Charming Scottish Bastard: Under the Kilt, #7

By Melissa Blue

Tasha Carter doesn't do impulsive, but when it becomes clear her best friend's HEA is at risk of turning into heartbreak, she doesn't think twice about getting on a plane headed for Scotland. Now, all she has to do is keep one sexy-as-hell Scot from ruining her friend's wedding.

 

Grant Cameron is not surprised Tasha doesn't trust him. He is a bastard. A charming one but a bastard. It's only a problem because he wants to snog her. And then do more than snog. He just has to convince Tasha being a little impulsive will be so, so good.

 

It takes Tasha five seconds to learn Grant is forthright to the point of recklessness. About ten to realize she is helpless fighting their attraction. And twenty to accept it's not just her best friend courting heartbreak when it comes to falling for a Cameron man.

 

She. Is. So. Screwed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Melissa Blue
• Release date: Aug 4, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393737865

Melissa Blue

Melissa Blue’s writing career started on a typewriter one month after her son was born. This would have been an idyllic situation for a writer if it had been 1985, not 2004. She penned that first contemporary romance, upgraded to a computer and hasn’t looked back since. Outside of writing, Blue works as a mail clerk for the federal government, has a paralegal certificate (that she has more use for as a dust pan) and is a mother of two rambunctious children. She lives in California where the wine is good and, despite popular belief, is not always sunny.

Book preview

1

T

asha Carter was a people person despite seeing them drunk, belligerent, and weepy—all the adult-type Snow White dwarfs. That was the cost of being a bartender. Another was exhaustion. She flopped onto her queen-sized bed, groaning as she sunk into the mountain of throw pillows. Her feet, head, and fingers hurt. The latter were raw from squeezing every kind of citrus one could put into an alcoholic drink.

Even as the tiredness gnawed at her joints, Tasha didn’t hate her work. The job paid the bills, whether or not her graphic design hustle fell short, especially since she’d moved into a one-bedroom apartment a few months ago to stretch her five cents to a dollar. The only problem was the monotony night in and night out of working then coming home to sleep.

And…Tasha missed her best friend.

Her friend had fallen in love and moved halfway across the planet. California and Glasgow were worlds apart. Tasha had maybe encouraged, meddled, and cheered while her friend’s romance played out, but months later the decision was real. Mia wasn’t coming back to America. Scotland, United Kingdom, was now home. Tasha was lonely and a little adrift.

She groaned then rolled over to dig her phone out of her jeans’s front pocket. The phone rang with an unknown tone, but the number had a Glasgow area code.

She was lonely but not alone. Her friend had called.

Hey, heifer, Tasha said. I just got home. How are you still on my time? Is it not the break of dawn for you? Wait. Maybe not. I can never remember the time difference. Is it six or eight hours?

Her smile waned at the weighted silence on the other end of the line.

I’m not Mia, a Scottish man said.

Warmth spilled into her just from his voice, and gotdamn. Sure as hell not, and not her fiancée. She sat up in the bed, her brain working overtime to pinpoint the caller. Not the old guy who used to run the pub Mia works at either. You don’t sound…

Like I’m off to defile someone?

She wouldn’t go that far. The man’s timbre was smooth, measured, and yet his accent chopped words in their wake. A man with a voice like that probably talked more than a few people out of their common sense. Grant?

Aye, Grant Cameron, brother of your friend’s fiancé. I have a proposition for you.

In a very fleeting moment, she was sure if he’d ask her for sex she’d say yes. The certainty did not come from rational thought or deep feelings about the man. That reaction was pure below-the-waist brain.

In a bar, ages ago, she’d glimpsed his face in profile. Mia had gone off with a Scot, and as always, Tasha kept an eye out for her friend. The bar had been packed. She’d been busy. All she’d seen of Grant Cameron was a clean-shaven jawline chiseled by horny deities, dark auburn hair partially hidden by a deer hat and hands that deserved filthy poems about long, thick fingers with short nails being paradise. Not much to fuel fantasies at all.

All Tasha knew now was she could not say yes to anything this man proposed. Sure, her life congealed into a monotonous lump, but she wasn’t seeking the kind of upheaval his jawline promised.

Where’s Mia? she threw at him instead.

Around, probably snogging my brother. This is a conversation between you and me. I can hunt her down if you need her permission to speak to me though?

Her knee-jerk reaction was to tell him to fuck off. Tasha wouldn’t call herself hot-headed, contrarian or stubborn. Her mother would say those things, and her mother was rarely wrong.

But this situation was different. He was different. Grant Cameron was going to be her best friend’s brother-in-law. A CFO to Scotland, International, one huge money-making corporation—that man had found Mia suspect when they’d met. Men with power like that thought they knew better. It had only been three months since Mia and Kincaid’s engagement. Tasha wouldn’t put it past Grant to implode the relationship somehow.

