Where the Streets Have No Name(15)
“So…” She began, crossing her uninjured leg under the other, which she left straight “…what do you want to do tonight?”
Daniel turned from his spot by the window wearing a vacant expression. Whatever happened, he wanted to hide it from her. “I dunno, lass. No telly. Pissing down with rain. Doesn’t give us many options, does it?”
Was he nervous?
Amelia grinned. If he was, she had only one thing for it. And maybe if he loosened up a little, she could get to know the man behind the gorgeous body and brooding mind.
“Can you go in my suitcase and get something for me, please?”
“Of course.” He pushed to his feet and began crossing the room.
Long strides showcased his powerful thighs beneath soft denim. The grey t-shirt stretched over broad shoulders and thickly knotted muscle from his pecs down to his abs. Daniel’s arms flexed with each movement. He stopped at her suitcase and bent down to pull the zipper, giving her a perfect view of his ass.
Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. Eye lids drooped. And her pulse slammed hard and fast against her ribcage.
“What are you wantin’ from in your case?”
“Uh…” Amelia swallowed. He stole coherence from her using only his body, and he didn’t know he was doing it.
“Jaysus, this is a bloody big bottle of whisky you’ve got in here!” He pulled it out, examining the label. “You’ve got to be feckin’ jokin’ lass.” Daniel spun on his heels, holding the bottle like he would a newborn baby. “There’s no way. You can’t…”
A smirk played on her lips. “I like single malt. What can I say?”
“Aye, but a thirty-four year old, rare production triple cask-aged single malt costing more than most people make in a month? No, two months!” He shook his head, disbelief clouding his eyes. “I’m frightened to ask how you came across this bottle, and what you intend to do with it.”
“Drink it, silly!” Amelia held out her hand and Daniel slowly, reluctantly, passed the bottle to her. “It was a gift, and the instructions were clear: enjoy it with someone important. So grab those two glasses from the desk and take a seat next to me.”
“You’ve gone mad. Me? Amelia, I can’t…can’t drink that. I’m not–”
“You are important and you will drink it.” She put on her best ‘do as I say’ face. “Glasses, Daniel. Now.”
Mumbling a few choice words, Daniel grabbed the two tumblers and joined her on the bed. She would have liked ice to go with it, but Poppa always said a good single malt needed to be served neat; in a glass, on its own, and savoured.
After peeling off the wrapper covering the stopper top, Amelia pulled it open, then poured two measures in each glass. She handed one to Daniel and smiled, saying, “To new friends.”
“And loved ones no longer with us,” Daniel said, touching his glass to hers.
She glanced to the left where he’d set Poppa’s urn down when they came in from the rain. Daniel had told her to wait a minute and grabbed the urn, covering it with a clean, dry sweater. He’d run straight into the caravan returning a few minutes later for her. The man touched her with his sincerity and compassion time and time again.
How could people think him capable of the horrendous crime they convicted him of?
Her eyes filled with a fresh sluice of tears, threatening to spill over the banks with the force of Niagara Falls. Half due to the searing agony of losing the one person who seemed to understand her wholly; the other half of her wanted to weep for everything Daniel lost.
Amelia hid behind her glass, drinking down the amber whiskey. Felt like someone poured gasoline down her throat and tossed a match in for good measure. She coughed and spluttered, unprepared for the sting.
Daniel chuckled, sliding a hand behind her back. A few gentle but firm thumps later, she nodded her thanks.
“Not used to it?”
Amelia smiled an impish smile. “I might have lied when I said I’ve had whisky before.”
His laughter boomed in the small space, rich and baritone and comforting. “You should take some water with it then. All you do is have your sip of whiskey, then chase it with a sip of water.”
Wearing a grimace she couldn’t hide, Amelia gave in. “Okay. Water sounds good.”
His laughter followed him to the small galley kitchen and back again. He handed her a tall glass of water, answering the question she hadn’t asked. “I’ll not have you getting drunk, Amelia.”
Her chin jutted out in challenge. “What if I want to?”
“Damn, but you’re a stubborn one.” He shoved a hand through his hair. “Have you been drunk before?”