Highland Holiday

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

CALLIE

Do Scots kiss better than Americans?

I’m almost two years into my doctorate at UCLA for psychology, so I consider myself a fairly intelligent and reasonable human.

I wouldn’t typically generalize people so broadly, but there’s something about a Scottish accent that sets off a primal response deep in my gut, and scientifically, I can’t help wondering if that extends to Scottish lips.

Which is part of why it’s the first thing on my Scottish Bucket List: Kiss a Scot.

I’m standing in the lobby of my small hotel in Inverness, trying to understand the list of restaurants the concierge is giving me.

Either my fourteen hours of airtime from LAX to Heathrow to Inverness have slowed my brain power—an extremely valid possibility—or he’s throwing random words in there to mess with me.

His thick beard makes it impossible to read his lips, but even if I could, I doubt I’d pick up more.

Still, I search for his lips beneath an overgrown mustache. How kissable are they?

Nope. No idea. They’re fully hidden. I’m getting no help there.

My stomach rumbles. I regret asking for recommendations to begin with. I saw a pub next door when the taxi dropped me off, and that’s good enough for me. Besides, my sister met her husband in a British pub. They’re good luck for us Winter girls.

Now the guy is blinking at me. I’ve stared at his overgrown mustache too long, haven’t I?

“Thanks,” I say, though I didn’t pick up a single thing he said after, oh sure, sure.

His eyes dart down my body. “I’m off in an hour—”

“I need to eat now,” I hurry to say. I’m not going to subject myself to an entire meal trying to decipher his accent.

For all I know, he’ll be telling me about his grandfather’s funeral and I’ll think it’s an invitation to move closer.

Better find a different set of willing lips.

“Have a good night!” I call as I make my escape.

His eyes follow me all the way down the stone steps to the street.

I slip my hands into my coat pockets and shiver, bringing my shoulders up to my ears.

Noise blooms from the stone pub, laughter and chatter and music assaulting me from all sides as I push through the door and into the warm building.

A real fire crackles from a stone hearth in the center of the dining room, every table full of families, groups, and dates, all at various stages of their meals.

There’s no employee standing at the door, no hostess waiting to seat me. A woman walks by and pauses. She can probably sense I’m a lost rabbit in a foreign land. “Sit anywhere, hen. You can leave your coat on the hooks there.”

Did that woman call me a chicken? I stare for a beat too long, the late hour and jet lag getting to me.

Food. Time to eat. To the bar, it is. I shrug out of my coat and leave it near the door, then make my way toward an open leather seat at the long bar.

Snippets of conversations reach my ears as I settle in, and I can understand next to nothing.

I’m starting to wonder if this is going to be the way my entire trip goes.

Or is it just the jet lag? I’m here for three weeks, spending winter break in the UK with my sister between university quarters.

Luna moved to this side of the world four years ago to marry her hot pub owner—her words—down in the English Cotswolds.

She and Rhys have one little boy together and are ridiculously happy.

But his grandmother died this year, so it’s his first Christmas without his Nan.

Which is why Luna orchestrated this whole Christmas in Scotland thing to begin with.

Rhys’s best friend, Hamish, has a cousin out here with a big cottage and the patience to house all of us for the holidays.

Why am I here, joining them? Because my sister begged me, my parents are coming next week, and I couldn’t stay in LA for a minute longer, suffocating under the weight of my education and classroom politics.

To make sure I don’t spend my entire vacation eating Cadbury and watching the Home Alone franchise, my best friend helped me write a Scottish bucket list.

In my line of work, some would call this avoidance or distraction. I prefer to think of it as focusing my attention on worthwhile pursuits.

Anything can sound good if you say it the right way.

A woman approaches, setting a plate of steaming pie with chips and a pile of mushy peas in front of the guy next to me. My mouth salivates enough to fill a small stream.

“I’ll take one of those,” I say, pointing at his meal.

She flips her dark, wavy ponytail and gives me a nod. “Anything else?”

“Water.”

The woman leaves, and I sink into the stool a little more.

Forget good posture. There’s no professor here to smack a ruler against my knuckles and double-check my homework.

The freedom that grew in my chest as the miles stretched between me and my university campus was almost alarming, but I mostly attribute it to how hard I’ve been working over the previous five years.

Only five more years to go.