Rolling her shoulders, she thought about her next words then smiled because the truth was right there to be plucked up and examined. Why do you need me for this proposition of yours?

Because I fucked up and calling you kills two birds with one stone.

She frowned. You’re admitting to a fault to a complete stranger? Are you aware of that?

Don’t regret the fuck up. Life is too short for that, but I need to fix it and you’re the lass.

She found that hard to believe. Me?

I need a distraction and a Band-Aid. I also need someone who is almost disgustingly competent. You’re it.

How do you know I’m competent?

"You’ve not said a single thing to imply you aren’t capable. Instead you’re simply questioning how I know."

Okay. Fine. Explain how I would be a distraction. Not that she was curious for her own sake, but she wanted to know more details for her friend. This man was going to be related to Mia. This man had Mia’s future-husband’s ear by birthright and who knew what kind of shit he would whisper into Kincaid’s ear.

He said, What are you right now? Just a bartender?

Anyone who thought a bartender simply mixed drinks had no idea of the actual work. I take—

Aye, right. A bartender. My brother’s pub needs a manager. You’ll handle the books, the employees, and if you are so inclined, you can bartend to remember the good days of dealing with handsy, thirsty people. He paused. Bartending is often about the tired feet, sore hands, the buzz of a crowd that’s never drunk or patient enough. Or boredom. Absolute mind-numbing boredom.

Those words gave her pause because maybe he did get it.

Then he gave her a price for doing the work. There were tax brackets for what she did and the salary her managers made then the revenue successful owners brought in. He went twice as high for a manager even if she worked in the British pound exchange rate—Tasha so did in her head. She couldn’t help but think this man wanted to pay for something more than work.

The obvious things he’d slap a price tag on included the innocent—a helping hand at...Kincaid’s pub now. The not so innocent—sex. But to be fair, Grant probably had no idea of what things actually cost.

Sharp, wary emotions rushed in, keeping her from saying no outright. After three months of Mia and Kincaid beginning their HEA, his brother wanted Tasha to show up. Then again, three months ago Grant had poured money into his brother’s new life as a homebrewer—again, obscene amounts. From Mia, Tasha understood why the man would. Grant and Kincaid’s parents had a brood of children barely old enough to fend for themselves and left them to fend for themselves. The men were close, so if Kincaid got a wild hair to run a pub and make booze, she could see why Grant would pay to make it happen, but something wasn’t adding up.

She wet her lips that suddenly felt way too dry. What did you fuck up, Grant?

What does it matter to you?

That question got her out of bed. She paced the length of her bedroom’s floor, which wasn’t much but enough to work through the tension pinging through her body like a bullet ricocheting off steel walls. You’re asking me to fly to Scotland, for an undisclosed amount of time, to help you get your brother’s business in order. Without even knowing for sure I can be a good manager.

I am not worried about what you don't know. For the price I’m offering you, and to see your friend Mia, you’ll learn whatever you don’t know. Of that I’m sure. And for the record, it is a Cameron business—a family business.

Family. Gotdamn. He had to choose the most loaded word in human history. Exactly. Family. I’m not family. You don’t have a cousin, aunt, uncle—

I have plenty of family, but none that would be willing to help, no matter what I offered them.

What family, specifically?

I have a sister who runs a castle in Europe somewhere and all that entails. Scotland does not want for castles that need a good taskmaster, but I’ve yet to convince her to move closer. I, also, have what feels like an endless amount of brothers outside of Kincaid I try to wrangle.

The deep, exhausted sound he made almost teased out a laugh from her. It spoke of family relationships and all that entails.

Logan, he added, Found the smallest town in all of Scotland where some of our relatives settled in, once, back when kings sat bare arsed on a stone during coronations. Now he can’t leave. He can’t procreate either, because it borders on incest.

What? She got pulled into that statement despite herself.

It’s overly complicated. Some faction of Cameron’s weaved tartans. Their children’s children did it. Family secret. Heavily trademarked in a way no one else can do it to make a profit and that’s the only way of life for the town. He leaves and the economy of the town caves in, along with a long-held tradition. I told him not to go for a visit, but did he listen?

She did not want to be charmed. Still, she heard the pride in his voice when he talked about his family. Tasha so wanted to be disgusted because something was becoming brutally clear about Grant Cameron—he knew exactly what to say to get what he wanted. She wouldn’t ponder what it said about her that she could see it a mile away and still be charmed by it.

She cleared her throat. And your other siblings?

Just one other, and like I said, it feels endless.

And what about this one other sibling? A smile teased at her mouth.

Elliot’s a…we all pretend he doesn’t exist, and yet we love the fucker. He’s our burden to bear, the wankstain.

She hated herself for the laugh that rushed out of her mouth. Poor baby. What are you to do when you have all this family coming out of your ears and there’s only you to take care of them all?

You make fun, but you have no idea.

