The Great Scot. Donna Kauffman
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She’d brought the internet to Glenbuie and had been successful in putting up websites for the distillery, along with a number of the village shops, as well as one advertising Glenshire as a bed and breakfast. In fact, she’d been the one who’d first brought up the idea of Erin checking out Glenshire for her show when they’d all been sitting at the bar eating Marta’s stew.
Seeing as how Daisy had worked with Dylan in creating the website, Erin hoped maybe she had some insight on what other kind of approach to take. Other than going back to Brodie, or one of the other Chisholm brothers—and they seemed more interested in getting their brother laid than anything else—she wasn’t sure what else to do.
She was just about to climb into bed when there was a knock on the door. Startled, she immediately looked around for something else to pull on. Could Dylan have come back? It was a small enough village that everyone in it probably knew what room the American was staying in.
“Front desk with a message,” came a lilting female voice on the other side.
Erin rolled her eyes. “You only think you’re in Brigadoon,” she muttered. “You’re still Cinderella before the ball and there’s no fairy godmother in sight.” Clearly needing to get over herself, she walked to the door in her boxers and T-shirt, because, honestly, who cared? She opened the door to find a young woman named Amelia standing there, according to her hotel name badge, anyway.
She gave Erin a bright, but apologetic smile. “Sorry to disturb, but the light was still on, and I thought you might be wantin’ this.” She handed Erin a folded piece of stationery.
“Thanks.” Erin took the note, then patted her gym shorts for change she immediately realized she wasn’t carrying. “Wait, let me get you—”
“Oh, that won’t be necessary,” Amelia said, cheerfully waving away the tip. “We’ll prosper well enough when the camera crews arrive.”
Oh god . Erin opened her mouth to warn the perky Amelia not to count her chickens, but the young woman had already gone merrily off, back down the hallway toward the elevators. Erin watched her depart, thinking she’d have been only half surprised to see the young clerk suddenly burst into song and perform a perfectly choreographed dance routine down the carpeted corridor, quite naturally involving the two maids and one bellman she passed along the way. Brigadoon indeed.
Erin clicked the door shut and thought it was a good thing Dana wasn’t here. Her assistant would be having a field day if she only knew how ridiculous Erin was being about this place. “Ah, bite me,” she said, to the room at large, and her assistant in absentia, somewhat comforted by the sound of her own sardonic tone. See? She wasn’t that far gone. She still had her edge.
She opened the note and read it as she crossed the room, back to her bed. There was a single scrawled line, more of a slash really, across the middle. She read it out loud. “Come out to Glenshire in the morning at 8 A.M . Just you. Dylan.” Her eyebrows arched high on her forehead. “Wow. Surprise, surprise.”
She tapped the note against her chin, wondering what had happened to change his mind. Had he gone back in the pub maybe? Or had Brodie said something to finally convince him to hear her out? Not that she was going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Hell, she’d head up there right now if she thought it would make a difference.
Visions of getting Dylan out of bed, seeing what he looked like half naked, hair all tousled. Or maybe all the way naked. He probably slept in the buff. She shut that track down immediately. Well, almost immediately.
“Get a grip,” she schooled herself. She had to see him again in less than seven hours and she needed to be on her utmost professional behavior. Whatever the reason was he’d agreed to see her, it wasn’t because he’d suddenly decided she was a raving beauty. More like she was a raving loon, with her crazy American reality show. She didn’t think that opinion had miraculously changed, especially after she’d tromped all over his feet during their two whole minutes of dancing.
She wasted another minute reliving those glorious two minutes. Well, glorious for her, anyway. Outside of being very self-conscious of her clumsiness and the fact that everyone was watching them, she had rather enjoyed the way his hand had engulfed hers, and how the other had rested so confidently on her waist, guiding her through the crowd. She’d half wished the crowd would have jostled them together, so she could feel what it would be like to be held against that broad chest.
“And just how pathetic are you?” she murmured, then read the note again, still not quite believing her good fortune. Good business fortune. “Just you,” she repeated. Hmm. Where had that come from? Did he think she’d show up with half the village in tow? Maybe he thought she already had a whole camera crew stashed here in town or something and would take any sign of capitulation on his part as a reason to show up in full force. He didn’t know she was a force to be reckoned with all by herself. She grinned and tossed the note on the nightstand. “But he will.”
She climbed into bed and reached for the lamp, but instead picked up the note again. The writing was decidedly masculine, but it was likely just the hand of whoever had taken the message. Except, as far as she knew, the desk clerks were all women. Meaning he’d come into the hotel tonight. Why not just ask to see her, or at least have them ring her room? Of course, it was pretty late…
She put the note aside once more, shut off the light, then lay there, staring at the ceiling, her thoughts refusing to stray from the man she’d be seeing again in a few short hours.
Interesting how the village was playing matchmaker for him. Although they were getting desperate if they were going after passers-through. Of course, maybe it had nothing to do with matchmaking. Maybe they’d hoped if the two of them had struck sparks, he’d agree to the filming. Could an entire town be so mercenary?
Erin snuggled more deeply into the soft, down bed. She almost felt sorry for Dylan, even though she could see he was perfectly capable of taking care of himself. She knew what a pain it was just having one well-meaning person climbing all over her social life. And Dana only wanted her to get laid regularly. She couldn’t imagine having a family nosing about her love life, much less an entire village. She didn’t blame him for wanting to get out of there tonight, although it would have been nice if he’d at least pretended he wasn’t just as anxious to get away from her.
She forced a mental shift back to business. How was she going to present her case? She wondered briefly if losing his wife was yet another roadblock to having a show based on finding true love filmed right in his own home. It would certainly be understandable. Definitely better to talk money and economy over love and romance. Sleep claimed her as she mulled over her options.
Which did nothing to explain why the images that wound their way into her dreams had absolutely nothing to do with profit margins and ratings spikes, and everything to do with other things…spiking.
The following morning, as she headed back out to Glenshire, the skies were a stunning robin’s egg blue, not a cloud on the horizon, and the valley was such a vibrant, verdant green she still swore that the grass had to be genetically engineered. Even the sheep seemed especially perky and cute that morning.
She, however, was not. It had taken a hot shower, followed by a cold one, followed by two cups of espresso and a big, sticky pastry from the tray in the lobby before Erin had finally, mercifully managed to push aside every detail of last night’s hot and sweaty dreams—and wasn’t it amazing how the more she wanted to forget, the more details she recalled? She gripped the steering wheel more tightly. But she was fully focused on her job now. Dylan was merely a means to an end. One that didn’t have anything to do with either of their ends getting naked.
Nope. Business, business, business. She wouldn’t even imagine him in bed. Much less naked. In the bed. Or in the shower. Hot, steamy water running all over his slick skin. Nope. Not even imagining that. Not if she could absolutely help it anyway. So what if he was that perfect tragic figure who appealed to her secret romantic soul? The reclusive, wounded hero, burying himself in his work to push aside the pain of losing the woman he’d given his heart to? To her he was a business opportunity, nothing more, nothing