Real life is no place for fairy tales…

Kristin Hart has romantic notions of Scotland. Yet she never expects to find a real-life Scotsman in her Vermont hometown! Despite her instant connection with him, Malcolm MacDowell isn’t the Prince Charming she thought. Because no prince would shut down her factory—the one that means everything to her town.

Really, she has no choice. Kristin hops on the next flight to Edinburgh, determined to convince Malcolm her workplace should remain open. But the distraction of the man is almost too much. Still, the magic of the Highlands makes anything seem possible…even a happily ever after of her own.

She had trusted him, had brought him home to her family

Kristin turned back to Malcolm. He had kissed her, too. And for the first time in a long time, Kristin had actually let herself imagine…those kinds of thoughts about someone.

“Kristin,” Malcolm murmured. “Let me just explain.”

But her ears were buzzing harder. She couldn’t hear so well anymore. Malcolm was saying something to the receptionist, ushering her out, closing the door.

“Tell me the truth,” Kristin managed to whisper. “Who are you?”

His Adam’s apple moved up and down. “John Sage is my uncle,” he said quietly.

She felt numb all over. Maybe she was in shock.

He had betrayed her. All along, he had lied to her about who he was and why he was in her plant, and at her home. He had made a fool of her in front of everybody who mattered to her.

She clutched her stomach. So many emotions rose in her, she was being overwhelmed by them all. She had wanted to believe in him so much.…

Dear Reader,

Thanks for picking up The Sweetest Hours, my fourth book in the Mills & Boon Superromance line.

This story was inspired by my love for all things Scottish. In it, Kristin Hart, a young industrial engineer for a shampoo-and-body-products company, shows up in her Vermont factory one day to find a sexy, mysterious Scotsman in her office, sitting at her desk.

From there, it’s off to Scotland for an adventure of her lifetime. Along the way, she traverses the countryside, stays at a castle, attends a Scottish wedding and falls in love with Malcolm, the Highlander of her heart.

I hope you enjoy!

All the best,

Cathryn Parry

The Sweetest Hours

Cathryn Parry

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Cathryn Parry is the author of four Mills & Boon Superromance books. A former engineer, she lives in New England with her husband and her neighbor’s cat, Otis. In addition to writing, she enjoys conducting genealogy research, working on her figure-skating moves and traveling as often as possible. Please see her website at www.cathrynparry.com.

To Lou, for everything.

To Karen Reid, my editor, for all the hard work and encouragement.

To my late grandmother, for providing the sword, the Scottish genes and the support during my childhood Highland Dance recitals. I haven’t forgotten.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Excerpt

CHAPTER ONE

KRISTIN HART HEARD the soft burr of a Scottish accent, and something inside her sang.

She crept closer to the edge of the open door and listened. A man spoke on the telephone. He was obviously not from around here. What was he doing in her small-town Vermont factory? And why was he in her boss’s office?

“...I cannot...I’m sorry you did not...” The man pronounced “cannot” like “canna” and “you” like “ye.”

Kristin missed most of the other words he said. But the man with the deep, rolling voice was Scottish—that was no mistake.

Her spirits brightened. For as long as she remembered, she’d wanted to travel and visit the country of her grandmother’s birth, the land of castles and Highlanders.

Take me away, she thought.

Kristin rubbed her arms and stared down the corridor, lined with boxes and the remnants of their labeling-machine going haywire.

Outside, it was a gray, late-January morning, threatening snow, and inside, the cold factory was dimly lit and quiet.

Besides her, there was only a skeleton shift: three hourly workers and Kristin. As production engineer she was supervising an emergency crew while they manually affixed labels to shipments that were already several days late. Kristin had opened the doors early that morning and let everyone in with a key not usually entrusted to her, since her plant was rarely open on the weekend.

At least her makeshift team was assembled from volunteers who wanted the overtime. Kristin was a salaried employee, and she had lost her day off. Like living in the movie The Breakfast Club, stuck in detention, Kristin had been ordered into the building on a Saturday. But she was determined to make the best of it and find the silver lining somewhere. The factory floor smelled great: like the jars of the honey body cream they labeled. The people she worked with were kind, too. Unlike Andrew, the plant manager, none of them gave her trouble.

Everything had been sailing along just fine, until she’d headed to the break room to grab a hot chocolate for Mindy from the managerial staff’s coffee machine, and she’d been sidetracked by the Scottish accent.

Now her feet seemed rooted to the wooden floor. She couldn’t see the man with the deep, sexy Scottish burr, but she heard him from her spot in the corridor.

“Goodbye, love, I have to go now.”

Kristin closed her eyes and sighed. Her imagination could very well conjure up a big, burly, kilted Highlander saying that to her.

Not forever, of course, just for...well, an afternoon would be great. With no worries or fears. Just enough fun to satisfy a sense of adventure that had felt squashed in Kristin lately—for far too long, actually.

Kristin sighed again. She wasn’t delusional. Her kilted Scottish Highlander was a fantasy. A nice fantasy, but a fantasy was all he was.

Oh, but that accent...

Daydreaming will give you only trouble, she chided herself. Move on. Go back to your crew in the factory....

She shook her head. No, she had to do something. The Scotsman was inside Andrew’s office. Her big boss. The manager in charge of the plant.

The guy who was very unhappy with her at the moment.

Kristin chewed on her thumbnail. Andrew’s door had been locked when she’d walked past an hour earlier. He was hypervigilant about keeping everyone out of his space. And now it was silent on the other side of the open door.

If Andrew found out that she’d been aware of an intruder inside the building and had done nothing about it...

Kristin rubbed her arms over her coat sleeves. Her throat seemed to close with fear.

Drawing in her breath, she grabbed her heavy metal flashlight from inside her coat pocket and then shrugged the garment off so that her arms were free in case she needed to defend herself. For a moment she thought of calling to Jeff on the plant floor as a backup, but Jeff was seventy-two years old, and he had diabetes and a bad hip.

Be careful. Be smart.

She grabbed her cell phone from the other pocket of her winter-wool coat—at least she had 9-1-1 on speed-dial—and then crept to the edge of the door.

He sat right out in the open as if he belonged there, though at present, his back was to her.

He had short hair: dark brown, almost black. He wore a hunter-green collared dress shirt with the sleeves pushed to his elbows, as if settled in to work. He’d tossed a black coat over the desk chair, and by standing on tiptoe and adjusting the angle of her gaze, she could see that he wore a tie.

A tie!

Nobody wore a tie at Aura Botanicals. Even the CEO, Jay Astley, showed up in jeans, T-shirt and Birkenstocks, like the hippie he’d once been—at least until his passion for bees, coupled with his late wife’s passion for making body products from the resulting organic honey, had resulted in Aura Botanicals. “Aura,” derived from his wife’s name, minus the L. God, Kristin missed her.

Now that she thought of it, Laura’s death had marked the start of Andrew’s campaign against her.

Andrew was the one person who made coming in to work upsetting for Kristin. Just last week, a friend of his from one of their suppliers had joined a group of them for lunch. The friend had returned from a cross-country trip, and Kristin had been interested in seeing his photos, imagining herself taking the same drive and living vicariously through him. But Andrew had sneered at her in front of everyone.

“I’m tired of you being distracted and lacking commitment,” he’d said. She’d been mortified. But his lack of faith in her hadn’t stopped there. From her own supervisor, Kristin had learned that Andrew often told his other managers she wasn’t serious enough. “A liability,” he called her.

Sometimes after a rough day of Andrew’s opinions, Kristin went home and cried. She tried her best to prove herself in her job through hard work, but beyond that, what could she do? She stayed at Aura Botanicals because there were so many other reasons why this company was the best place for her, and she knew she shouldn’t let the small “bads” outweigh the more important “goods.”

If she did go inside and confront the stranger in Andrew’s office, she’d need to be careful. Maybe the man was in the office with Andrew’s permission. That was the most likely scenario. So she needed to be circumspect in how she dealt with him. And no curious questions about his accent.

She was standing there, still weighing her options, when the door swung open. The big, dark-haired Scotsman strode out, down the hall away from her to the end of the corridor and into the smallest office, shoved into the corner like an afterthought.

Her office. Her private space.

Shock flooded her. Without thinking, she walked quickly after him.

And then the Scot, who was trespassing in her office, reached over and turned on the portable electric heater. Her heater, that she’d brought from home.

“Hey!” She gasped in protest. “This is my space.”

He swiveled in her desk chair, caught off guard. “Jaysus!” he said, when he saw her standing before him.

She froze, clutching the flashlight and her phone. His brows drew down, and his lips settled into a thin line of disapproval.

She stepped back. With the exception of Andrew, she wasn’t used to anyone being so outwardly angry at her. Aura was peopled mainly by gentle types: laconic Vermonters. Like her goofy supervisor, Dirk, who really should be here at the plant with her instead of moonlighting at his weekend wedding DJ gig.

“Um, that is my desk you are sitting at,” she said to the big Scot.

He gazed up at her. Blinked for a moment. Regarded the flashlight in her hand and made no expression at seeing her clutching it like a weapon. Instead, he remained seated, adopting a poker face. He looked cold and arrogant, which didn’t jibe at all with the pleasant, romantic voice she’d heard him using on the telephone.

“I was directed to sit here.” He said it in a way that let her know not only did he think there was nothing wrong with his barging into her office, but he was also irritated by her presence. His lovely, romantic Scottish accent was gone, replaced with a regular, nonexotic New England voice, much like she heard every day.

She was dying to ask where the Scots’ accent had gone. But she behaved as a professional, only asking businesslike and relevant questions that would not upset Andrew if he found out.

“Who directed you to use this office?” she asked, her palm sweaty on the metal in her fist.

“This is a company office, is it not?” That scowl was still on his face—he was not backing down from her. “And a company desk?”

“Well...yes,” she said.

He stared back harder at her. She felt herself shriveling inside. Was she making yet another mistake? Maybe she’d missed a directive given to everyone in a staff meeting?

No, that was impossible. Placing the flashlight carefully on her bookshelf, she forced herself to smile at him. “For all I know, you could be a corporate spy, sneaking in here to steal trade secrets,” she said in a light voice. “I’m sure many companies are dying for the secret formula for Aura’s bestselling Organic Beeswax and Shea Butter Shampoo.”

He stared at her for another moment longer. Then he leaned back. He didn’t seem so arrogant anymore. “That’s a reasonable concern, actually.”

“I thought so.”

He nodded. “It would alarm me, too, if I worked here.” He made a half smile at her. Though it was creaky and awkward, the gesture did come off as charming. He seemed to be making a conscious effort not to be so personally offensive.

She felt herself relaxing. “Are you here with one of the managers?” She should have checked the cars in the parking lot before she’d strode in without thinking. That would’ve given her more of a clue as to what was going on.

“Yes, of course.” He nodded again. “I was escorted by Andrew Harris.”

She couldn’t be positive, but those r’s in her boss’s name sounded rolled, like a native Scottish speaker would pronounce it.

She peered at him.

His gaze narrowed back.

Maybe if she kept him talking, she could trip him up, and he’d slip into the Scots’ accent again.

“I didn’t know Andrew was here today,” she remarked lightly, strolling over and standing in the blowing force of her electric heater. She pocketed her phone and held her hands palm up to the warm air. “Usually when Andrew works on the weekends, he stops by the plant floor to say hello to everyone.”

“He left early.”

Three carefully spoken words. She waited, but he had no further explanation.

“Where did Andrew go?” she asked patiently, hoping he would slip and roll another r.

Slowly and carefully again, he muttered, “Family emergency.”

“Oh, my gosh!” she exclaimed, turning from the heater. “Did Robin go into labor?”

The stranger seemed to flinch. “Ah, if Robin is his wife, then, yes, it appears so.”

Two rolled r’s! They were very, very slight—but those delicious burrs sent an unmistakable shiver up her spine.

The question was killing her. She couldn’t help asking; she was dying inside.

“So, are you from Scotland, or not?” she blurted point-blank.

He gave her a murderous expression.

