Audacious in a Kilt (Hot Scots #17)

Chapter One

Gretchen

"Okay, I can do that," I assure my client as sweat begins to dribble down my temples and my hands grow clammy.

Instead of making lame excuses---like my computer went crazy this morning---I take the high road and admit the truth.

"I overbooked accidentally, but I swear I'll get everything you asked for done by six p.m. That'll get you up to speed in plenty of time. "

My client, Mr. Jameson, sighs heavily through the phone. I can practically hear him pinching the bridge of his nose on the other end of the line. "Gretchen, this is the third time this month. I need reliability."

"I understand completely," I tell him while frantically clicking through files on my second monitor. "And I promise this won't happen again. The presentation will knock your socks off, I promise."

The second he hangs up, I let my head fall onto my keyboard with a thunk.

Another disaster narrowly averted, or at least postponed until six p.m. this evening.

I lift my head and glance at the clock. 11:47 a.m. That gives me just over six hours to complete what should have been a two-day project.

Nothing like a teeny bit of pressure to get the creative juices flowing.

My phone pings with a text from my roommate, Heather. Needing a roommate when I'm thirty-two years old makes me feel like a loser, though Heather is twenty-seven but acts much younger. Having a string of failed relationships doesn't help either.

The text comes with a signature Heather emoji explosion: ?????? GURL! Have you SEEN what the hottie from 4B posted on Insta??? Dead. I'm literally deceased. Call the funeral home. ??"

I roll my eyes but can't help smiling. Heather's dramatics are exactly the thirty-second break my anxiety needs right now. I type back: Can't look now. Drowning in work. Tell me at dinner?"

Three dancing dots appear immediately. Dude with the abs and the full beard. Hiking shirtless. I CANNOT. ??

Great. Now I'm distracted thinking about our neighbor who moved in last month.

The guy does have a great body, but I've never been a fan of bushy beards.

Kissing a man like that would chafe my skin red.

Still, I might give it a try. It's been months since I had a date, much less hot sex.

Or any kind of sex. At least Heather always manages to make smile. And get frazzled at the same time.

Focus, woman.

I pull up my master file, the one I should have organized last week, and start the desperate search for the right background templates. Mr. Jameson wants "corporate but approachable" for his presentation to the board. Whatever that means.

Suddenly, my stomach growls, reminding me I skipped breakfast. Again. I grab a protein bar from my desk drawer and take a bite of what tastes like cardboard with chocolate chips. Ah, the glamorous life of a virtual assistant.

Why do I eat this shit? Ugh.

"Focus, focus, focus," I remind myself, clicking through slide templates that all look the same after a while. Blue with graphs? Gray with bullet points? The exciting choices are endless.

My phone buzzes again. Heather, obviously.

He has a TATTOO on his back. Some kind of writhing serpent thing. I'm investigating what it means.

I ignore the text and instead open another browser tab, searching for "corporate but approachable presentation templates" like my life depends on it.

Because it basically does. My freelance virtual assistant business has been my lifeline since I quit my soul-crushing office job last year.

The freedom is amazing, but the chaos? Not so much.

I've always prided myself on being organized, a responsible woman who had her life together.

But lately, I've been dropping balls left and right.

"One crisis at a time," I tell myself, selecting a sleek gray template with subtle blue accents. Mr. Jameson's favorite colors. I'm not completely hopeless.

My phone buzzes again. This time it's not Heather but a notification from my calendar app. "IMPORTANT: Send invoice to Haraldsen Group!!!"

Oh shit. That was due yesterday.

I quickly switch tasks, pull up the Haraldsen invoice, and start filling in the hours I've worked for them over the past two weeks. My brain feels like it's splitting in two as I toggle between this urgent task and Mr. Jameson's presentation. Multitasking at its most desperate.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry," I mumble to no one, calculating my hours and trying not to think about how unprofessional it is to be late with an invoice. The Haraldsen Group is one of my steadiest clients, and I can't afford to lose them.

My phone rings again. Unknown number. I hesitate, then answer it because at this point, what's one more catastrophe?

