17. A Proper Scottish Breakfast
A PROPER SCOTTISH brEAKFAST
CALLUM
I wake to July sunlight streaming through the yacht's porthole, bathing the cabin in golden morning light.
For a moment, I forget where I am—and more importantly, who's sleeping in the master suite down the hall.
Then the events of last night come flooding back in a rush of sense memory that makes me groan.
I'm forty-five years old, for Christ's sake.
Too old to be getting hard just thinking about a woman. Too experienced to be hiding in the guest cabin of my own yacht like a teenager afraid of his own impulses.
Too smart to pursue something that can only end badly.
And yet…
I check my phone: 6:17 AM.
We docked at my private slip near Queen Anne sometime after midnight.
I should wake Karina, arrange for a car to take her home, return to my hotel, and pretend last night never happened.
That would be the sensible thing to do.
Instead, I find myself in the galley, brewing coffee and assembling ingredients for a proper Scottish breakfast.
I'm halfway through slicing mushrooms when I hear a throat clear behind me.
"Good morning," Karina says, her voice husky with sleep. She's wearing one of my oxford shirts, the hem hitting mid-thigh.
Her dark curls are tousled in a way that makes my fingers itch to touch them again.
"Morning.” I return to my mushrooms with unnecessary focus. "Coffee's ready."
"Is this... awkward?" she asks, reaching for a mug. "Because it feels awkward."
"Only if we make it awkward."
“Interesting…coming from the man who fled to another cabin last night."
I set down my knife. "I like to think of it as a ‘wise withdrawal.”
"Ah. Of course." She sips her coffee, watching me over the rim. "And this morning? Another strategic maneuver?"
"This," I gesture to the cooking ingredients, "is breakfast. No strategy involved."
"Mmm. So we're just two coworkers having a casual breakfast on your yacht after a night of... professional collaboration."
I can't help but smile. "Exactly."
"Well, in that case..." She hops onto one of the bar stools across the counter, crossing her legs in a way that makes the shirt ride dangerously higher. "What's on today's agenda, boss?"
The word 'boss' hits like a bucket of cold water, reminding me exactly why last night was a terrible idea.
"Actually, I could use your help with something," I say, returning to the stove. "Connor's engagement party is in a little less than a month. You and I need to prepare."
She blinks. "Prepare what, exactly? Won't you just... show up? In a kilt? Maybe bring champagne?"
"It's not that simple.” I crack eggs into a bowl. "The point is, we need a cohesive strategy that transforms this viral nonsense into something that supports the acquisition rather than threatens it."
She studies me for a long moment. "So last night was..."
"A momentary lapse in judgment," I supply, though the words taste false. "But that doesn't change the fact that we work well together. Professionally."
"Do we, though?" Her tone is light, but her eyes hold a challenge.
"I think so." I turn to focus on the cooking, adding mushrooms to the pan. "Unless you disagree?"
“I—No. So, just to be clear: I’m just your…plus-one to Connor's party. Not your ‘date’.”
“Precisely.”
“Understood.”
"Good." I nod, ignoring tightness in my throat. “We should review the guest list. Luke's running background checks on everyone."
"Luke? Your security friend?" Something in her tone makes me look up.
"Yes. Standard procedure for high-profile events."
"How... thorough are these background checks?"
"Luke doesn't do anything halfway," I say, watching her reaction carefully. "Is that a problem?"
"No, of course not." She smiles brightly. "Why would it be?"
Before I can press further, my phone chimes.
I check the screen and groan. "Alana's on her way. Apparently there are 'urgent matters requiring immediate attention.'"
"I should go," Karina says, standing quickly. "I need to change and?—"
"You're fine. Alana's bringing documents for both of us to review. Besides, I'm making enough breakfast for three."
She hesitates, then sinks back onto the stool. "You're not worried about... appearances?"
"Alana is the soul of discretion."
Karina raises an eyebrow. "The same Alana who left a Post-it on your desk that said 'smile more' with three underlines?"
"The very same."
Twenty minutes later, we're seated in the yacht's dining nook, plates heaped with eggs, mushrooms, tomatoes, and black pudding that Karina eyes with profound suspicion.
"What exactly is in this again?" she asks, poking the dark slice with her fork.
"It's best not to ask questions you don't want answers to," I advise.
"That's not ominous at all."
Before I can respond, rapid footsteps sound on the deck, followed by Alana's voice calling, "Mr. Abernathy? Permission to come aboard?"
"Granted," I call back, watching Karina fidget with the hem of my shirt.
Alana appears in the galley doorway, arms loaded with folders and what appears to be merchandise samples.