And then she realized she was doing it again. Too many questions. Too adventurous for her own good.

* * *

MALCOLM MACDOWALL HAD been assured that the only people present at the Aura Botanicals plant were located on the other side of the building, inside the factory proper, and that these workers would not be interfering with him—certainly not entering the managerial offices where he had only one day to gather the data he needed.

“No,” he snapped at the woman, hoping she’d go away. The worst thing he could let slip was a Scottish accent. If she found out why he was here and who he was affiliated with, it would be disastrous. Letting his guard down and smiling at her had been a mistake.

But the blonde only blinked at him. She was just so damn different from what he was used to. Younger than him. Female. Short and curvy, bundled up in a turtleneck and woolen jumper—sweater, he corrected himself. The building was so cold inside, it made his fingers stiff on the keyboard.

That’s why Andrew had suggested he set up shop in this cubbyhole of an office. For the heater.

“I’m sorry,” she said, sounding honestly contrite. “I shouldn’t have asked about that. But if you want, you can use a Scottish accent when you talk to me. I don’t mind.”

He crossed his arms. “That was a private conversation you heard. A joke between two people.”

She tilted her head at him. Loose, butterscotch-colored curls brushed the top of her shoulder. “So, you’ve never lived in Scotland?”

“No,” he lied. “What is this line of questioning about? Who are you?”

She crossed the room and reached behind some binders for a purse, hidden on the bookshelf. The sudden movement unnerved him. He had every right to be on guard. There were several very good reasons why she couldn’t find out who he was, who he worked for, and where he came from.

She held forward her company badge. “I’m Kristin Hart. I’m an engineer for Aura.”

He didn’t take the plastic-laminated name tag she offered, but he looked at her photo, verifying her name and job classification.

He felt his brows rise. Interesting. She was the last person he would’ve pegged for an engineer. He supposed he had an image in his head of one who practiced the profession, and she was definitely not it.

Not that he was prejudiced against women as engineers. On the contrary. It was just that she seemed too young for the job, for one thing. She was pretty, with a Botticelli face and shoulder-length blond hair that curled, giving her a soft look that, on second thought, maybe made her appear younger than she was. A staff position at Aura required a four-or five-year college degree.

Still, she looked more like a cosmetic salesperson than an engineer in a manufacturing plant with noisy, automated equipment. How did she hold her own within the realities of factory life? The CEO of the company—former CEO, though Kristin didn’t know it yet—was laid-back and kind. But Andrew, the man who’d deserted Malcolm to this young woman with the Botticelli face, was aggressive and foul-tempered. Not someone Malcolm would trust with his sister, but then again, there weren’t many people he did trust.

“What kind of engineer are you?” he asked her.

“Industrial.” A frown crossed her brow. “I’m with an overtime crew today. One of our labeling machines broke and we’re here to finish packing an order by hand.”

She was very free with her information. In a sense, it fascinated him.

“Does that happen often?” he couldn’t help asking.

She laughed. She had a nice laugh. As she tucked her badge into her purse, her gaze kept sliding to his. “How did you learn to talk in a Scottish accent like that? Because it sounded real to me. Did you ever live there?”

He slid his tongue over his teeth, debating how much to tell her. One tooth was chipped and uneven. A reminder to remain careful. “I left when I was young. I don’t remember much,” he decided to admit.

Her face brightened and she smiled—it was a remarkable transformation. She had a way of looking at him as if he was the most fascinating person she’d ever seen. “I knew it,” she said. “My grandmother was born in Scotland, too.”

“Really,” he murmured. He crossed his arms and leaned back. She was nattering on with him, unaware of the peril.

She nodded. “I’ve always wanted to go there.”

“Maybe you should,” he said mildly.

“Yeah, right. I don’t even have a passport.” She laughed.

“That’s easily fixed.”

“What’s your name?” she asked, smiling.

Something stilled in him. He hadn’t expected the conversation to go quite like this. But he needed to convince her that he wasn’t a threat.

He looked her straight in the eyes. They were pale green and luminescent. The color reminded him of rolling fields in the springtime, but even more beautiful. “George Smith,” he said.

It was another lie. A complete and utter fabrication, but he didn’t feel a twinge of guilt, because it was his “security name.”

A look must’ve crossed his face, because a crease formed on her forehead. “What are you here for today, George?”

He tensed slightly. The moment he’d been waiting for. If she had chatted around the bush much longer, he would have thought less of her. As it was, she was utterly charming about it.

He opened his briefcase and handed her the folded letter. He’d hoped not to have to show it to anyone other than Andrew. It only increased complications.

She glanced questioningly from the letter to him. He kept silent, steepled his hands and waited as she opened it and read.

The printed orders were on letterhead from the CEO of Aura Botanicals, her company. “To Whom it May Concern,” it began, informing the reader to give “all and any assistance to Mr. George Smith, consultant.”

She put down the letter. “You’re a consultant? What kind?”

He frowned. “I specialize in brand expansion and cost savings.”

“So you’re a marketing guy?”

“Business strategy, actually.”

“Why are you here alone on a Saturday? Is Jay selling the company?”

For a split second, Malcolm almost broke his mask. She was more perceptive than Andrew had been. “No,” he said carefully. “Jay doesn’t want to alarm anyone. He just wants suggestions to improve profitability so he can expand the label.”

She digested his answer. “Are you talking about the ‘Morning Botanicals’ product line? Because I’ll tell you, that’s my favorite. People especially like the shampoo, but most can’t find it in stores due to spotty distribution. Maybe you could tell Jay that.”

“Kristin, there are one hundred twenty-five people in your company. Why don’t you tell him?”

“Well, I would, but his wife died a few months ago, and Jay isn’t as available as he used to be. He took her death hard. We all did.” She shrugged, moving to stand in front of the heater again. “We don’t see him as often as we used to around here.”

Which explained the state of the company financials. But Malcolm would discuss nothing of the sort with anyone besides Jay, the CEO.

“May I get back to work, please?” He held his hand out for the letter. God help him if he had to use it again.

“What kind of work are you planning to do today?” she asked, holding back his letter.

He sighed. She just wouldn’t let him off the hook. The irony was, it made him respect her more. “Fine, I’ll tell you. Andrew gave me the computer password so I could retrieve the reports I need from the system. I also need to have a look at the factory equipment. Andrew gave me diagrams, but I’d rather observe for myself.”

“Interesting,” she said, perusing the set of schematics showing the layout of the machinery on the floor. “Did you know I made those drawings?”

“That’s...perfect.”

“Why?”

She was entirely guileless. And she seemingly knew everything about the operations and the company.

“Because I could use your help,” he said.

“I don’t know....” She shook her head, smiling, tapping the letter against her chin. “The directive to give you assistance is definitely from Jay, because I know his signature.” She handed the letter back to him. “But, how do I know you’re George Smith? You really should show me some identification.”

He’d prepared for this, and he gave her his best sheepish look. “I’d like to, but my wallet is in the hotel safe.”

“You came here without a wallet?”

“I was dropped off by a driver,” he said honestly. The driver was supposed to stay with him for the day, but he hadn’t felt well and had returned to the hotel to rest. A damned unlucky move. Malcolm took extraordinary measures to avoid unlucky moves, but what could he do? “I didn’t realize I’d forgotten my wallet until it was too late.”

“You must have something with your name on it,” she said.

He had nothing on him that identified him as Malcolm MacDowall, and that was by design. Everything Malcolm did was by design. He was utterly careful, and he trusted no one.

But a piece of paper to identify him as George Smith?

He snapped open his briefcase again, reached into a folder and withdrew a printer copy of the reservation for his hotel stay. He passed the receipt to her.

She studied it. George Smith. The document did not list a company name for him.

She nodded and passed it back. “Thank you, George Smith. I hope you understand. We can’t be too careful these days.”

“I completely agree.”

“To be sure, though, I need to make a phone call to my supervisor. Will you wait here until I come back?”

Malcolm tried not to wince. It wasn’t his choice to prevaricate. Jay, the owner of Aura Botanicals, had made it a condition of his visit. Jay had seemed deeply sad, almost in a state of numbness the last time Malcolm had met with him. Personally, Malcolm didn’t think it was wise to make business decisions so soon after the death of a loved one, but what Malcolm thought didn’t matter.

And so, Malcolm was “George Smith” today. A generic “security name.” Less messy for all concerned.

As long as Kristin’s supervisor didn’t raise any red flags.

CHAPTER TWO

KRISTIN STRETCHED HER arms, twisted at her waist and then bent down and retrieved her fallen coat. She’d been overcautious in protecting herself from George Smith.

Clearly, he was not a physical threat, she thought, as she walked to the company break room. George seemed harmless enough beneath his rough exterior, once he’d lowered the gruff defenses he hid behind.

She hung her coat on a hook by the far wall, beside the vending machines and the coffee brewers. She couldn’t help but still wonder about the phone conversation she’d overheard him engaged in, but it would’ve been unwise to push him too far. That call had been private...intimate.

In all likelihood he’d been speaking with a Scottish lady. A girlfriend from his homeland, perhaps? That would explain the accent he’d been using—and the reason he’d been covering it up. It could just be simple embarrassment.

Still, it was best she inform her supervisor what was going on in the offices. It was safest that way. She didn’t want Andrew calling her “unprofessional” over her handling of the consultant, not if she could help it.

Carrying her purse under her arm, she slipped down the hall and into her hideaway in the factory. The best part about working at Aura Botanicals was the great smell of the organic body creams that they manufactured—a scent that was everywhere in the air, fresh and clean.

If she used her imagination and considered the silver lining in every cloud, then working for Aura was like taking a spa day every time she came to work. The essential oils of juniper and birch cleared her head, and the milk-based lotions made her feel like Heidi on her own mountain in Switzerland.

But the scent of the beeswax—the honey—was her favorite, and it was most concentrated in the inventory storeroom she chose to make her phone call from. Lingering amid the racks and bottles to take deep, cleansing breaks was her secret escape during regular workdays.

Positioning herself near a small square window, high above her, she took out her phone and texted Dirk, her supervisor.

Immediately he rang her back. When she answered his call, she could hear the “Chicken Dance” playing in the background. Dirk was at one of his Saturday wedding-DJ jobs he loved so much. Who was she to stomp on someone’s dreams?

“Yo, Kristin, I was just gonna call you. Did you hear that Andrew’s wife went into labor?”

“I did.” Kristin had forgotten about that in all the excitement with George Smith in her office. “Do you have any news?”

“No.”

“What did Andrew say?” she prodded. “How is Robin doing?”

“Ah...he just said that there’s a management consultant in the plant, and that you’re in charge of him for the day.”

“I’m in charge? Well, it was great of him to let me know about it.” Too bad Andrew couldn’t deign to talk to her himself instead of going through “channels.” Mentally, she rolled her eyes. “What does he want me to do? The consultant asked to be let into the computer system, and he requested a tour of the factory, too.”

“Hey, you know I would help you out, but I’m at work today,” Dirk said.

Kristin gritted her teeth and took a breath from the smell of the honey around her, reminding herself to stay calm. “So am I, Dirk.”

“That’s great,” he said. “Look, I’ll see you Monday. You’ll do fine, okay?”

“Wait!” She jumped down from the shelf she’d been sitting on. “Don’t hang up on me yet.” Her boss seemed only too happy to distance himself from the consultant’s visit, and she wasn’t getting a good feeling about this. “Do I have your permission to show him our operations?”

“Andrew said you’re in charge. This is your decision.”

“Well, what does that mean exactly?”

“Honestly? If anything goes wrong today, it’s on you.”

“Me?”

“Sure. You’re the one who’s there.” Dirk made a laughing inflection of the word. “I can’t cover you from here. If Andrew gets mad at you, then he gets mad at you. Shit happens, and it is what it is.”

She hugged herself, pacing the small storeroom. More than anything, she needed to keep this job. Suddenly, there were more stakes involved than just being “distracted” from her work. Yes, she’d thought George Smith was interesting; she’d enjoyed questioning him. When he’d smiled, she’d been intrigued. His eyes were nice. Kind. Not threatening at all. And, of course, there was that accent...