And there it was. That self-righteous I know better. Whether he knew it or not, or admitted it or not, Grant could meddle with her best friend’s happiness. He played with money that changed the world. His whims could shift economies.

What would a man like Grant do if he actually thought Mia was a problem?

Shit.

Fucking shit.

You messed up, she asked, almost desperate for any reason to keep saying no. How?

I hate to say, because I need you, Tasha, and you seem like a woman with deep, faithful values.

The way his accent, his timbre treated deep in a raw, roguish way should not have existed in the same realm as the word faithful. Once again, his very voice defiled.

She stiffened her spine. Tell me or I won’t even consider your proposition.

I fucked someone I shouldn’t have, and she walked away from my brother’s business. She had deep, faithful values about never sleeping with the boss.

Is that derision I hear?

No. I’m inconvenienced and that’s a mortal sin in my book. Yet, it’s one I’m willing to pay to fix. Tasha…

She sat down on her bed again because her knees needed the support. Grant Cameron?

I will give you anything, everything you need to agree. Say yes.

Out of all the—

The people I could ask, I chose you because I’ve met Mia. I’ve seen her at work. She designs websites, produces travel podcasts. She’s a rolling stone. Yet she’s stood still for my brother. She’s dug in to help him with the pub and his brewery. She’s an asset, and you’re her friend. Birds of a feather and all that.

Up until those last two sentences, Tasha had been ready to let go of her unease about Grant. She’s an asset. Who said things like that?

Worse, what happened to someone who stopped being an asset? Tasha knew Mia’s feet were firmly planted wherever Kincaid went. But did Grant think so? What would happen to her best friend if Grant ever felt like his brother’s wife-to-be needed to go?

Three months had passed and there wasn’t a wedding date. Tasha knew all too well a wedding date could be postponed or cancelled, but it did make family think twice about meddling.

There was only one answer Tasha could give, and she suspected on a cellular level Grant already knew what she’d say. When do you need me?

She could almost feel his predatory smile over the phone. Tasha shivered but not in fear.

minikilt

Hours later, Grant Cameron thought to himself, My brother’s an insufferable arse. Aye. He loved him, but based on Kincaid’s thunderous expression, that emotion would be put to the test in about two minutes. That’s how long it would take for his brother to make it behind the pub’s bar.

Waiting for the inevitable, Grant grabbed a glass from the lined shelves that made up most of the space outside of the taps along the counter. The waiting patron, an older white man mumbled his order—a pint of the house’s special. At Baird’s Drunken Barrel that was always something local. Local often meant Scotland instead of just Glasgow’s city limits.

He tilted the glass at a forty-five-degree angle, like the Baird had taught him, and pulled the pint until there was just enough room for the head then straightened the glass. At some point he had been sure he’d no longer feel a sense of satisfaction when he got it right—just five percent of frothy yeast—but that hadn’t happened yet. Money and ale were exchanged like god intended, but unfortunately his two-minute reprieve had ended.

Kincaid lifted the counter’s partition and stomped toward him. Anger wafted off his brother like the beginning of a gale force wind.

Last-call rush. Grant hoped that would be enough to distract his brother’s temper.

Kincaid invaded his space, crossing his arms. Anyone else might be intimidated. His brother stood a little over six feet. Every muscle had a bulge. His face had been molded by genetics, but the expression had been carved by all the things his brother didn’t talk about. Things he’d done for Queen and country in the military.

No surprise then the air had a tinge of brimstone, if one wanted to be dramatic. Grant rarely was. He made eye contact with the next customer. The young Black woman made a gesture he’d learned to mean give me the same and pulled another pint without bothering to meet his brother’s simmering gaze.

Still, a sigh worked through him. Just a month ago, he’d been a full-time CFO of a private equity firm. His work had little to no wiggle room for his life. He’d been okay with that because numbers never lied or ever became complicated. One could present them to look better or worse, but there were always hard truths one couldn’t avoid. And now his work and life had tangled, horribly.

Unfortunately, his brother now knew why.

Ripping off the Band-Aid was Grant’s only choice. Aye, I fucked the barmaid three months ago.

Davina, Kincaid whispered but there was a very clear growl at the end.

Or maybe that last observation was just his brother’s menace that gave that impression.

Aye, Davina.

Had Grant avoided saying her name to soften the blow of the truth? Maybe. Pointless, especially when the weight of his brother’s disapproval doubled in the resounding silence that followed. Another sigh found its way to Grant’s mouth. Kincaid clearly had strong opinions about this news.

Grant wanted to say as a defense that emotion wasn’t cost effective. Whimsical displays of humanity botched perfect situations. For example, emotions were why, for the last few months, he’d tasted brew after homemade brew his brother concocted. Feelings were why he put in for leave to work beside his brother.

The crowd around the counter pressed forward. Muscle memory kicked in, pushing the thoughts away. He kept exchanging money for pints. Took a minute or so for his brother to chip in. Grant took the