I should have followed my sister’s example and built a following on YouTube. Much less school, and she definitely makes more money than I ever will.

Speaking of Luna, I pull out my phone to let her know I’m back in her time zone.

Callie

Made it to Scotland! Can’t wait to see my nephew tomorrow

Luna

He’s excited, too! Don’t kiss anyone yet. Save it for the cottage

The cottage? Why would she say that? She’s not playing matchmaker, I hope. There’s exactly one single guy planning to be there this Christmas, and that’s only because it’s his house we’re crashing at.

Callie

I’m not making out with Hamish’s cousin.

Luna

Who said anything about Hamish’s cousin?

Callie

He’s the only single guy in the cottage. The rest of you are married.

You and Rhys.

Hamish and Ruby.

Mom and Dad.

Hamish’s grandparents.

Me and Hamish’s cousin? Not happening.

I’m all for short little holiday flings, but not when you have to wake up and see them at the breakfast table while sitting across from your parents.

Especially not while you’re in the middle of your doctorate to become a psychologist. You enter that realm, and people expect different things from you.

Besides, I’d rather not mix pleasure with family, thank you very much.

Luna

Aren’t you the one who wondered if Brits kiss differently because of their accents?

My cheeks grow hot. Good thing she’s not here to see that the last few years haven’t made me more mature. I mean, it’s not an unreasonable thing to wonder, right?

The guy with the steaming, buttery pie next to me sets down his fork and answers his phone. “Hiya.”

Time pulls as I consider how to respond to my sister. The truth makes me sound fifteen. But a lie? We don’t lie to each other.

“Aye,” the guy says. “Planning on it. Came early to meet with the agent. Load of mince, that. I walked out. Don’t know what I was thinking, anyway.”

His voice is deep and thick, but I’m not having any trouble understanding a word he’s saying, even though none of them are directed my way. He continues speaking, and when he lowers his voice, a shiver marches down my spine.

The accents here are something else, but this man’s voice is in a league of its own.

What is it about Scots? The spirits of Robert the Bruce and William Wallace filtering down through their kin, giving them a breadth of manliness unseen in all other parts of the world?

My neighbor’s tongue curls around words like it caresses each one.

All velvet, but with the rough edge of a Viking.

I’m getting warm just listening to him talk on the phone.

Does he look like a Viking dressed in velvet, too? Because then I’m toast.

The waiter slides a warm plate of food in front of me with a glass of water before disappearing again. I stare at the steaming, flaky crust on the pie, talking myself into glancing at the guy sitting beside me. One quick glance won’t matter.

I pick up the fork sitting on the counter and hold it up, shifting my neck slowly.

When my gaze lands on William Wallace, it sticks.

He’s the very definition of a Highland hottie.

The man has messy brown hair that seamlessly shifts into a groomed beard.

Where the concierge looked like he hadn’t bothered to shave in a few months, this guy clearly takes care of himself.

The end of his nose tilts up the slightest bit, and when his blue eyes shift toward me, I’m struck by how pale they are.

Now he’s staring. When did he get off the phone?

I’m caught, because he isn’t looking away.

And neither am I.

He sets his phone beside his plate as something flashes in his eyes. “Oh, hello.”

My cheeks burn, but there’s nothing for it now. I have to talk to him. “Hi. Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You didn’t say anything,” he points out. “You should have.”

Maybe not, but my intentions did. They’re practically screaming at him. I’ve already decided this is the perfect specimen. I want to test my theory on him.

Total stranger: check.

Hot accent I can understand: check.

No wedding ring: triple check.

Steam pours out of the pie as I cut into it.

I’m glad the first thing out of his mouth wasn’t why are you staring at me?

I’d better say something while I have his attention.

“I have a feeling I’m going to eat my weight in pie crust while I’m in the UK.

If there’s one thing you guys do well, it’s pie. ”

He shoots me an amused look. “Just the one thing?”

Well, I’m curious about the kissing. But we’ll get to that later. “I had some good fudge in Bath once, too.”

He scoops a forkful of meat pie into his mouth and chews. “Fudge and pie. Sounds like you aren’t trying the right things.”

“What do you recommend?” I try to take a bite but pull back when it sears the edge of my tongue. Too soon. I douse my mouth with water.

“Shortbread.”

I lower my fork.