She sighed, opening one of the lotion bottles and inhaling for fortitude. Dirk was, in effect, reminding her to be on her guard. Reminding her of her shaky standing at Aura of late. Ever since Laura had died, there’d been no one to protect her from Andrew.

“Kristin, I need to go. It’s time to announce the cake-cutting.”

There was nothing more to be done. Discussing the decision with Dirk wouldn’t solve a thing. She needed to trust her gut.

“I’m just keeping you informed,” she said. “Have a good wedding.”

* * *

MALCOLM HAD WORKED with a lot of successful women in his professional life—CEOs, saleswomen, accountants—and what they all had in common were determination and strength of will. None of them were pushovers.

Kristin wasn’t a pushover, either. She was just...surprising. She had a different style of operating, he supposed, that of a natural free spirit. When she smiled at him and tilted her head, he could see where he would have to be extra careful not to let himself be lulled off guard. Because at the end of the day, as the cliché went, everybody had their own interests at heart. As he well knew.

“Is everything all right?” he asked Kristin as she stood again in the doorway to the office—to her office.

She nodded grimly and set down two steaming mugs on his—her—desk. “It looks like I’ll be taking care of you today,” she said. “George.”

He made sure not to flinch at the false name. His poker face in action, he nodded.

“Great. Er...I’m going to need some help with navigating this computer system. It’s not an accounting program I’m familiar with.”

“That’s because we bought the rights to the source code, and it’s evolved from an older software package.” She slid one of the mugs toward him. “Here. I brought you some coffee. If you don’t like coffee, there’s tea and cocoa in the break room.”

“This is...great. Thank you.” He curled one hand around the warm brew. Black, the way he liked it. “Could you, ah, show me the report screen?”

“Do you want financial reports or manufacturing reports?” she asked coolly.

“Ah...the shop floor reports with costs, projections and capacities would be most helpful for now.” Damn, he was distracted. Good thing he already had everything else he needed, directly from Jay Astley himself.

Personally, he thought the man had made a mistake. Astley should have been here today. Instead Kristin Hart was bearing the brunt of it, though she was very good at what she did, judging from watching her as she leaned over him and tapped at her keyboard.

He closed his eyes. Malcolm got a whiff of that honey body lotion they sold, that the factory smelled of, actually. It was nice. It was driving him a little crazy, because it wasn’t just the cream he was inhaling, but the scent of Kristin, mingled with the cream.

“This is the main screen. The printer is right there.” She indicated a portable laser printer on a table behind them. “I need to go check on my crew now, but you can stay here and print whatever production reports you need. If you get lost in the system, just type ‘MI10’ here.” She showed him a tab on the screen. “That’s a back door to the main reports menu. You can go directly there instead of clicking through the hierarchy of screens.”

“You know what you’re doing,” he said, impressed at the speed with which she paged through the system.

“I should. I installed a lot of it.” Her voice was matter-of-fact. Not filled with the pride she should be taking in her work. “What else do you need today?” she asked, very cool and professional.

It threw him for a bit of a loop. There were dynamics in play here that he wasn’t aware of. Nothing had gone right about this day so far.

He forced himself to think for a minute, collect himself. “Why don’t I print the reports later? As long as you’re heading to the floor, I’ll tag along with you now.”

She nodded again, showing no emotion. “Fine.” She glanced at her watch and winced slightly. “I’ve been gone too long, and I left Mindy in charge.”

He followed Kristin as she strode down the hallway to a section of the old plant with ancient floorboards that creaked when he walked on them. A remainder from the original, nineteenth-century cotton mill it had once been, beside the great flowing river that cut through the classic, small New England factory town. He felt calmer. These were facilities he knew well, both from his university years and his work experience.

They rounded a corner and bumped into a woman who was headed in their direction, evidently searching for Kristin.

“I brought you your hot chocolate,” Kristin said to the woman.

This was Mindy. And Malcolm knew, because she wore a “Hello, my name is Mindy” sticker affixed to her blue-flowered blouse.

Mindy was shorter than Kristin, and squatter, and when she suddenly sighed and wrapped both chubby arms around Kristin’s waist, her head only reached the top of Kristin’s breasts. For a moment, Malcolm froze. Such shows of affection in the workplace were so out of place, inappropriate...and yet, he couldn’t tear his gaze away from them.

“I am sooo tired of snow and cold,” Mindy moaned, her voice muffled between Kristin’s breasts.

Malcolm swallowed, his heart feeling as if it had stopped. But Kristin wasn’t fazed by the woman.

“I know, honey.” Kristin hugged Mindy with one arm and patted her on the head while she juggled the mug of hot chocolate in her other hand. “It seems like it’s been snowing for months and months, doesn’t it? But it’s only January.”

“The new year,” Mindy said. She pushed away from Kristin and faced him. Her eyes were spaced far apart, and she had a distinctive look to her features.

Ah. He understood. She was...what did they call it? Special Needs.

“Hello,” Mindy said to him.

“Er...hello.” He crossed his arms and nodded curtly. No hugs for him today, please, he thought.

“This is George,” Kristin said to Mindy. “He’s visiting us for the day.”

Inside, Malcolm cringed. He did not want to bond with anyone here, did not want to risk getting to know them or, God forbid, liking them.

“What did you do for New Year’s Eve?” Mindy asked him.

“Er...” He gazed to Kristin for help. She smiled and shook her head as if to say, “You’re on your own.”

Involuntarily, he swallowed.

“What did you do for New Year’s Eve?” Mindy asked him again, louder this time.

He risked glancing at Kristin. She was watching him as if his response was of utmost importance.

“I...er...went home.”

“Where is that?” Mindy demanded.

He felt a muscle in his jaw tick. He looked to Kristin, but she didn’t say a word.

“I saw my family,” he said quietly. And it killed him to think of it. His life was so out of sync with theirs. He’d stayed two weeks, for Christmas and for Hogmanay—what the Scots called New Year’s Eve—but then after the “first-footing” tradition, he’d been right back on the road again.

He really was getting tired of the road.

“Who is in your family?” Mindy asked him.

“Come,” Kristin interrupted, taking pity on him at last. “We need to get back to the packing room. How are Jeff and Arlene doing?”

“Good.” Mindy stopped to take a drink of her hot chocolate. She downed half the mug in one long gulp, before Kristin gently took it from her.

“Let me carry that for you, Mindy,” Kristin said. Mindy allowed Kristin to put her arm around her and lead her down the hallway.

And just like that, his interrogation was forgotten.

He paused, catching his breath. Even though it was cool enough to nearly see his breath in the below-room-temperature factory, he was sweating beneath his shirt. A cold perspiration, running in a thin trickle from his armpit down along his bare skin. He was in hell. Women and special needs workers. What was he doing?

Kristin poked her head around the corner. “Are you coming, George?”

It was like a dagger to his core. “I... Yes.” But he gripped his notebook and made sure he had his phone in his pocket; he’d need the camera app to take photos of the factory floor.

He followed Kristin and Mindy. Slowly, he was turning himself numb inside again. Not fighting anymore. He would go with the flow, whatever the day brought. Let Kristin show him the way, but at the same time, stay safely wary.

But it turned out he didn’t need to be; nobody challenged him. Kristin introduced him to Jeff and Arlene. Jeff was mellow and quiet. He had a thick white beard, wire-rimmed glasses and a habit of saying very little. Arlene was around the same age, but warm and nurturing. She babbled on about a trip to “the British Isles” she was planning to take, and it was only by the grace of God that Kristin didn’t raise a brow at him or otherwise give him away as a possible inhabitant of the Commonwealth.

She was a blessing to him. And, as she’d promised, Kristin led him on a tour of the plant. It was a light, airy space with high ceilings and tall windows that overlooked a back parking lot and a pine forest that was picturesque—pure New England.

Malcolm knew the region well; he’d spent his childhood and teen years in two New Hampshire boarding schools, and then, his undergraduate terms in a college not too far from the location of this plant.

The snow falling on the pine trees outside made him feel sad. It was so quiet and peaceful. He and Kristin were the only two people on the factory floor, with all the empty, ghostlike machines. She led him from station to station, his footsteps echoing against the ancient wooden boards, warped and uneven with age. The space was small and cramped with devices—mixers, conveyor belts, bottlers and a label maker that Kristin said was broken, hence, the applying of labels by hand today. But no matter...all the other machines were dormant, too. On a Saturday.

Incredibly wasteful. His head had been buried in the levels of financials for this small, privately held company for weeks, and it was apparent to him that the business was mismanaged.

Malcolm took photos with his camera phone. He listened while Kristin explained each part of the production process, and how the layout was configured depending on the product to be manufactured that day.

“I thought you worked with the computer system,” he remarked to her.

“I do. But I also schedule the machines. That’s the benefit of a small company—I get to do lots of things.” She smiled. “I like variety, so it’s perfect for me. I don’t think any other company would fit my personality. It’s why I won’t ever leave here.”

He kept his careful poker face and just felt sadder. It was not good that he was getting to know his hostess. Not wise at all to let himself sympathize with these people at Aura. It was his job to stay emotionally aloof and separate from the actions he was required to take. He needed to remain neutral and businesslike. It was safer for everyone that way.

He went back to the computer in her office and studied the range of reports to choose from.

“George?” Mindy asked from the doorway.

It took Malcolm a moment to realize that Mindy was referring to him. Damn it. “Yes, Mindy?”

“Kristin says to ask you what you want for lunch. She’s going to call in a sandwich order, and I get to pick it up by myself.” Her chest expanded with pride.

Do not get too close to these people. “No, thank you,” he said. “I’ll take care of my own lunch.”

“But, aren’t you hungry?” Mindy demanded. “I’m always hungry.”

His stomach was growling. He was thirsty, too, but for something cold. Andrew had shown him a Coke machine in the break room earlier, but Malcolm hadn’t brought any pocket change with him. He was still hoping Andrew would call him, even though Malcolm knew it was highly unlikely—less than a one percent chance, he figured.

“I’ll, er, walk someplace close by for lunch,” Malcolm said to the girl. A lie, because he didn’t have a wallet or credit cards, and his smallest bill was a hundred. He doubted a small-town diner would risk cashing it.

“I’m walking today,” Mindy said. “To Cookie’s Place. Kristin said I’m in charge.” She scrunched her face at him, showing him that she was peeved. It occurred to him that maybe he was taking her job away from her.

“Ah...is there a bigger place nearby? A chain restaurant?” Maybe he could call his driver to phone in an order with a credit card. “How about a pizza place I can walk to?” Vermont didn’t have fried pizza like in Scotland, but he would make do.

Mindy frowned harder. “If you are walking, there’s only Cookie’s Place.”

Of course. It was a small town. And it had been a crucial, logistical mistake not to have access to a car. His fault, because how could the fictional “George Smith” rent a car without a driver’s license?

Sighing wearily, he gave in. “Please order me whatever sandwich Kristin is ordering. And, er—” man, this was painful “—please ask her if I can pay her back later, once I have change. Okay?”

He would have to send an envelope with cash later, which gave him more logistical problems. The compounding of his torment today did not end....

“Kristin is paying for our lunches out of petty cash,” Mindy informed him.

Well. That solved everything. “Fine. You win.”

When the food came, he was grateful for it. Thick slices of deli turkey piled high on homemade white bread, also sliced thick, with crisp lettuce and Swiss cheese and a spread of fresh cranberry sauce as the main condiment. Absolutely delicious. He tried not to eat like a hungry wolf. They were all together sitting at a table by the big front windows, chewing happily, saying little. Malcolm downed his bottle of cool spring water, contented, no longer so dehydrated.

The snow outside was coming down in a thick blanket. At home, in Scotland, the roads would be at a standstill, he thought with amusement. When he’d been in Edinburgh over Hogmanay, the city had received just a few inches of snow, and the city government had literally called in the British Army to clear the streets. Scotland didn’t have snow-clearing equipment like Vermont did. People just didn’t drive in snow the way they did here.

