Chapter 9
LENA
Thunk!
“You said a few files,” Weston complained as I dropped the stack down on the enormous dining room table in front of him.
The thing was bigger than my entire kitchen back in Houston.
I was still getting used to the sheer size of some of the furniture, but they fit the setting.
My tiny kitchen table would look toy sized in this space.
“This is a few,” I insisted. “Do you know how many drawers are in your grandfather’s office?
And how many files are in each of those drawers?
I only brought the ones that were labeled festival.
” I plopped down in one of the tall Jacobean chairs next to him.
“You’re welcome for sorting through all of those, by the way. ”
Weston grimaced, sifting through the folders.
I reached for half of the cheese toastie Agnes had brought out along with a steaming cup of tea. When I’d said we should start going through some of the files I’d pulled from Pete’s office, she’d insisted on making us a snack to tide us over until dinner.
“I think it’s important for us to get a general sense of the work we’ve gotten ourselves into. And it’ll make a good impression on the town if we walk into that next festival meeting somewhat prepared.”
Weston flipped the first file open. His face fell immediately. “Fecking hell.”
I leaned closer. “What?”
“It’s all handwritten.”
“Yes?”
“Grandad’s writing was atrocious. Look at this chicken scratch.” He smacked his hand down on one of the papers. “I can’t tell if this is a word or if he spilled his morning brew.”
“Let me see.” I nudged his hand out of the way. “It’s not that bad. And frankly, you have no room to complain. Yours is no better.”
“What’re you on about?” he said. “You’ve never complained about my handwriting before.”
“Because nine times out of ten, you’re emailing or texting me. But on the rare occasion you leave me notes, I’ve had to get good at deciphering your little squiggles.”
“I do not squiggle,” he muttered, digging through another file.
“It’s okay, my liege, I think they have scribes you can employ.”
He shot me a grumpy side-eye before returning to the file. He paused, his expression shifting into something softer. “Oh, wow,” he murmured.
“What did you find?”
He dug an old, weathered photo from the box. The edges were slightly yellowed and curled. “Look here,” he said, showing me the picture. “That’s Gran standing with Grandad.” He whistled. “And my dad and uncle when they were boys. This must be almost forty years old. Maybe fifty.”
His grandmother had her arms wrapped around Pete’s neck. The sign behind them said Braeburn Summer Festival. Their smiles were giddy. “Did they run the festival together?” I asked.
Weston nodded. “Until she died. Then he continued as best as he could. I think the town got a lot more involved then.”
He handed the photo off to me. I flipped it over. On the back, in more of that chicken-scratch writing, were the words Ellen, Pete, Charlie (10), Bryan (8), Braeburn.
“And this looks like an old festival layout,” he said, handing over what looked to be a photocopy of a hand-drawn map. He ran his finger along it. “This here is the high street. And all these squares in the middle of the street are the different booths.”
I sifted through the file, finding a first-place ribbon. “Looks like we’re going to need a judging panel.”
Weston nodded. “I remember there was always a haggis-making competition. Two categories. Traditional and contemporary. And Cullen skink. And then a bunch of desserts.”
“I know what haggis is, not that I ever want to willingly eat it.” I shivered at the mix of minced sheep organs, suet, spices, and who knew what else all wrapped up and cooked inside the sheep’s stomach. “But what the hell is Cullen…?”
“Skink. It’s basically fish stew. And when it’s made right, it’s delicious.”
Sure, he said that…but he also liked haggis. His opinions could not be trusted. “I’ll take your word for it,” I said diplomatically.
He smirked at me. “My grandparents were always on the judging panel. So don’t think you’re getting off without trying some true Scottish delicacies.”
“Great. Can’t wait to risk my life for sheep organs and fish stew that’s been sitting out under the sun all day.
” I flipped through more of the file, finding additional photos.
Pete and Ellen in front of a bunch of store fronts.
Pete and Ellen standing around with a group of people, laughing and chatting.
Pete in a kilt, flexing at the camera. I chuckled under my breath. “Man, these streets look packed.”
“Oh, they were,” Weston said. “People would come from all over the area. Sometimes we’d even get tourists up from Glasgow.
It actually brought in a lot of money for the small businesses in town.
People would come and stay for multiple days, enjoy the festival, and buy up all the pastries and local tartans and handwoven sheep’s wool jumpers.
” He smiled fondly. “I remember getting to help with tear down afterward. Grandad would corral all the boys from the camp, and we’d spend a couple of long days cleaning up town.
But at the end of it, he’d always treat us to a campfire night to close out the session. ”
“Sounds like something you looked forward to.”
“Aye.” He nodded, unearthing more notes. “Thank Christ. Some of these are in Gran’s handwriting.”