She takes in the domestic scene—Karina in my shirt, me serving breakfast—without so much as a blink.
"Good morning, Mr. Abernathy, Ms. Peters," she says briskly. "I've brought the latest viral updates and several endorsement proposals requiring immediate decisions."
"How did you know we were here?" Karina asks.
"Mr. Abernathy's calendar has yacht maintenance scheduled for this morning," Alana explains, setting down her burden. "And you weren't answering your phone, so logically..."
"Right," Karina murmurs. "Logical."
"What's so urgent it couldn't wait until office hours?" I ask, nodding toward the pile.
Alana extracts a sleek black box. "Highland Horizons Cologne wants to launch 'Highland Mist' by Callum Abernathy." She opens the box to reveal a glass bottle shaped disturbingly like a kilt. "They're offering seven figures for endorsement."
"Absolutely not."
"They described the scent as 'masculine integrity with notes of confidence and just a hint of whisky-barrel swagger,'" Alana continues, undeterred. "Market testing in the 35-60 female demographic has been, quote, 'extremely positive.'"
Karina snorts into her coffee.
"What else?" I ask, refusing to acknowledge the cologne.
"FitTech wants you to host a series of workout videos called 'Kilted Cardio.'" Alana produces a mock-up poster featuring a disturbingly well-muscled man in a kilt doing lunges. "They're projecting two million downloads in the first month."
"Also no."
"TechStyle Magazine wants you for their 'Power Players in Plaid' cover story."
"Definitely not."
"And finally," Alana says, pulling out her tablet, "SkySnap analytics reports a new trending hashtag: #KarinaAndTheKilt."
Karina sputters, coughing loudly. "I'm sorry, what?"
"Fan fiction," Alana explains, scrolling through the screen. "Stories shipping you and Mr. Abernathy as a couple. They've garnered over fifty thousand reads in the past three days."
I stare at her. "People are writing fictional stories about us?"
"'The CEO and His Marketing Genius,'" Alana confirms. "It's quite popular. The most read story features you two solving corporate mysteries while falling in love."
"That's... flattering.”
"Actually, the writing quality is surprisingly good," Alana continues. "The author has a solid grasp of corporate structure and excellent character development."
"Please tell me you haven't read these," Karina says faintly.
"Market research," Alana replies primly. "The hashtag is currently trending in fourteen countries."
I sigh out loud. "Alana, I need you to kill this hashtag. Immediately."
"I'll try, sir, but the internet tends to resist censorship. Especially when it involves attractive power couples and sexual tension."
"We're not a couple," Karina and I say simultaneously.
Alana's eyes widen but she pushes on. "Of course not, sir. Just colleagues sharing breakfast after a business meeting. Perfectly normal."
I clear my throat. "Is there anything else?"
"Just one item. Luke Sterling called to confirm he's completed preliminary background checks on Connor's guest list. He says he's found some, quote, 'interesting anomalies' he'd like to discuss with you."
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Karina grow very still.
"Tell him I'll call him this afternoon," I say. "And Alana? Try to discourage these fiction writers. They're creating a potential PR complication."
"I'll do my best, sir, but they seem quite... invested."
After Alana departs with promises to handle the cologne people "diplomatically," Karina and I sit in silence for a moment.
"Well," she finally says, "that was..."
"Mortifying?"
"I was going to say 'enlightening.' I had no idea my life had become fodder for amateur writers."
I push away my plate. "This is getting out of hand."
"The hashtag or..." she gestures between us.
“All of it. We need to be more careful."
Her expression shutters. "Right. Of course."
"It's not that I regret last night," I add quickly. "But the optics are problematic."
"Optics. Very CEO of you."
"Karina—"
"No, you're right." She stands, straightening my shirt over her legs. "This is complicated enough without adding public scrutiny. I should go home, change, and meet you at the office later to discuss Connor's party, as your…plus-one.”
I watch her gather her things, feeling like I've misstepped but unsure exactly how. "I'll have a car brought around."
"Don't bother. I'll call a rideshare." She pauses at the galley door. "And Callum? Thank you for breakfast. Your mushrooms were excellent."
"But not the black pudding?"
A faint smile appears. "I'm reserving judgment on the mystery meat circles."
After she leaves, I stare at our half-eaten breakfast.
The casual domesticity of the morning—her in my shirt, sharing coffee and conversation—had felt dangerously right.
And therein lies the problem.
Because I'm starting to want more than one night.
More than professional collaboration with occasional lapses in judgment.
I want Karina Peters…
Not just in my bed, but in my life.
And that realization is far more terrifying than any viral hashtag.