But Malcolm was a great driver in snow. He’d had many years of long New England practice.

Then he realized that, without knowing it, Mindy had put a bug in his ear with all her questions. He suddenly felt homesick for his country. He unscrewed the cap on the bottle of Coke that Kristin had also ordered for him. If he were at home, he’d have asked for an Irn-Bru. Maybe Kristin would think it was nasty stuff—sweet, licorice-flavored, neon-orange-colored carbonated soda—but it was his Scottish nasty stuff, and that’s why he’d always liked it.

He was just tired from too much traveling. Maybe he needed a rest....

The others went back to work, and he observed Kristin and her motley crew from a distance. It fascinated him how Kristin made a game out of finishing their labeling chore. She and Mindy sang all the choruses of “Walking in a Winter Wonderland.” When they were through with that, they shared turns telling stories.

And then they lapsed into silence, quietly moving among the open boxes, filling them with jars, while Mindy closed her eyes and rested.

Outside, the snow covered the world in a peaceful white blanket. Malcolm got up by himself and wandered the facility, first completing his report-printing and diagram-photocopying, and then taking the last of his photos.

When he’d finished, he searched for Kristin. He found her sitting by herself at the table where they’d eaten lunch earlier. Her chin was in her hands and she was staring out the window, just watching the January snow come down. Hushed.

And it seemed to him that the delicious sandwich caught in his throat, because he’d known before he’d even started his day’s work, known before he’d seen the first bleeding financial statement and the first silent, still piece of machinery that he was going to shut all this down on her.

He was the man responsible.

And there was nothing he could do to stop it.

* * *

NOT EVEN MINDY could melt this glacial man’s heart, Kristin decided.

Thankfully, George had avoided them for most of the afternoon. Mindy had come back and reported to Kristin that George was “mean.”

“He frowns at me,” Mindy had said.

Yes, George was a frowner. Nothing cracked his reserve.

He was closed, disinterested, zipped-up tight. And she wouldn’t complain about it, because he had treated her with nothing but professionalism so far. During their tour of the plant, not once had he said a single inappropriate thing or even cracked a smile again.

If anything, as he followed her about the factory floor, listening silently to her explanation of the processes, cutting in only now and then to ask pertinent questions, he was insightful.

Her anxiety since she’d spoken to Dirk had slowly slipped away. She had relaxed enough to leave George to his own devices while she’d helped her crew box orders and perform quality control with the invoices and packing lists. The shipping company was due soon, and Aura was behind with their schedule. They were always behind with their schedule lately, it seemed. Whenever things went wrong at work, Andrew would be quick to criticize her, but Kristin was determined this would not be one of those times.

She just needed to accept that George Smith was enigmatic. He was a “Mr. Rochester” type. Once upon a time, Kristin would’ve found a fun challenge in bringing him out of his shell. What made this guy tick? Why was he so closed off and brooding?

Jeff dropped a box he was carrying, and George jumped. Literally jumped.

So he was nervous, too. Behind that angry, serious facade.

But, she really didn’t want to think too much about it or him. Things had changed with her since her younger more naive days. Now, she just wanted this handsome Scotsman bundled up and on his way so she could go back to her life as it was.

At the end of the afternoon, Kristin crossed the plant and found George standing in her office, sliding a folder into his briefcase. He glanced up when he saw her, and for a split second, his face brightened.

She hesitated. Maybe he was melting a bit.

“Did you find everything you needed today?” she asked cautiously.

He nodded, making a slight smile. “Yes, and I appreciate all your help.”

Well. That was...good. “Do you think you could tell Andrew that for me?” She started to smile, too, but then stopped herself, remembering. “Please, just give me a good report. It really would help me with him.”

“Yes, I’ll tell him,” George said warmly. “I’ll tell Jay Astley, as well. Maybe he can do something for you.”

Jay Astley? Her pulse elevated. “Thank you. That’s...” She paused, thinking of their gentle CEO. “Did I mention that his wife recently died?”

He nodded, slowly drawing on his coat. “Yes.”

“Laura...his wife...was the person who interviewed me for this job six years ago.” Kristin couldn’t help smiling at her memory. “We hit it off right away.”

“She made a good decision hiring you,” George said.

He thought so? She snapped her head up, but he had discreetly turned aside and was wrapping a winter scarf around his neck.

Kristin turned off the electric heater. Laura’s sudden illness and then death had upset everyone. She had been the heart and soul of their little factory community. She had also been the most perceptive person Kristin had ever met.

Anybody else would’ve thrown Kristin out of her office once she’d seen Kristin’s grades and college transcript. Kristin had not been top of her class, far from it. Back then, she’d been hopelessly disorganized. Even during her scheduled interview—so important to her—Kristin had accidentally dropped her purse, and to her mortification, two packaged tampons had rolled out onto the interview table.

But Laura had been gracious to her and had looked beyond the mistake. Maybe she had been able to tell that Kristin was bright and knew what she was talking about, despite the rough nerves. In any event, she’d simply smiled and put Kristin at ease. “It would be nice to have another woman besides me in the plant offices,” Laura had said. “Tell me, what about Aura Botanicals drew you to us?”

And Kristin had relaxed enough to just be herself for the rest of the interview. Something all too rare back in those days.

Kristin blinked, coming back to the present. She bit the inside of her cheek and glanced at George. He had cocked his head and was quietly studying her.

She smiled at him. “When Laura interviewed me for this job, she asked me why she should hire me. And I actually said to her, ‘Because I’m addicted to your Red Chestnut shampoo. It makes me happy every morning when I smell it.’”

Laughing, she shook her head. “What would you have said to such a candidate? You would have run away, wouldn’t you?”

“Actually,” George said slowly, “I like that answer. If said honestly, it shows that the employee understands the company’s products. It shows a tendency to be loyal, and that’s the most important thing to me.” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.

Something stirred in her heart. He looked so vulnerable and yet sexy at the same time. She pressed her palms to her sides and tried to stay calm.

“I definitely would’ve hired you,” he said quietly. The soft lilt of Scotland rolled over her. Her heart picked up and seemed to float.

“Really?” she breathed.

“Absolutely.” It was almost a whisper.

A spell hung in the air between them. Her knees weakened. She gazed at him, into his light, clear blue eyes, the color of the fading winter’s day, and she could not stop that bond that had seemed to spring up and suddenly intensify.

With a sharp intake of breath, George stared down at his watch. “Four o’clock,” he murmured. “My ride will be here soon.”

“Yes.” Flustered, she grabbed her coat. “I’ll walk you to the front door.”

He nodded to her. She wondered if he would reach for her hand. But, no, as always, he was careful not to touch her.

“Well, I guess this is goodbye, then,” he said. He kept his hands in his pockets.

“Yes. Of course,” she answered.

His phone rang, and he seemed relieved to turn away from her. “Hello, I’ll meet you out front,” he said into the phone.

She went back out to the packing area, trying not to think of him. She had wanted him to leave, after all. By now, the shipping guy had shown up and was loading the stack of boxes into his truck. Kristin signed time cards for Mindy, Jeff and Arlene, and was saying goodbye to them when George approached her, looking worried.

“I wonder if I might ask for your help,” he said.

So polite. But at least he hadn’t reverted back to scowling at her. She nodded. “Certainly, George.”

He seemed to flinch. “My, er, driver got into a small accident.” With a rueful expression, he gazed out the tall factory windows. In the light that fell over the parking lot, the snow swirled. Two inches accumulation, she judged. The fresh snowfall had amounted to more than the dusting she’d expected.

“Is he all right?” she asked.

George shrugged. “He’s not used to driving in snow. He skidded off the road and into an embankment. He called for assistance, and now he’s awaiting a replacement vehicle. They estimate two hours before he’s able to get here.”

“Oh.” She digested that information. What did it mean for them?

“Is there a taxi company nearby that I might call?” he asked, ever so polite. But she saw the worry lines on his face.

“Yes. Absolutely.” She went to the bulletin board in the break room and pulled the tack to release a worn business card, and then brought it back to George. “There’s only one taxi service in town, but they’re usually pretty reliable.”

He held the card between his fingers while he pressed the buttons for the phone number. He had large hands, the nails bitten to the quick. No rings, wedding or otherwise. She glanced up at him to see his gaze dart away from hers.

She felt warm inside, from her face to her toes. Now, that was strange. She definitely didn’t want that. A fantasy was one thing, but this...this physical attraction was reality. And it was still too dangerous—she didn’t know this man. Yes, everything had gone well so far, but...

Even if their work arrangement didn’t end tonight, she just wasn’t interested in a relationship with him. She seldom dated, and never with anyone she’d met at Aura. It just wasn’t who she was.

Frankly, these days, she’d pretty much resigned herself to the fact that she was meant to be single. The loyal employee, the quirky aunt, the want-to-be-adventurous sister. Maybe—on a good day—even the dutiful daughter. That was all that she was.

Thankfully, George Smith was leaving town. She turned away from him and marched from the packing area. She kept her hands balled in her pockets. She was far enough away that she couldn’t hear him, which was good, because the sound of his deep, low voice speaking into the phone was doing a number on her, making her body feel things she didn’t want to feel.

She busied herself by walking through the plant, checking that lights were off and doors were locked. Inside her office, she grabbed her flashlight from the shelf, along with a spare pair of mittens and a beret that she kept in one of her desk drawers. It would be a long walk home in the dark and the cold. She shut down her computer and closed up the room.

When she turned down the corridor, she saw George walking toward her. Her legs seemed to freeze. She stopped where she was, twisting the mittens in her hand.

“The taxi service isn’t willing to drive me to my hotel. The snowfall is supposed to intensify, and they don’t want to get stuck.”

“Oh,” she replied.

“Is there a diner where I can get something to eat and do some work until my ride arrives?”

“I... No.” She laughed ruefully, not able to avoid gazing into his eyes. Sky-blue. So beautiful...

She shook her head, looking away. “We’re a backwater town. All that’s open on Saturday night is a convenience mart, a seedy bar I don’t recommend, two gas stations and a twenty-four hour pharmacy.”

His countenance fell. Kristin rubbed her arms and risked glancing at him again. He really was worried. Suddenly, this was not just his problem, but their problem. They were a team, and he needed her to help him solve this.

It made her feel sick and a little anxious.

“How about if I find someone to drive you to your hotel?” she suggested shakily. Maybe her brother was home. He had a four-wheel-drive vehicle.

But her brother was like her; he tended to talk too much and inappropriate things often popped out without him intending it. “On second thought, never mind,” she said hurriedly, “I’ll take you instead.”

“No.” George shook his head. “Absolutely not. I will not have you jeopardize your safety. It’s out of the question.”

“Then...what do you propose we do?”

He set his mouth in a line. “I’ll wait in your office.”

“No, we can’t do that. Because of the alarm, you can’t stay in the factory without me being here with you.” She rubbed her trembling palms against her sides—she had no choice, really. “How about if you wait with me at my sister-in-law’s house?” Nothing could go wrong with that scenario. “My niece invited me for an early dinner tonight. We’ll sit with their family while you wait for your ride.”

“No, I don’t want to impose,” he said.

But she could tell he was being polite and cautious, refusing the invitation the same as she would have, in his place.

“Stephanie is a professional chef. To her, adding another seat at the table is a good thing. The more people who enjoy her meals, the better, as far as she’s concerned.”

He still looked dubious.

“I’ll call her now and tell her.” She had to—she couldn’t leave George out in the cold.

Holding her mitten with her teeth, Kristin took out her phone from her pocket and dialed her sister-in-law’s number. George gave her a pained expression, but he didn’t argue.

Stephanie picked up on the first ring. “Where are you? You said you’d be here at five o’clock.”

“I’m bringing a work colleague to dinner. That’s okay, isn’t it?”

George was now outright frowning at her and looking tremendously unhappy.

Kristin glanced away. “His name is George Smith, and he’s snowed in for a couple of hours until his ride shows up. I told him that he could grab a bite with us, and that it wouldn’t be a problem.”

