek at it. Are you wearing a skirt?" She knew it was a kilt, but she wanted to get a rise out of him.

He narrowed his eyes at her, but she could see his eyes were light. "Every American woman wants to know if you Scots actually wear anything underneath."

"A

true

Scot does not."

"So, if I wanted to find out who is and who isn't by dropping my handbag, do you think they'd pick it up for me?" she asked with a devilishly evil grin.

"No, you'd pick it up and I'd spank your ass for trying."

"Not in public, you wouldn't."

"Try me," he replied, narrowing his eyes at her. "By the way, do you need something to keep the chill of for Saturday night, a shoulder wrap, perhaps?"

"A shawl!" she exclaimed. "Shit. I didn't think about getting one."

"No worries. Would a black one go with your dress?"

"Yes Sir, it would."

"Terrific. I have one you can wear."

Before he could continue, she blurted out, "But you'd need to wear it, wouldn't you?"

"Hahaha. It was my mother's. I was going to ask Jessie but forgot. What's for dinner?"

"Green pepper steak, but I'm cooking it all. I forgot to tell you Jessie called around noon. She has something to do with Kelsey and asked if I'd mind."

"Sounds lovely."

They sat in silence for a few moments, both anticipating the other to say something. Just as Gayle was about to break the awkwardness, Hamish said, "Well?"

"Well what?" she asked, genuinely confused.

"Is Bessie preparing it?"

"What?" Then it hit her. "Oh! You want me to start dinner."

"Yes, if it's not

too

much trouble," he said sarcastically.

"Give me half an hour," she said as she stood up. "And I'm glad we talked. I feel better."

"As do I. I didn't get a chance to say anything, really, but you summed it up nicely."

"I'm glad it made sense to someone," she laughed then headed to the kitchen.

Friday, September 20th, 2013

It being Friday, Gayle spent most of the morning in the kitchen doing laundry, and by the afternoon she began to sweep the hardwood floors and vacuum the drawing room rugs so the room would be clean for the weekend.

She tried not to think about what would happen at the charity event, but she couldn't help it. Her nerves were rattled, and her anxiety grew at meeting so many people she didn't know, had nothing in common with, more than likely, but more importantly, how to behave so that Hamish would be proud of her.

Proud of her. She had spent the past seven weeks cooking, cleaning, pampering and being at the Lord of the Duncanstone's beck and call. But honestly, she couldn't complain. He was kind, thoughtful, considerate, allowed her to volunteer at St. Athernase Church, and the sex wasn't bad. It was more than tolerable.

She loved being with him - having sex, joking and laughing together, pleasing him, especially sexually. Her body had become so sensitive to his touch that all he had to do was barely run his fingernail lightly over her breasts before her nipples perked right up in gratitude; her body convulsed and shook as the pads of his fingers lightly traced down her stomach to the extremely delicate spot just above her bikini line.

Her thoughts ran rampant as she swept the Hoover over the throw rug in front of the antique table by the window. The table showcased several family photos and a very ancient-looking and fragile vase. Stepping back, she pulled the Hoover with her but hadn't seen Bessie approach her from behind, sniffing at something by Gayle's foot. Her left foot went back and stepped on the dog's tail, and she quickly lifted up the heel, but before she realized it, her other foot came back as well right against Bessie's ribs, though it wasn't hard at all.

As if in slow motion, her body fell back and having nothing to catch herself, lost the grip on the handle of the Hoover and it shot forward ... directly onto the vase before it broke into several pieces and crashed to the floor. Finally able to get her footing, she gasped at the destruction.

"No. No. Fuck! NO!" she howled as she knelt and picked up the shattered pieces. "Oh, Bessie, what did I do? Fuck!!" Her voice cracked as she tried to hold back tears.

Falling onto her ass, she looked at the porcelain shards in her hands and knew it was hopeless. Only then did her tears come in sheets. "Oh, Bessie," she lamented as the canine licked her cheeks and neck where her wet, salty tears had landed. "Your daddy is gonna kill me!"

Hamish's office in Cupar, moments later ...

Hamish was weak, and he knew it. It had only been two days since he turned off the cameras to the two drawing rooms, but he couldn't help himself. He couldn't concentrate on the financial reports he'd been staring at for the past thirty minutes without looking at the computer monitor, wondering what Gayle was doing and how good she would look, as she always did when she cleaned.

Cursing at himself, he reconnected the camera to the small drawing room since she'd told him at breakfast she had to vacuum in there. Sure enough, there she was but half her body was hidden behind the couch on the rug in front of the window and holding something.

"Shit. Is Bessie hurt?" he wondered aloud and leaned closer to the monitor.

Only then did he saw a few porcelain shards on the floor. Looking over the table in front of the window, he noticed the vase was missing. He disconnected the camera once more, leaned back in his chair with his hands behind his head and began to scheme of an evil plan.

Later that afternoon ...

Gayle knelt on the large pillow cushion beside Hamish's recliner waiting for him to come home. His slippers sat in front of her, ready for his feet, his mail was on the coffee table as was his drink. Silent tears ran down her reddened, splotchy cheeks, and she held onto her hands clasped behind her so tight her nails were digging into her palms. She was so nervous about telling her boss about breaking the vase that when she was shaving, she nicked her legs in several places. The bleeding had stopped, of course, but her legs were completely hideous to look at.

"Please, please, please, don't be angry," she repeated over and over, as if that would keep the punishment she knew was coming, and deserved, from not happening.

Hearing the front door close, she started to shake and could barely keep still in the position, which she never had a problem with before. Knowing she had a few seconds before he came in, she quickly wiped her eyes just in time.

"Hello, Ms. Boyce," he said cheerily as he walked in and sat down in his chair.

"Good evening, Sir," she replied as she dutifully put his slippers on his feet then handed him his drink and mail. She was amazed how controlled her voice was, but she had little control over her body. She first put the left slipper on the right foot, and when she realized her mistake, shook her head and finally managed to put them on him correctly.

Such formality, little fawn? Considering what you've done, you should be a little nervous. No worries. I'll take care of you. I will take

very

good care of you.

"Are you coming down with a cold?" he asked then took a sip of his whisky.

Not looking at him, she murmured, "Nooo Sir. Sir? There's something I -"

"Not now, Ms. Boyce. I'd like to read my mail and get caught up on the news."

He cut her off so abruptly she didn't know whether she should make her confession now to get it over with or keep quiet. She went with her first gut instinct. "Sir, when I was cleaning, I -"