I clear my throat. "Gretchen Carver speaking. How may I help you?"

"Ms. Carver?" a raspy male voice asks.

"Yes, that's me."

"I need your services desperately. Can you handle a rush job? I'll pay any price."

Desperation never sounds like a great opportunity. But I could use a cash infusion, so...I force my voice to sound professional despite my sweaty palms. "The price depends on the job and the timeline. What exactly do you need?"

"A complete website overhaul by tomorrow morning. Our developer quit without notice, and we have investors coming."

I do some quick math. Jameson's presentation is due at six, the Haraldsen invoice is already late, and now this other person wants me to rebuild an entire website overnight? I should say no. I absolutely should say no.

"What's your budget?" I hear myself asking instead.

"Triple your normal rate."

My fingers freeze over the keyboard. Triple rate? That would cover next month's rent with plenty left over. Maybe even enough for that digital planner system I've been eyeing that promises to organize my chaotic life.

I shut my eyes briefly, then clear my throat as I jot down the client's information. "I'll see what I can do and get back to you this evening."

"Thank you so much, Ms. Carver."

I hang up and confirm I have the website URL and access credentials as promised. Then I sit here for a moment, staring blankly at my screen. Did I really just agree to another impossible deadline?

I drop my head into my hands. "You're out of your freaking mind, Gretchen."

Then I turn back to Jameson's presentation.

For the next hour, I'm in the zone, fingers flying across the keyboard, brain on fire, pulling together charts and graphs that actually look semi-professional. I'm about to reach for my water bottle when my phone starts vibrating with an incoming call from...

My mother.

I hesitate, then answer. "Hi, Mom. I'm kind of in the middle of a work crisis right now."

"Gretchen Marie Carver, don't you 'work crisis' me." My mother's voice carries that distinct tone that means she's been waiting to deliver news.

"Oh no, what did I forget this time?" I try to keep my voice light, but I'm biting my lip.

The last time Mom used my middle name, it was because I forgot Dad's birthday.

In my defense, I'd been in the middle of a website launch for a client who kept changing the font size every thirty minutes. "Sorry, no time for a chat."

"You sound exhausted, sweetie." Mom pauses for dramatic effect. "Are you taking on too many clients again? You'll never find a husband if you keep working eighteen hours a day. The last time we saw you, Dad and I both noticed the dark circles under your eyes."

Thanks a lot, Mom. I needed to hear that.

"Honey, you need some time off." She clucks her tongue. "Gatlinburg is a wonderful place to live, but you really should take a vacation. My only daughter will work herself into an early grave if she doesn't stop taking on too much."

"I am not working myself into an early grave." I wince because she's kind of right. Not about the grave, but about my desperate need for a vacation. But there's a problem. "I can't afford a holiday anywhere except in Knoxville."

Mom laughs. "Oh sweetie, we've already arranged everything."

I swear a chill is shimmying down my spine. "What do you mean?"

"Your flight leaves tomorrow morning at 10:30 a.m. from McGhee Tyson Airport," Mom announces with too much cheerfulness in her voice. "Your dad and I used our airline miles. It's nonrefundable, so you have to go."

My jaw drops as I stare at the half-finished presentation on my screen. "Mom, I can't just leave tomorrow. I have deadlines, clients---"

"You need to relax, Gretchen. All that stress isn't good for your complexion. Or your chances of meeting someone nice."

I pinch the bridge of my nose. "This isn't about meeting a man, Mom. It's about my business. My livelihood. I can't drop everything on a day's notice."

"It's Scotland, Gretchen." She announces that as if it's the ultimate trump card. "You deserve a getaway to another land where men wear kilts and throw trees at each other."

My brain needs a moment to understand that last statement. "Throwing trees? Yeah, that sounds terrific."

But I realize I have no choice. My parents worry about my hectic work schedule, and I can't deny they have a point. But Scotland? Well, maybe I could find out for myself whether Scotsmen wear anything under those kilts.

"Okay, Mom. I'll do it."

Two days later, I leave Gatlinburg and Tennessee behind me as my plane races toward the land of kilts and haggis. And just maybe...

A man worth waiting for.