“You’re bringing home a man?” Stephanie asked over the phone. “Our Kristin is actually bringing someone home? Are pigs flying?”

“Stop it,” Kristin murmured. George winced. She smiled gamely at him, trying not to tremble.

“You used to be fun,” Stephanie complained.

“I still am,” she whispered into the phone.

“No, I mean, you used to date. You used to like guys, and want to have a family of your own someday. You were gonna have a set of twins, remember—so they would be best friends with my kids—and we were all going to vacation together, happily ever after. I even married your dumb brother for it.”

Oh, no. Knowing Kristin’s brother, some elaborately planned prank had backfired. She glanced nervously at George. “Um, what’s he done now?”

“Nothing! That’s the problem—he’s refusing to eat my cooking. And me, a professional! You would think that after eight years of marriage, the dummy would learn.”

“What’s...going on, Steph?”

There was a pause, and when she spoke again, Stephanie’s mouth sounded full. “Actually, it’s a surprise. Ask George Smith if he likes haggis.”

Haggis? For a moment, Kristin couldn’t process the incongruity.

She glanced at George, confused. What was Stephanie talking about the Scottish dish for? Her family had never eaten or served it before, not once. From what Kristin had read, haggis was a pudding/meat kind of thing, made with sheep’s heart, liver and lungs all ground up and stuffed, along with oatmeal and onion and spices, inside a big sausage casing and served on a platter.

At least, that was what she had discovered on the internet when she’d been explaining Scottish customs to her niece Lily for the girl’s “What is Your Family Ancestry?” Girl Scout project.

And then it dawned on her. “Oh, my gosh!” Kristin squealed. “Today is January twenty-fifth! You made haggis for Lily, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did,” Stephanie said. “Though technically, I prepared it for you. Maybe it will spark some sense of adventure in you and bring you back to life. The whole family is invited and we’re going to do it up—bagpipe music, toasts, songs—the works. Pretty good surprise, isn’t it?”

With a smile so big it felt as if her cheeks were splitting, Kristin suddenly remembered George standing beside her.

She stopped giggling and turned to him, her hand over her mouth.

His face had turned paper-white.

Kristin covered the phone so Stephanie wouldn’t hear her. “You know exactly what holiday tonight is, don’t you, George?”

* * *

WORSE AND WORSE. That’s how his day was going. He was in a section of Hades reserved for liars. Or at least, for imposters who were required to take security names as part of their jobs.

Malcolm bit his tongue, hard, not for the first time today, and probably not for the last time, either.

Kristin was right about one thing: he knew damn well what “Rabbie Burns” night was.

January twenty-fifth. Every year, a countrywide supper held in honor of the birthday of Scotland’s national poet: Robert Burns. Malcolm had been out of the country and away from home for so long, he hadn’t been to a Burns event since he was...

Ten years old. Exactly.

Damn it. He should’ve anticipated this. Kristin was obviously obsessed with his home country, romanticizing it like many women did.

The reality was, his home country just wasn’t that damn romantic to him. Not in his experience.

“Have you ever eaten haggis?” he made sure to say in his best American accent. “Because I haven’t. It sounds horrible. No offense to your sister-in-law.”

“Seriously? You’ve never tried it?”

“Seriously. I’ve never tried it.”

She smiled at him. “Then I guess you’ll have to come along and try something new tonight,” she teased.

Obviously, Kristin trusted him more than she had earlier. Her reticence had left her, and this was not good, for either of them.

What was she doing, believing in him?

Don’t, he wanted to tell her. But if he confessed to her what he was really doing visiting her company, then he would violate the terms of his agreement.

You have to make the hard choices, Malcolm.

Really, he had no choice.

CHAPTER THREE

MALCOLM STRODE BESIDE Kristin in the early darkness, his mood matching the light. Snowbanks lined the sidewalk. It was so frigid cold outside that the hard-packed snow crunched underfoot, and his breath made puffs of air as he walked.

They’d left the mill building and were cutting through the middle of what passed for a downtown—a New England-style town green surrounded by shops, shuttered tight, and old homes, typical of the region. It reminded him of the remote village in New Hampshire where he’d first been sent to prep school as a boy, which only depressed him further. He hunched his shoulders in his coat as they passed through a section of street without lamplights. Malcolm pulled his torch from his pocket and turned it on.

“You carry a flashlight with you, too?” she asked, breaking the silence.

“Everyone should.” If trouble warranted it, the heavy barrel could double as a weapon. He never went anywhere without considering the security implications.

She showed him her flashlight. Smiling sheepishly, she said, “Not everyone understands it, but a person has to protect themselves.”

Something they agreed on. Still, he thought of his sister who was about Kristin’s height, though slighter. He couldn’t see her bashing anyone over the head with a piece of metal. Too bad.

“Did somebody teach you to carry that?” he asked her.

“Yep, my brothers.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Ah...will they be present this evening?”

Passing beneath a streetlight, he noticed the dimple form in her cheek. “We may be blessed with their presence, yes.”

Lovely. At least his luck was predictable.

Within another block, they were at her family’s house, a multistory, clapboard Victorian. They climbed a set of stairs to a big wraparound porch. Stamping her feet to warm them, Kristin pulled a key from her coat pocket.

“You have a key to your sister-in-law’s home?” he asked.

“I live in the apartment upstairs. My brother and sister-in-law own the house, and I rent space from them.”

Interesting. Living here was safe, he supposed. “You have a short walk to work.”

“I do.” She smiled at him. Her hair was tucked inside her beret, and she looked...pretty. The fur from her collar framed her face, and her soft, green eyes gazed up at him. It made him ache.

He had too many secrets to keep from her. He only hoped he endured the night without incident. If he kept himself aloof from her and did not let himself care about her or her predicament once he left, then he would do fine.

“I have one thing to ask of you, George—please don’t hold me responsible for what my family might say or do tonight,” she pleaded, her hand on the doorknob.

He blinked. “Why? Are they likely to string me up because I’m with you?”

“Not you. They like strong, silent types.”

Is that what he was? In any event, nobody would think well of him once his handiwork was made known. Kristin certainly wouldn’t.

A gust of cold wind blew by, and he hunched his shoulders against the frigid temperature. “What are the risks tonight, then?” he asked.

“Me. I’m the risk. I’m bringing someone to a family event.” She choked out a laugh, and then glanced at him helplessly. “Trust me, they would love to pair us up. And it turns out the whole clan is going to be here, not just Stephanie and Lily. So, could you please back me up—make it clear that we’re work colleagues only?”

He stared at her. There were so many things ahead that could go wrong—so many potential traps she didn’t even know about. But he could only fixate on one thing.

“Don’t you have a boyfriend?”

“No.” She shivered. “I am happily single.”

For some reason he liked that response. He smiled at her. “Then we’ll be happily single together.”

She seemed relieved. Nodding, a look of grim determination on her face, she opened the door. “One more thing,” she said, turning to him. “If you don’t like the haggis, then you don’t have to eat it.”

“I’ll be certain not to. You can count on that.”

She smiled at him, and something in his chest pinged. This wasn’t good. He was getting drawn to her despite himself.

There was a reason he’d done his best to keep his distance from her during the afternoon. But now here he was entering her private home, and it was too late to back out. “May I ask why your family is having a Burns Night? All these years I’ve lived in this country, and I don’t think anyone has ever invited me to one. It’s not well-known outside of Scotland.”

“Meet my family, and I’m sure they’ll tell you why it’s important—well, important to me, at least.”

The door was creaky, so she threw her hip into it. With a rattle of glass and a squeak of hinges, they stood inside a warm kitchen. That distinctive odor of tatties and neeps—potatoes and turnips—hit him, and he wrinkled his nose. He also noted sheep—haggis—mixed in, and he grimaced.

He’d been following behind Kristin, but she was immediately whisked away by a female rug rat. She was a shrimp of a girl, a ginger, with the wildest red hair and a smattering of freckles that he’d not seen in ages. Such a combination usually only existed on his home island.

The ginger rug rat was wearing a kilt that clashed with her features. A bright red Royal Stuart tartan, displayed outside almost every tourist shop on Edinburgh’s Royal Mile. He was having difficulty not chuckling aloud, so he squeezed his lips between thumb and forefinger.

“George Smith?” a woman asked him. He didn’t answer right away; it wasn’t registering that she was speaking to him. When it did occur to him, he turned abruptly.

And looked down. She was a shrimp of a woman, too, to match the shrimp of a daughter. Black hair, flashing eyes, and wearing a chef’s white top, checkered loose pants and kitchen restaurant clogs.

That was a relief—she was a professional. Thus, it was unlikely he would be poisoned.

The lady chef grabbed his hand and pulled him into a small butler’s pantry off to the side. And then she shut the door behind them.

Inside, with a bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling, and rows of spices and jarred dry goods arranged on shelves, she grabbed a bottle of whisky—single malt—from a top ledge and unscrewed the cap. “A word with you, Mr. Smith,” she said, pouring them each a wee dram.

Solemnly she handed him a glass. “I know you’re an out-of-town guest, a work colleague to Kristin, but I am telling you, they are going to crucify her in there. And if you don’t support her—or worse, if you join in on the laughter and the insults—then I will personally see you pushed into a snowbank. Do you understand?”

“I...”

“Of course you do.” She smiled sweetly and raised her glass to him before slinging back the shot.

“Whoa!” she said. “That waters the eyes.”

“Er,” he said, still holding the glass of whisky, “I thought this was Kristin’s family celebrating a Burns Dinner?”

“Sure, but they’re not always an easy crowd, and definitely won’t be tonight once they figure out what kind of food I’m feeding them.” She shivered. “Trust me, I’ve known this bunch forever. Kristin was my nap partner in kindergarten. She kept me laughing so much, I never got my sleep. We were always in trouble.”

“Kristin has how many brothers?” Were they big? How many stone did they weigh?

“It has taken me weeks to find a decent haggis recipe,” she said, ignoring him, “and then, importing the ingredients and testing it in my kitchen.” She poked him in the chest. “It’s taken me a while to crack the code and make it palatable. The rest of them likely won’t touch it, but you will. You will at least try to like it for Kristin’s sake. Do you hear me?”

“I hear you.” He slugged back the whisky shot. It burned his throat like comfortable fire. “That’s good stuff,” he muttered, smacking his lips.

“Damn straight it is. I’m bringing up a little girl who’s fifty percent Scottish-American. My husband has three Scottish-American grandparents, and one Scottish grandmother, actually born in the old country. I figure that makes me Scottish by injection, and I plan to act accordingly.”

He nearly choked.

“So, you’ll play along with Kristin and me?”

Mutely, he nodded.

Thankfully, she pivoted on her clogs and stalked back to her instrument of his doom—a silver range with six gas burners, four of them currently going full throttle, shooting up vicious blue flames. He wiped his mouth and ventured out of her kitchen and into the lion’s den.

With foreboding, he glanced into the dining room, where a crowd of men stood, drinking lager from brown longneck bottles. Unless they all ganged up on him, he figured he could handle each of them, alone, judging by height and weight. One of the men looked as though he might be bigger than Malcolm, but Malcolm couldn’t be sure because the man, unfortunately, sat in a wheelchair and had a glum expression on his face.

Kristin was nowhere to be seen.

Malcolm raked a hand through his hair. She would be back soon, with the little girl in tow, he assumed, and introductions would commence. He could behave seriously and in a low-key manner, the same as he’d been doing all day.

Or...there was still time to confess to her. Pull Kristin aside and tell her his real name. His true purpose. Let her in on his thoughts about what her CEO had asked him to do. Maybe some steps she could take for herself to mitigate the fallout before anyone else knew...

It was insanity to consider it.

He’d planned to never see this woman again after tonight. She was not part of upper management at Aura Botanicals, nor was there any reason for her to learn of his past. If he came clean now...

Then that would break his agreement with Jay Astley to remain anonymous. Malcolm would be jeopardizing the new product branding plans. He would also be jeopardizing his own company and the people in it.

