11. Scot Under the Collar
SCOT UNDER THE COLLAR
KARINA
Three days after fleeing Callum's hotel suite, I stand in my bedroom surrounded by the wreckage of what was once a functioning closet.
Dresses drape over every surface like collapsed parachutes. Shoes litter the floor in mismatched pairs.
My bed has disappeared beneath a landscape of rejected outfits.
"I'm calling it," Susanna announces from where she's sprawled across a pile of discarded cardigans. "Time of death: 5:42 PM. Cause: fatal indecision."
"Not helping," I mumble, holding a burgundy sheath dress against my body and scowling at my reflection.
It's Tuesday evening—gala night—and I've spent the past hour engaged in what my sisters affectionately call "Karina's Closet Catastrophe”—the special panic that descends whenever I need to look professional-but-not-trying-too-hard.
Except this time, the stakes feel astronomically higher.
Because the last time I saw Callum Abernathy, I was running away from his lips, his hotel suite, and the terrible-slash-wonderful realization that my body apparently didn't get the memo about professional boundaries.
Viktoria sits cross-legged on my dresser, scrolling through her phone. "Still nothing from Mom?"
"She said Susanna should bring it by." I glance at my younger sister. "So?"
Susanna reaches into her oversized bag and pulls out a garment bag with a flourish. "Behold! Mom says it's 'perfect for making Scottish men remember they have blood in their veins.'"
"Oh god."
"Her words, not mine."
I unzip the bag to reveal a dress I've never seen before—silk in a deep navy color that shimmers between sapphire and ocean-blue depending on the light.
The cut is classic but daring, with a neckline that suggests rather than announces cleavage.
"Where did she find this?" I breathe.
"Dr. Finnegan's daughter works at Nordstrom," Susanna explains. "Mom mentioned the gala, and next thing you know..."
"She's shopping with her doctor now?" Viktoria raises a precisely plucked eyebrow. "That's... progressive."
"The man makes house calls to check her blood pressure," Susanna stresses. "I'd say they're well past doctor-patient."
The doorbell rings, interrupting what promises to be an extensive analysis of our mother's budding romance.
"I'll get it," Viktoria offers, sliding from the dresser with feline grace.
She returns minutes later carrying a glossy white box with a silver ribbon. "Special delivery from Abernathy Corp." She wiggles her eyebrows. "Someone's upping their game."
"It's probably just event information,” I say.
If only my traitorous pulse believed that too.
"Information doesn't come in embossed boxes," Susanna points out.
I open the box to find an ivory card embellished with the Abernathy Corp logo.
Ms. Peters,
Mr. Abernathy requested these be delivered for this evening's event. His car will arrive at 7:30 PM.
Sincerely,
Alana Ford
Executive Assistant to Callum Abernathy
P.S. He'll be in classic black tie with emerald cufflinks. I've included a swatch of his pocket square for coordination purposes. (This is definitely not my subtle attempt at matchmaking. Definitely not.)
Beneath the card nestles a delicate silver mask adorned with emerald and sapphire crystals that perfectly complement the dress my mother sent.
Alongside it sits a silk pocket square in rich blues and greens with subtle hints of a tartan pattern.
"Masks?" Viktoria questions, peering into the box.
"It's a children's charity.” I lift the mask. "Apparently there's a masquerade theme."
"How romantic," Susanna sighs.
"It's work.”
"Right," Viktoria says dryly. "Just like that kiss you mentioned was 'professional research.'"
My cheeks burn. "It was a mistake."
"A mistake you've been overthinking for three days," Susanna recalls. "While sighing dramatically and checking your phone every five minutes."
“Are you two sure I wasn’t adopted?”
“We’re sure,” they chorus.
I surrender to their ministrations, allowing Viktoria to wrestle my curls into submission while Susanna applies makeup with the intensity of a Renaissance painter approaching a blank canvas.
By seven-fifteen, the transformation is complete.
The woman in the mirror hardly resembles the harried marketing director who spent the morning panic-eating stale donuts while drafting crisis management scenarios.
The sapphire blue dress fits like it was made for me, skimming curves I usually hide under blazers and practical wrap dresses.
My hair cascades over one shoulder in glossy waves, and my almond-brown eyes—enhanced by Susanna's artistry—appear larger, more luminous behind the crystal-studded mask.
"Holy shit," Viktoria murmurs, an uncharacteristic note of awe in her voice. "You look?—"
"Like a goddess," Susanna finishes, beaming with pride. "CEO won't know what hit him."
My phone chimes with a text alert.
CALLUM: Car downstairs. No rush.
"That's my cue," I say, gathering my courage along with a small silver clutch.
"Remember," Viktoria advises as I head for the door, "you're there to investigate corporate espionage, not to swoon."
"And remember," Susanna adds with a grin, "if you do swoon, get pictures."
I flip them both off affectionately before stepping into the hallway, grateful they can't see how my hands tremble slightly.
The elevator descends, and I use the time to compose myself.
This is professional. Strategic.
A calculated move to extract information from Duncan MacTavish and change the public narrative.
Nothing more.
The mantra continues until I step outside, where a sleek black limousine idles at the curb.
The driver opens the door, and there sits Callum Abernathy in impeccable black tie—the tuxedo custom-tailored to showcase broad shoulders and a trim waist.
His emerald cufflinks catch the light, matching the pocket square that echoes the colors of the McRae tartan.
His hair gleams copper in the car's interior lighting, and a simple black mask accentuates rather than conceals the sharp angles of his ruggedly handsome face.
He looks up from his phone, and his expression shifts from distracted to stunned.
I slide into the seat opposite him, hyperaware of the silence stretching between us.
"Hi," I say finally, when it becomes clear he isn't going to speak.
His throat works visibly. "You look..." He pauses. "...not like someone who works in marketing."
