Page 109 of Screwged for Christmas

Holly needed help. Asking for it couldn’t have been easy for her. I owed her all the protection I could provide.

“If you’ll excuse me.” I couldn’t sit still any longer. I pushed back my chair, waving down my mother as she started to stand. All that damn bowing got to me. I could give fuck all about protocol.

While I was tied up in bank meetings all afternoon, followed by a round of cocktails with some local investors, Fergus would pick Holly up at the airport and drive her to the cottage nearby.

I shook my head, clearing the lust that clouded my brain whenever I thought about her. About our one night together. Honestly, it pleased the hell out of me that I’d been her first. It fueled a primal branding in me that surprised me. Before that night, I’d never felt possessive about a woman. I never thought I was capable of feeling that way, and I sure wasn’t seeking it.

Would whatever had sparked between us seven months ago still sizzle?

I aimed to find out.

CHAPTER 4

HOLLY

Iwas met at the airport by a stooped elderly man holding a sign with my name swirled across it in a flourish of black ink. Stunned, I blinked as he took my small backpack and welcomed me to Scotland with his delightful accent and a hearty handshake.

None of that took the rub off the reality of things.

Murdoch was nowhere to be found. He hadn’t come to the airport himself.

That fucker.

He was too busy to pick up a former colleague at the airport?

Ever since our night together, I’d used a serious amount of energy trying not to replay our time together. I did pretty well avoiding it at work, but away from the hospital, my mind was free to return to Murdoch. And it did with startling frequency. It’d been hard to call him from the police station, but at the sound of his voice I knew that I had to see him again.

Just one last time.

To say goodbye. Get him out of my system and move on. People did it all the time, right? How else did the friends with benefits angle come to an end?

Though I hated having to take an emergency leave of absence during the holidays, getting out of town was a good idea. Emergency departments never had a slow season, but there’d been no luck tracking down my stalker. He seemed to move around New York like the invisible man. A few weeks away would give the detective time to catch him. When all this was behind me and the man behind bars, I could go back home, having seen Scotland, survived a stalker, and said goodbye to Malcolm.

Sounded like a solid plan to me.

A nine-hour flight gave me ample time to fret over seeing him again. Except for a bit when I’d been distracted by flying first class, which was pretty damn awesome. I wish I’d had a chance to dress for the trip, but the fucking stalker had grabbed me on my way home from work and pushed me down in a pile of stinking garbage while I fought him off. He obviously didn’t know that, being a New Yorker, I’d studied more than a passing amount of self-defense.

My coat was ruined by the garbage that broke my fall and I had to toss it because it smelled like chow main and rotten fish. As a result, the detective gifted me with an “I Love New York” sweatshirt that formerly belonged to some unfortunate tourist.

I didn’t ask how it had come into his possession, but I knew the story had ended badly for the tourist not to need it anymore. Luckily, I salvaged my blue scrub bottoms, but now I looked like a walking cliché of a New Yorker. At least I had my running shoes; life’s trauma was always better tolerated with supportive footwear.

My guide, Fergus, navigated us through the airport and loaded us into a dark green Land Rover. It looked just like the type I’d seen the Royal family traveling in from those tabloid pictures. It hit me—I was actually in Scotland.

It was dark and raining, so I couldn’t see much. I imagined that Murdoch lived close to Edinburgh because I knew how much he loved cities. But as the city fell away behind us, I realized I knew nothing about Scotland and very little about Malcolm. Maybe this was a terrible idea.

After more than an hour of driving, we slowed as we entered a village. Through busy windshield wipers, I spied The Pig and Thistle pub. It was a low stone building with a sloping roof. At the thought of food, my stomach rumbled, ready for a pit stop.

I turned to Fergus breaking the silence in the car. “Can we stop? I’ve never been to a real Scottish pub.”

He shook his head, but his eyes didn’t leave the road. “His Grace wouldn’t like that. I’m to bring you straight to the cottage.”

Indignation swelled up inside me. His Grace, indeed! That fucker hadn’t even bothered picking me up from the airport.

I was hungry, dammit. Guilt about all my fellow passengers eating pretzels for nine hours back in the main cabin made me pick at my fancy first-class dinner. “I’m starving, and I’m sure you are hungry too. Let’s stop.”

“I don’t know.” The car slowed.

“The least I can do is buy you a pint for picking me up.” There, I’d used up all my knowledge of local Scottish culture with an hour of arriving.

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