It was too risky.

He had to continue the charade. One last night of being George Smith before the security name was retired for good. Kristin would never find out who he really was.

The only difficult part would be the guilt.

No. Guilt he could handle. The worst part would be resigning himself to remaining aloof for the next few hours. Like it or not, he saw all the ways that she was like him, with her heavy flashlight and her love and loyalty to her family and her employer. She had an innate capability for taking care of herself and others. And, she was fun. The lady was quietly compatible to him in a way that he hadn’t known in years, in a way that pulled him in and attracted him.

It was downright dangerous, and he could be in trouble here unless he was careful.

Plus, he would eat no more than one bite of haggis—he didn’t care what her dynamo of a sister-in-law threatened him with.

And, he would never let on to any of them that he knew what Burns Night was. He was simply an observer, killing time. His mouth shut. A ghost who would fade from memory once his driver arrived and he left this small Vermont town forever.

The brother in the wheelchair rolled over to him at the same time that Kristin came hurrying back into the room.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her face flushed and her smile trembling in an “I apologize!” grimace. “My niece wanted help with her part in the festivities. I didn’t mean to desert you.”

She turned to the largest of the men, the one in the wheelchair. “George, this is my brother Stevie. Stevie, this is George. He’s a work colleague, and he’s stranded in town until his ride gets here.”

“My sympathies,” Stevie said, holding out his hand.

“Good to meet you,” Malcolm answered, and shook the man’s hand, nearly getting his fingers crushed in the process.

“This—” Kristin continued, with unmistakable worry in her voice “—is my mom. Mom, this is George.”

“Er...hello,” Malcolm said.

Mom speared him up and down with her sharp eyes that didn’t appear to miss much. Clearly, an appraisal was in process.

Frowning, Mom asked him, “George? George what?”

“Smith,” Kristin replied.

“And what does he do at Aura Botanicals?” Mom demanded.

“Marketing,” Malcolm said without hesitation. The crowd was moving toward the dining table, so he followed along, praying the line of questioning would soon stop.

“And where did he go to school to prepare for the job?” Mom demanded of Kristin.

“Er, Dartmouth.” Malcolm decided to answer her directly. “And later, Harvard Business School.”

Mom whirled to stare at him. Her eyebrows shot up. In a heartbeat, her expression changed. “That’s the Ivy League!”

He knew that. Kristin sighed and leaned over to murmur into his ear: “I went to a local college and my grades weren’t stellar. No one around here lets me forget that.”

“Engineering is difficult,” Malcolm remarked. “I imagine that business studies are much easier.”

“You’re being nice to me. I appreciate it.” She pulled out a chair and indicated that he sit.

He did so, and she joined him to his left. Her face seemed frozen in a mask of what appeared to be both trepidation and hopeful excitement. The dining table was large, and there were a variety of chairs jammed around it, due to the crowd the sister-in-law chef had invited. He wasn’t sure who everyone was, and he was glad Kristin hadn’t made the big deal of introducing him to everyone. He was just waiting for his ride. That was all.

He leaned back in his seat, cushioned and lined with fabric, while hers was an aluminum folding chair. Despite them each sitting on different kinds of chairs, he and Kristin were at the same height, so his thigh brushed against her thigh. His elbow rubbed her elbow.

She drew back, smiling sheepishly at him. “This is worse than airplane seating.”

He stared, then realized she was talking about coach class in commercial airliners. He didn’t know much about that.

The little rug rat climbed into the chair on the other side of him, his right side—his eating side—which was a relief because she was miniature size, and it was unlikely they would bash elbows during the course of the meal.

He smiled tentatively at the little girl. She grinned back, her freckles even more impressive at this close angle, and she cupped a hand, whispering into his ear, “Watch me, I’m going to dance later.”

“You’re...?”

“George,” Kristin’s mother said, simpering from across the table, “I apologize for our boardinghouse arrangement. We are not usually so uncivilized.”

“Yes, we are,” an older man contradicted her from the opposite side. He stood and leaned across the table to shake Malcolm’s hand. “I’m Rich, Kristin’s dad.”

“Better than being poor,” quipped the brother in the wheelchair as he maneuvered himself beside the dad.

“They’re terrible,” the mother said, fussing with the silverware that the sister-in-law had set out. “Pay no attention to them. We’re usually not so disorganized, either.”

“Sure we are,” a tall man chimed in.

“I should probably explain who everybody is,” Kristin murmured to Malcolm. Discreetly, she inclined her head. “That is my dad, Rich, and mom, Evelyn—both of whom you’ve already met. Dad works at the county Chamber of Commerce and Mom serves part-time in the town offices and the rest of the time in the café, helping Stephanie.” She gestured across the table, still speaking in a low tone. “PJ, my oldest brother, is married to Stephanie. This is, of course, their house. Then there’s Stevie.” She tilted her chin toward the man in the wheelchair. “He’s renting a basement room, for now, while he rehabs from his motorcycle accident.” A cloud crossed her face.

“Will he be okay?” Malcolm asked softly. Throughout the entire conversation, he kept his gaze on the tableau of the room. Bustling, energetic, they weren’t paying much attention to him—except for the mother. But at the moment, she was occupied with searching for napkins—giving him and Kristin a chance to talk safely.

“We hope so,” Kristin answered in a lower voice. “Stevie was reckless, going too fast, and he lost control when a car coming in the opposite direction crossed over to his side. We’re lucky he survived the accident.” But she brightened and talked faster. “Over there is Neil, my second oldest brother. He lives across town.”

“How many brothers do you have?” Malcolm asked, suddenly feeling nervous. So much for being aloof. The haggis hadn’t been presented, and already he was betraying himself.

“Four. The last, Grant, just joined the marines. He’s in boot camp. He’s hoping to come home and join the police force after his tour of duty.”

Brilliant. “Er, are you the youngest sibling?” God, Malcolm hoped not. That would bring out her brothers’ protective instincts.

“No,” she said, “I’m right in the middle. Two older than me and two younger.”

Malcolm nodded. He didn’t know why he was bothering to keep close track of everything. He would probably never see her again—he was counting on never seeing her again.

“Except for the marine, no one in your family tends to move very far from home, do they?” he observed.

“No, we do not.”

Before he could ask why, the sister-in-law—Stephanie—strutted into the room. She’d changed from her chef clothes and was wearing a blouse with green and navy blue plaid in it—Black Watch, he automatically thought. She still looked formidable, the military tartan appropriate on her.

Clearing her throat, she said, “Attention, everyone!” She tapped a water glass with her spoon. “Thank you for coming to the Hart family’s first annual Burns Dinner. This is a surprise orchestrated by—”

“Me!” the urchin to his right said, jumping in her chair. She squatted, her feet on the seat, and her kilt was in a most unladylike position. But, Malcolm had grown up with an urchin sister, and in his house, they hadn’t stood on formality much, either.

He must’ve been grinning at the little girl, because to his left, Kristin turned in her seat and gaped at him.

“He smiles!” she said. “Hallelujah!”

The urchin giggled, her chubby hand splayed over her freckled face.

“Kristin,” the girl’s mother ordered. “Help Lily sit properly in her chair. Lily, use your company manners.”

He couldn’t help it, he turned to little Lily himself. Didn’t say a word, just gave her his best comic glower.

Lily laughed harder. But she straightened her skirt and untangled her feet from beneath her, sitting solidly on her rump.

Meanwhile, the mother and father were arguing across the table. It was so much like his own family he was starting to believe there was something to the Scottish genes. Maybe he was homesick.

Stephanie clapped her hands, startling them all. “As I was saying, this is called a Burns Supper. Lily learned it from her aunt, who was teaching her about Scotland and her Scottish ancestry for Lily’s Brownie badge.”

“Oh, please,” Evelyn said. “Here we go.”

“Your mother was born in Scotland,” Stephanie said, directing the comment at her mother-in-law. “I think we should be proud of that.”

“Yes,” Evelyn said, “but I know where this is going.”

She shot a look at Kristin, who blushed furiously.

Malcolm wondered what was going on.

“My mother was not heiress to a castle in Scotland,” Evelyn said to Kristin. “Get that fantasy out of your head. I don’t want to hear a single word of it tonight.”

“She was, too!” the urchin—Lily—cried beside him. He winced from the shriek in his right eardrum. But at the same time, it took all his self-control to restrain himself from bursting out laughing. In general, he didn’t like to snuff out anyone’s enthusiasm—he hated the look of sadness it gave Kristin—but Evelyn was right.

There were thousands of castles in Scotland. Malcolm had often met people who, just because of a last name indicating a few drops of Scottish blood, somehow felt they were related to Scottish royalty. It was part of the romance of the Scottish diaspora, he supposed.

“A long time ago, Nanny got a letter from a man in Scotland, and, and, and...” Lily threw up her hands. With a straight face, the little girl said to Malcolm, “My great-nanny owned a castle. In Scotland. Really.”

“Is that so?” Malcolm murmured.

“It’s a family story,” Kristin explained, her face flushed. “Before I was born, my grandmother received word from Scotland, informing her that she was heiress to a castle.”

“Probably a scam,” her father—Rich—remarked.

“Certainly a scam,” Evelyn agreed. “They were looking for money.”

Kristin’s countenance fell.

Malcolm wished he could make her feel better. “Do you have the letter?” Malcolm asked gently.

“My mother-in-law tore it up,” Rich said. “She was a practical one.”

Kristin shook her head. “My family tends to be...skeptical,” she said to Malcolm.

Malcolm completely understood.

“Still,” Kristin said, glancing across the table at them. “The story remains.”

“It’s like those spam emails the Nigerian princes send, looking for bank account numbers,” her brother—PJ—remarked. He looked plaintively at his wife. “Honey, I thought I smelled hamburger in the kitchen. Aren’t we going to eat?”

Malcolm had news for him—that smell was haggis. Not one person present was going to be pleased once they tasted it. If this crowd heaped scorn and poked fun on a “castle heiress,” then the presentation of the haggis would really kick off a round of derision.

Kristin stared at her empty plate. There was a resigned sadness to her face. Malcolm suspected she had experience with the futility of arguing with skeptics. Why did she stick around in the same hometown she’d grown up in if she had to deal with this on a daily basis? She was an adult—why not move away like he had?

As far as her career was concerned, she’d told him she liked the products at Aura Botanicals and the variety of the work in a small company. He understood that. But why subject herself to such restriction when she obviously craved adventure? That was her true personality—he’d watched her in action all afternoon. He’d only known her this one day, and it was obvious to him.

He frowned. He shouldn’t long to cheer Kristin up or to look out for her. He shouldn’t be moved enough to care about anything she did.

Leaning back, he ran his tongue over his chipped tooth.

“I believe in the fairy castle,” a small voice whispered in his right ear.

He turned his head slightly. The urchin was standing in her chair again. She was staring at him as if she expected an answer.

“Do you now?” he murmured.

“Don’t you?” she whispered back.

But it was a loud whisper. He glanced at Kristin, who was gazing at him expectantly, as if she’d heard their entire conversation and was immensely interested in what he thought on the matter.

Malcolm didn’t believe in fantasies of castles and lost letters. But he did believe in Kristin. The woman was eminently capable. So he smiled in encouragement at her.

“I do,” he said.

She bit her lip and looked down at her hands in her lap. When she glanced up again, she was blushing.

“Mom, when are we going to play the music?” the urchin shouted to her mother in the kitchen.

Malcolm flinched again. Kristin covered her mouth, laughing. She was beautiful when she laughed. Bewitching.

Damn.

“Hold your horses!” Stephanie clomped into the room holding a white note card. She passed it to Kristin, whose face brightened further upon receiving it.

Clapping, Stephanie said, “Attention! The Burns Supper is now commenced! Kristin Hart will please read the opening grace.” Then Stephanie spoke behind her hand in a stage whisper to him. “I copied it from the internet. Let’s see how Kristin does with the accent.”