I can't help but laugh. "I'm going to take that as a compliment."
"It was intended as one," he assures, his accent thickening slightly. "Though clearly delivered poorly."
"Thank you for the mask. It matches perfectly."
"Thank Alana. She coordinated everything." His eyes drift over me again, lingering briefly before returning to my face. "The color suits you."
"Credit goes to my mother. And possibly her doctor's daughter."
"That sounds like a story."
"It's an emerging saga." I smooth my skirt, noting how the silk catches the light. "I have to say, I'm a little disappointed."
"About?"
"No kilt?" I gesture at his tuxedo. "I thought 'Scotland's Sexiest CEO' would embrace his heritage tonight."
The corner of his mouth curls. "After the past week? I'm trying to restore my professional image, not feed the viral monster."
"But the fans will be devastated. Think of all the hashtags going to waste. #KiltedForCharity. #HighlandHottieHelpsKids."
"Please stop."
"#BraveheartBenefactor?"
He groans, but there's a reluctant smile curving the corner of his full mouth. "The entire point of tonight is to redirect attention away from my alleged... physical attributes... and toward Abernathy Corp's security innovations."
"So practical," I sigh. "Fine. The tux is adequately devastating. I suppose the world will survive without your knees tonight."
"Devastating?" he echoes, one eyebrow arching above his mask.
"Professionally speaking," I add quickly. "From a marketing perspective."
"Of course." That almost-smile grows more pronounced. "Purely analytical."
The car glides through Seattle's evening traffic, the city lights blurring beyond rain-streaked windows.
July's lingering daylight has finally surrendered to darkness, but the streets pulse with the energy of summer.
"So," I venture, "who all will be there tonight?"
"The usual tech elite," he replies, relaxing marginally. "Connor and his fiancée Ariana. Grayson and his fiancée Roz. Alex Drake and his wife Mackenzie just returned from their honeymoon."
"Are they all Stanford grads like you?"
"Connor, Grayson, and Alex did their MBAs together. Luke and I were in the Engineering Management program, but we all ended up in the same social circles."
"The billionaire boys' club."
“Aye. I guess. We prefer 'mutual support network for the chronically overworked.'"
"And you're the baby of the group?" I ask, remembering something from our midnight strategy session.
"I'm forty-five. They're all turning forty-six this year." His brow furrows. "Why is that relevant?"
"Just building a comprehensive psychological profile."
"Of me or my friends?"
"Yes."
That earns me a low chuckle. The sound rolls through the car's interior, stirring something warm in my chest.
"They'll interrogate you," he warns.
"About?"
"Everything. They're protective."
"I can handle nosy billionaires," I assure him. "I deal with board members for a living."
"You've never met Connor in inquisition mode. He once made a potential investor cry by asking about his childhood pets."
"An impressive talent."
"You have no idea." He shifts slightly in his seat, and I notice the subtle tartan in his pocket square—a nod to his heritage despite the formal black tie. "They've been particularly vigilant since Richard's... departure."
"Checking for more embezzlers in the ranks?"
"Checking for more people who would leave a knife sticking out my back,” he suggests quietly.
The candid admission makes my mouth go dry. "I didn't realize his betrayal affected you that deeply."
Callum looks out the window, his profile sharp against the passing lights. "Family is complicated."
"You don't need to tell me that." I hesitate, then ask the question that's been nagging at me. "Why did you never marry?"
His gaze snaps back to mine, startled. "That's direct."
"I've never been accused of subtlety."
For a moment, I think he won't answer. Then, "I had a brief marriage in my twenties. It ended badly. After that, there seemed little point in trying again when the company required my full attention."
"And now?"
"Now I'm too old for social media nonsense, with a viral hashtag and a grandmother determined to see me wed before she dies."
"Poor Fiona," I say with mock gravity. "Wrestling with mortality while you resist matrimony."
"She's eighty-eight and has more energy than most Olympic athletes. I suspect she'll outlive us all."
"Still," I press, "there must have been someone since your twenties."
He studies me intently. "Why are you so interested in my romantic history, Ms. Peters?"
"Professional curiosity," I manage. "Understanding the full personal context of the hashtag situation."
"Is that so?" His voice drops lower, and he leans forward slightly. "And does your professional curiosity extend to Saturday night?"
My pulse quickens. "I'm still analyzing that data point."
"Any preliminary findings?"
I wet my lips, hyperaware of how his gaze tracks the movement. "Inconclusive. May require further testing."
The air between us charges with potential energy. He shifts closer, the leather seat creaking softly beneath him.
"Karina," he begins, my name a rough caress in his accented voice.
I can't breathe. Can't think.
Can only watch as he closes the distance between us with deliberate slowness, giving me every opportunity to retreat.
I don't.
His hand comes up to brush my cheek, a whisper of contact that sends electricity cascading through me. His eyes, visible through the mask, darken to forest green.
"This is a terrible idea," I whisper.
"Catastrophic," he agrees, his thumb tracing my lower lip.
"We should quit while we’re ahead.”
"Absolutely."
Neither of us moves away.
The car slows suddenly, jostling us apart as it pulls up to the venue—the Seattle Art Museum transformed for the evening into a glittering wonderland of lights and music.
"We've arrived," the driver announces unnecessarily.
Callum sits back, his expression shifting from heat to careful neutrality. "Ready?"
No. Not remotely.
"Born ready," I lie, adjusting my mask.
He offers his hand to help me from the car. The simple touch—warm, strong fingers curling around mine—sends another jolt through me.
This evening suddenly feels much more dangerous than I'd anticipated.
Because while I can handle nosy billionaires, corporate intrigue, and even Duncan MacTavish...
I'm increasingly uncertain I can handle Callum Abernathy and whatever is igniting between us.