Oh, lord. It must be the Selkirk Grace. Would Kristin read it in English, or would she go for the vernacular?

Inside, he felt tense. If Kristin were going to give away his secret to her family, then now was her chance.

He waited, breath held...

Kristin cleared her throat, and with a flourish, she read:

“Some hae meat and canna eat,

And some wad eat that want it.

But we hae meat, and we can eat,

And sae let the Lord be thankit.”

Yes, she gave the language a thorough butchering. And then she raised her head and smiled at all assembled, exquisitely pleased.

“I’d like some meat,” her father said plaintively.

“Doesn’t everything sound better with a Scottish accent?” Kristin sighed to no one in particular, ignoring her father. “God, I miss Nanny.”

“What did that poem say, Aunty?” her niece asked her. “It sounded funny.”

“I’m not exactly sure,” Kristin answered. “But Robert Burns was a witty poet in his day. I’ll research it later and explain it to you once I figure it all out.”

But Kristin didn’t look at Malcolm. She hadn’t given away her suspicions regarding him, either. She could have pointed out that he had admitted to her that he’d lived in the country and that he knew damned well who the national poet of Scotland was. She could have shared with the group that she’d overheard Malcolm speaking in a similar, heavily accented vernacular this morning. She could have offered him up to the laughter and the skepticism and the jocular infighting, all things he was so familiar with from his own large brood of cousins. But she had not.

She was keeping their secret.

He glanced down at his hands in his lap, feeling sick for what he had to do. At some point soon, he would have to betray her.

He felt thoroughly ashamed.

“Now?” the urchin shouted to her mom. “Can I dance now?”

“No!” her mother answered. “Not yet.” Then she marched into the kitchen and returned carrying a platter filled with hamburgers, each containing lettuce, tomato, cucumbers and, instead of a commercial bun, assembled with that same bread that he had eaten at lunch.

He nudged Kristin. “This looks familiar,” he murmured.

She nodded, smiling. “Our sandwiches today came from Stephanie’s diner. She runs Cookie’s Place.”

“Who is Cookie?”

“The lady who owned the restaurant before Stephanie. When she passed away, Stephanie bought it. First thing she did was choose a new name, and everyone in town got mad and refused to patronize the diner, so Stephanie switched the sign back. The diner is, and shall remain for all time, Cookie’s Place.”

“People just do not like change,” her father said. “It’s a fact.”

“Attention!” Stephanie announced. “I’m offering a substitution for those of you who are not adventurous with the new food that will be forthcoming.”

She waggled her finger at Malcolm, indicating he restrain himself and wait for the joy of the pending haggis.

Everyone except for him, Stephanie and Kristin lunged for a hamburger.

Stephanie shook her head at them. “Your forebears would be shamed.”

“Our forebears would be thankful we’d left the sheep behind in Scotland,” her father-in-law answered.

Malcolm silently agreed, watching longingly as they ate. “How is business at your diner?” he politely asked Stephanie.

“Truthfully, there are two factions keeping my operation afloat. Aura Botanicals employees, and my in-laws.”

“Yeah, and this is why we come to dinner at your house,” one brother remarked to PJ as he sank his teeth into the bun. “Your wife knows how to cook.”

Malcolm’s mouth watered. A sane response. And it would also be a sane response to reach forward and grab a hamburger along with the other men at the table. He knew what awaited them.

Stephanie left the room and returned with her iPod stand. “Now,” she said to her daughter. “Now it’s time for your part.”

Then she addressed the table: “Technically, I was also supposed to serve a Cock-a-leekie soup course, but since you people don’t like soup in general, I didn’t want to hear the bitching and moaning.”

Only silence answered her. With the exception of him, Kristin and the urchin seated beside him, the rest of them were munching and chewing happily.

“In any event, no matter, because it is time for the parade of the haggis. I’ll start the music, and Lily will dance the Highland Fling. Everyone will show the traditional respect.”

Malcolm had never heard of the Highland Fling being combined with the presentation of the haggis. He bit his tongue. Do not laugh.

The strains of a lone bagpiper playing a Scottish reel exploded over the small iPod speakers centered on the dining table. It was like nothing Malcolm had ever heard, and it struck him as uproariously funny. He wished his sister was here; she would appreciate the humor in this.

Don’t laugh. Don’t make a sound.

Stephanie planted her hands on her hips and scowled. Malcolm followed her gaze to Lily, cowering and doing her best to hide under the tablecloth.

“What?” Stephanie asked her daughter. “What is the problem now?”

“I need Aunty to dance with me!” Lily wailed. “I can’t remember the steps without her!”

Malcolm glanced to Kristin on his left.

“Of course I’ll help you, honey. Excuse me, George,” Kristin said as she attempted to edge backward from the tight circle.

Malcolm stood and assisted, pulling back her chair for her.

“Oh, Kristin, really?” her mom admonished. “You have a guest.” She glanced apologetically to Malcolm.

“It’s all right,” he said. “I’m greatly interested in seeing this.”

“It’s for Lily,” Kristin mouthed to him, blushing further. But she held her niece’s hand and smiled at her.

“Please start the music again,” Kristin said to Stephanie, and took a position beside the girl. Kristin nodded at her, and they both turned out their toes like ballerinas, with hands on their hips.

Kristin looked down at Lily, nodding in encouragement. When they had eye contact, in a low voice, she said, “Step, bow, up on your toes... Go.”

Malcolm couldn’t keep his eyes off Kristin. Gracefully, like a dancer, she lifted her arms above her head and leaped in the stationary dance, said to have been traditionally performed on the face of a warrior’s shield before battle. Her legs pointing and kicking, she looked like a true Highland dancer. “One-two-three-four, one-two-three-four, one-two-three-four, turn-two-three-four,” she instructed her niece.

And, God love her, as his aunt would say, the little girl kicked and twirled right along with her aunt. It was thoroughly charming.

After they’d finished their short duet and he’d risen to help them both into their seats, he asked Kristin, “You took Highland dance lessons?”

“Not really.” Her face still flushed, she smiled. “My grandmother thought she was paying for ballet classes, but unbeknownst to her, the dance instructor also taught us the Highland Fling and the Sword Dance so that we could compete at the Highland Games up in Quechee.”

“Quechee?”

“Vermont. They host a Scottish Festival there every August.”

“And did you compete?”

“No.” She grimaced. “Nanny ran out of money to pay for the classes.”

“Then what happened?” he asked.

“She passed away,” her mother interrupted. “And that was that.”

Blunt. Practical. Cautious. All words that could describe his own family, too. He sat back, watching as Stephanie strolled the perimeter of the room carrying her pride and joy on a platter: the perfectly composed haggis. It looked like a bloated rugby ball, exactly as it should. Stephanie set it on the table, to sniggers and wry jokes from the brothers and the brothers’ friends.

There was a gap in the banter, a long, drawn-out, uncomfortable moment when it appeared that the night had failed. That the ceremony itself was patently ridiculous, and that other than Kristin and quite possibly her niece, no one else bought into the fun. Even Stephanie seemed peaked, tired of swimming against the current of everyone’s bad opinion.

The platter just sat there. No one even bothered to cut into the haggis.

“I am not eating that,” Lily said flatly.

“Me, neither,” came a chorus of voices.

Kristin blinked silently. He couldn’t be sure, but her eyes looked moist.

Malcolm edged the platter with the haggis on it toward his plate. His stomach was clenching and threatened to revolt. But he forced himself to do it. Maybe it was penance...but he said it.

“I’ll be the first to taste the haggis.”

All eyes were upon him. No one moved. He picked up the carving knife. He might have been the only one who even knew there was a ceremony to go along with the slicing, plus another poem to be read—“Address to a Haggis,” by Rabbie Burns himself—but the verses were long, with many stanzas, and Stephanie was likely abandoning the readings due to lack of interest.

The more the tradition was being given up, the lower Kristin seemed to droop. Malcolm wanted that sadness in her to go away, even if just for tonight. He loved it when she smiled. He needed it. Worse, only he foresaw the sadness that he would soon bring to everyone around this table. It was the only way to explain what he was doing.

He sliced into the haggis, through the thin skin of intestine, releasing the mass of sheep’s innards mixed with other assorted flotsam and jetsam—bits and pieces of spices and chopped vegetables—onto his plate. Somehow, he resisted the urge to plug his nose and instead, he picked up his fork....

Stephanie hurried to his side. “I’m told it needs a wee dram of whisky on the top.” Without asking his permission, she opened a bottle and drizzled some whisky generously on, as if adding Vermont maple syrup to her pancakes.

Bless her. Diving in before it got cold or he lost his nerve, he shoveled some of the dark, steaming specks of sheep onto his fork. If Kristin could dance a Highland Fling before an unsupportive audience, then he could take one bite of Scotland’s national dish.

Tentatively, he tasted it. Everyone stared at him. “It’s...not bad.” Actually, it wasn’t. “It tastes like chicken,” he pronounced. “Whisky-flavored chicken.”

The father—Rich—held out his hamburger plate. “I’d like some whisky with mine, please.”

“Is that haggis?” Stephanie demanded. “Because only the haggis gets the whisky.”

Immediately, one of the other brothers pulled the haggis platter toward him.

The haggis got passed around—a teaspoon of ground meat plopped onto each plate, along with a drizzle from the bottle.

And afterward, Stephanie piled on some tatties and neeps. The tatties were mixed with liberal amounts of butter, and the neeps had brown sugar and maple syrup added. Maybe she’d figured it couldn’t hurt.

“All right.” One of the brothers stood at last, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “That was great, Steph, thanks for inviting us. But Dad and I need to get going.”

“Wait!” Stephanie said. “We haven’t sung ‘Auld Lang Syne’ or read a Burns poem yet.”

“Sorry, sis. We just don’t have time.”

Just then, Malcolm’s phone buzzed. He glanced at the incoming text message. It was his driver, waiting for him. Malcolm looked at Kristin. She knew what the text was for.

“Actually, Steph, it’s okay,” Kristin said brightly. “It was a great dinner. Thank you for organizing it and for inviting us.”

And with a light smile on her face that he knew was fake, she pushed her chair back. “Besides, George has to leave, too. His ride is here.”

She turned to him. “Thank you for coming. We appreciate it. I hope you liked the dinner.”

He felt even worse now. Pocketing the phone, he stood. “I, er, would like to read a Burns poem as my thanks to you all, and I’d like to have everyone’s indulgence while I do so.”

Kristin stared at him.

He smiled at her mother. She was the one person besides Kristin who seemed predisposed to like him, so he played that for all he could. “I don’t know if I told you, Evelyn, but I went to prep school with a fearsome English professor, one who drilled poetry into our heads, and he made us stand and recite verses until we knew them by rote.”

Evelyn nodded. “I had teachers like that, as well. They don’t exist anymore.”

“No,” Malcolm agreed, “they probably don’t.”

A brother was putting on his coat, and Malcolm turned to shoot a look at him. “Please, sit down. This will only take twenty seconds.”

The brother sat.

“Thank you, George,” Kristin said softly. “What will the poem be?”

If he were alone with her, he knew exactly what line he would recite to her: The sweetest hours, that ever I spend. Because his short time with her had been sweet, and he was sorry it had to end.

But, they were not alone; he was sitting with her family. And, their hours together could not continue into the future.

So, he turned to her niece and smiled at the wee one. “This verse is called ‘To a Mouse.’ It’s by Scotland’s national poet, Robert Burns, and I will recite it in your honor.” He took a breath:

“The best laid schemes of mice and men

Go often awry,

And leave us nothing but grief and pain,

For promised joy.”

And then he looked directly into Kristin’s eyes:

“Still you are blessed, compared with me,

The present only touches you.

But oh! I backward cast my eye,

On prospects dreary.

And forward, though I cannot see,

I guess and fear.”

She stared at him. He swallowed, and knew he had to repeat it once more. This time, as it should be read.

“That was the English version,” Malcolm explained. “And this is the proper recitation:

“But Mousie, thou art no thy lane,

In proving foresight may be vain:

The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men

Gang aft agley,

An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain,

For promis’d joy!

“Still thou are blest, compared wi’ me!

The present only toucheth thee:

But Och! I backward cast my e’e,

On prospects drear!

An’ forward, tho’ I canna see,

I guess an’ fear.”

The table erupted in applause.

“That was my best Sir Sean Connery imitation,” he said lamely.

Kristin beamed at him, a quiet, shared look.

“Will you be back?” her mother asked him. “You’re certainly invited to our home, anytime you’d like.”

He shook his head. “Unfortunately, I’m here for just the day.”

“A one-day contract?” Kristin inquired.

He nodded, finding himself unable to speak. A heavy sadness had descended over him. The night had been sweet. The sweetest hours. He was immensely sorry he could never see her again.

* * *

SHE’D KNOWN ALL along that George was leaving.

Kristin put on her snow boots and followed him outside to the porch. A black car was waiting for him, idling at the end of the driveway.

He stood still, staring at the car with his hands in his pockets and his coat open, seemingly unconcerned about the wintry weather that enveloped them.

She sensed sadness coming from him, but it wasn’t her problem, not any of her business. He was off to some other faraway place, the black car on the corner set to whisk him away.

She felt relieved that nothing had happened with George to risk her already shaky standing at Aura. But still, part of her wished she didn’t have to lose his companionship just yet.

He’d been good to her at dinner tonight, standing up for her. He’d even played along, though she knew he hadn’t wanted to—encouraging the others into tasting the haggis and reciting the Burns poem.

She’d seen what he’d done for her, and she’d appreciated him for it. With each secret glance he’d given her during the dinner, each reactive dimple in his cheek toward her, she’d felt herself drawing closer to him.

She blew into her hands, so cold in the dark night. She couldn’t see George’s face clearly in the dim light from the porch bulb, only the outline of his tall, broad form, the flat plane of his sexy, razor-stubbled cheek—a cheek that she could too easily get used to gazing upon.

How could she say goodbye to him? Instead, she fumbled for something to say. Something trivial—anything to prolong the moment.

“I hope that everything went okay today,” she said, “and that you got all you need from us.”

He turned, his expression illuminated, and smiled at her, descending two steps lower than her on the stairs. He was at exactly her height now, his eyes level to hers.

“I did,” he said, staring at her, his gaze not breaking. “Thanks to you, of course.”

Biting her lip, she looked down. “I’m sorry about some of the comments in there.”

“There’s no need to apologize.” His voice was gentle. “I understand families.”

“Yes, you do.” He’d been so good with them, even Lily. She lifted her head, her eyes searching his again.

His hand touched hers, warm from the dinner table inside. His fingers brushed her knuckles, just once. Kristin was glad she hadn’t put on mittens. She liked the feel of his skin against hers.

“Kristin,” he said in a low voice.

She waited, barely daring to breathe, his wool coat rough against her knuckles. She inhaled his unique smell, mixed with the earthiness of the whisky he’d consumed. Involuntarily, she shivered.

He opened his coat, enveloping her in his warmth. It was a tender, protective response. A stolen moment in an evening that was turning out to be magical.

Maybe she was a sheltered person...she supposed so. She’d only been away from Vermont for a short time, until life in the city had crushed and overwhelmed her. She’d been back home for years now, in this small town she knew and trusted, with people who—though they may sometimes tease or criticize her—on the whole loved her and cared for her, no matter what.

Yes, they gave her trouble. Yes, she longed to break free. But in the end, she needed this safety. And by his actions tonight, it was clear to her that George understood that.

She stepped closer to him, inside the shield of his heavy woolen coat. Tentatively she touched the solid wall of his broad chest, feeling his cotton shirt and the silk of his necktie beneath her fingertips.

“Is it bad that I don’t want this day to end?” she whispered.

“No, lass.” His voice was throaty. The gruff...Scottishness of it seeped into her, as if spilled from one of Laura’s potion bottles. “I won’t forget you, Kristin.”

His eyes held hers. And as she swallowed, he angled his head and leaned toward her.

And then he kissed her.

At the first brush of his lips on hers, the heated whisper of his breath against her cheek, she sighed and tilted her head back, wanting to feel all of it—everything about him—so she could remember him.

He was tender, his lips molded gently over hers, moving with sweetness, as if to remember her fully, too.

Her heart fluttered in her chest, and she made a little moan.

He gave her the joy of a long, passionate kiss. Mouth to mouth, honest and solid, because that’s who George was. He was just so damn sexy.

The car at the end of the drive flashed its lights at them. Once. Twice.

George cursed softly. He straightened and drew back. The warmth of his coat dropped away from Kristin.

“I will put in a good word for you at Aura.” Back to formality, his tone sounded tortured. “You can count on that.”

“I believe you,” she said.

“I’m sorry I have to go.” He looked toward the car. “Maybe someday I can tempt you away. To Scotland.” His tone was teasing, and the accent was there.

She smiled at him. Maybe if she were a different person, in a braver place, she would dare to follow him and kiss him again. Prolong their interlude that had felt so sweetly romantic and special.

But she wasn’t that fearless.

“Goodbye, George,” she whispered, touching his hand one last time.

“Kristin?” His voice caught.

“Yes?”

“I hope you find your castle.”

And then he was off, into the winter night, the snow swirling quietly in the lamplight.

CHAPTER FOUR

DURING THE NEXT six weeks, Kristin heard nothing from George Smith.

She returned to work the Monday after he left, expecting questions about her time spent with him, but most of the office was busy celebrating the news of Andrew’s firstborn daughter. In the excitement, no one remembered to ask Kristin anything about what had happened on Saturday.

She sat at her computer and checked her company email, but found no messages from George—not even about Aura Botanicals. She thought he might at least have some lingering questions about the company and its products.

Kristin felt...well, sad. Not at all relieved. Maybe even a little bit hurt.

Of course he was busy—he spent his life traveling, he’d said. And he had thanked Stephanie for dinner; he didn’t owe them anything more than that.

But, the night had affected her—how could it not? Even not knowing that he and Kristin had kissed, her family still talked about him.

George had sat congenially around their dining table, and he’d read the Robert Burns poem in the accent of his country. Even without the kiss, that alone made him more memorable than any other man she’d known.

I hope you find your castle. He’d meant it figuratively, of course. But how did she go about doing that? She had no idea what her mythical castle even was.

Kristin signed off her email and chewed her lip. Maybe George would contact her when his report to Jay Astley was finished. That was what she hoped for.

Or maybe she would never hear from George again.

She didn’t know.... She felt so confused.

She leaned back in her chair and stared at the water-stained ceiling tiles. The night had certainly been an adventure. And to think that before George had shown up, she’d been feeling depressed with her life, traveling along in her rut of routine, longing for something to change, but every time she’d tried, getting into trouble.

Unlike George, she couldn’t just pick up and leave her hometown. She’d trapped herself here. Her rut was just something she had to figure out how to live with.

* * *

WEEKS LATER, TOWARD the end of her shift on a bleak, drizzly Monday, Kristin’s supervisor, Dirk, poked his ponytailed head into her office. “Jay Astley has called a meeting with management. You’d better step in here, Kristin.”

The owner of her company considered her management? That was something new. Kristin perked up.

She pushed away from her desk and hurried after Dirk. Her gangly supervisor diverted his path to the coffee machine, but she followed the other managers into the conference room, the place where Laura Astley had interviewed Kristin for her job six years earlier. Kristin hadn’t been to many meetings inside the gleaming, modern plant manager’s lair since then. This was Andrew’s turf, and Andrew didn’t hold her in confidence.

Inside the sunlit space, most of the office staff were already present. The top managers had staked their places around the polished board table; the lesser supervisors lined the walls behind them. Kristin found a spot at the back of the room and squeezed in.

Dirk wedged beside her, a coffee mug in hand. “Man, Astley looks like hell,” he said to her in a low voice. “I just saw him come inside the plant with two bodyguards flanking him.”

“Bodyguards?” Kristin asked. “Why would he need that?”

“Why do you think?”

Everyone hushed as Jay Astley entered the room and took a seat. He’d seemed to have aged ten years since Kristin had last seen him. One glance at Astley’s face—pale and broken, thoroughly lacking in sleep—and she felt sorry for him. Even at Laura’s funeral he hadn’t been so stooped and withdrawn, shoulders slumped as if he carried a heavy, sad burden.

A burly man wearing a suit and security-guard expression lingered in the doorway, staring them up and down. “He looks like he’s packing heat, doesn’t he?” Dirk whispered.

She did notice a bulge on the man’s hip beneath his jacket. Kristin swallowed.

Dirk sipped his coffee.

“I don’t think this is a good thing,” she whispered back.

“Probably not.” Dirk grinned. “At least I have my DJ business to fall back on.” Behind his hand, he said to her, “I hope our severance check is sweet—I’d love to get some new amplifiers. I’m looking forward to the unemployment checks, too.”

She stared at him. “We are not getting laid off.”

“Sure we are.”

How could Dirk even think that? She’d never been through a layoff before, but she’d seen a movie about it with George Clooney once, and this was not the way it happened.

In the movies, George Clooney met with people one-on-one.

This...this...was a mass announcement. Something different was going on.

Jay Astley, their CEO, turned slowly, gazing from face to face, regarding even the people standing behind him, including herself. A single tear ran down his cheek.

Kristin’s jaw slackened. This was really bad.

“You’re probably wondering why I called you all here, so I’ll just get to it,” Jay said in a raspy voice that didn’t sound like his own.

It seemed to Kristin that everyone hushed and leaned forward.

“I’ve had to sell our company,” Jay said.

A collective gasp rang out. Kristin put her hand to her mouth.

“Yep,” Dirk muttered. “I was right.”

Kristin elbowed him. “Shh!”

“Without Laura, I just...can’t do it anymore.” Jay’s voice faltered and then stopped.

Kristin’s heart went out to him. This was horrible. Laura had been the heart and soul of Aura Botanicals, and it seemed she’d been her husband’s heart and soul, as well. As awful as things were for him now, Kristin couldn’t help thinking how wonderful it must’ve been to have a love as great as that.

“An outfit overseas bought the rights to Laura’s products.” Jay gripped the edge of the table, unable to look up. “In your next paycheck, there will be a bonus.” He took an audible breath. “I’m hopeful you’ll all see fit to stay with me through the end of the month. We’ll need help disassembling the machinery and moving the inventory to the new location.”

New location?

“But what about our jobs?” Andrew asked, putting voice to the question on everyone’s minds, judging from the nodding and murmurs. “Will the new company keep us on?”

“Andrew...” Jay began.

“Will they keep this factory open, Jay?” Andrew demanded.

Jay didn’t answer.

“You owe us better than this,” Andrew hissed.

Kristin clutched at her throat. If she had a knife, she could cut the tension between the two men. No one else spoke. Their plant manager had challenged their CEO, and the CEO was on the hot seat. And yet, she desperately wanted his answer, too. What about their jobs?

Tears rolled down Jay’s cheeks, one after another. It was excruciating to watch. Their boss was falling apart in front of everyone. This was not how it happened in the movies, either. In the movies, company owners hid in the back room or at an off-site location and let the consultants deliver the bad news. Here, their CEO faced them himself.

Kristin thought she might be sick to her stomach. Everybody present had something on the line here. This factory was the lifeblood of their community. It was the center of Kristin’s life.

“I thought...I could save the company...for Laura’s sake, I tried.” Jay’s loss of control was outright now. “You have to understand,” he pleaded, “this was Laura’s baby...her only baby...but now it’s losing money, and despite the recommendations, I had no choice but to sell. It’s the only chance her formulations stand of surviving....”

Oh, Laura. Kristin blinked her eyes against the stinging she felt. She knew what it was like not to have kids or a family of your own. She’d watched Laura pour all her considerable love into her work—her balms and her lotions, her healing aromatherapies. To Kristin’s mind, the world was a better place with Laura’s potions in it; and Jay was right, it was good that somebody wanted to rescue them so they would live on.

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