“Let me see,” I said, scanning them quickly. “Bingo! This is a list of vendors. They’ve probably changed over the years, but it’s a good place to start.” I laughed. “I for one hope Bangers and Mashups is still around.”
“It was a sausage and bagpipe fusion booth,” Weston said.
“Food and entertainment in one,” I teased. “What is the Neeps and Tatties Express?”
“Turnips and potatoes,” he mumbled, distracted by another photo. I peered over his arm. It was Pete and Ellen, this time with a little boy between them.
“Oh my God, is that you?” I said, snatching the photo right out of his hand. “Look how little you were!”
“Yes, amazing,” he said, deadpan. “I was once a small child, like everyone else on earth.”
“It is surprising to some. But look at you. You were so cute!” I argued. “And you were also blond!”
Weston flushed as I cooed over the image.
“Give it here,” he said, trying to steal the photo back.
I popped out of my chair. “No, I’m not done! Are there more?” I went digging through the rest of the files, suddenly desperate to fill my need for pint-sized Weston. “There are! Look at them all.”
“Lena, no!” he said, standing.
“Lena, yes!” I said, scurrying around the table with a stack of photos.
“Look at your tiny, dimpled smile. And your tiny kilt!” I gaped at him, trying not to laugh as Weston darted around the dining room, making a swipe for me.
He caught me from behind with one arm, attempting to wrestle the pictures from me with the other, but I held firm.
“Oh. My. God. I’m sending these to Cynthia. PR needs to put them everywhere.”
“Lena!”
“Oomph.” I lost my breath for a moment as I was pinned to the wall, Weston’s body pressing mine against what was probably five-hundred-year-old wallpaper.
I sucked in a sharp breath, overwhelmed by the scent of his cologne.
Why was he standing so close? My breath felt ragged and my pulse beat out of control as I lifted my head to look him in the eye.
The pressure of his body was warm and very masculine and… What on earth was happening?
I’d stared into Weston’s green eyes hundreds of times over the years. Never once had I felt the way I did right now—tingly and slightly unhinged and like I’d been untethered from the ground.
There was something different about the moment.
Something charged.
My eyes briefly dropped to his lips, an unfamiliar desire crashing through me—
—but then, the next thing I knew, Milo was barking up a storm, and I had two giant paws coming right for me.
“Ack, Milo!” I cried. “You smell like mulch.”
Weston stumbled back, clearing his throat as he said, “Probably chasing Bonnie around the yard. He hasn’t taken a liking to her.”
“Me neither,” I muttered, staring at the floor and smoothing the wrinkles from my top to disguise my horrible blush. Thankfully, Weston didn’t seem to notice as he snagged Milo’s collar, dragging him out of the room.
“You’re not taking those photos anywhere,” Weston said, his words growled low against my ear, the heat of his breath chasing a shiver down my neck. “Give them back.”
“Are you gonna make me?” I said, eyeing him up.
He shifted, his weight pressing against me firmly as we moved against the—
—floor?
How the hell had we gotten down here? And since when was he topless? I ran my hand over a broad shoulder and down a firm pec as I became aware of a pulsing need between my thighs.
“I can’t have you misbehaving,” he said, his words rolling as he flexed his hips.
“It’s just a couple of pictures,” I whispered. I felt my body pulsate beneath him.
“Do you always do the opposite of what you’re told?”
“You should know me well enough to answer that question yourself,” I replied as he rolled his hips, and I bit back a groan. My mouth dropped open, the pulse becoming unbearable. I let my hands drift down his back.
“Answer me,” he growled. He buried his nose against my neck before lightly biting the muscle.
My fingers hitched on cloth. Oh my fucking God! Was he wearing a kilt? My eyes shot open, and I launched out of the dream, flushed and panting as half-naked dream-Weston slipped away.
“No,” I groaned, flopping back on my pillow and pressing a hand to my forehead.
I wasn’t ready for dream-Weston to slip away just yet.
The pulsing between my thighs begged…no, demanded to be satiated.
I squeezed my legs together and moaned at the feeling.
Whoever the hell this version of him was, I wanted him to finish what he’d started.
I slid my hand between my thighs, closed my eyes, and envisioned half-naked Weston in nothing but a kilt, his muscles tensing as he rocked against me.
My clit pulsed as I rubbed slow, teasing circles around it, imagining it was Weston’s fingers, imagining his weight pressing me into the mattress, imagining his cock pressing against my—
I lost my train of thought as the orgasm took me, dragging me into a space between wake and sleep that was filled with nothing but pleasure for a few blissful moments. Then the intensity subsided and the mortification set in, chasing the last pleasurable bits of my orgasm away.
I groaned again, the unsteady thrum of embarrassment vibrating between my ribs. What was wrong with me?
No…No! I told myself. It was fine.
Everything was just fine.
Because pleasuring myself to thoughts of Weston didn’t really mean anything. Dreams were…weird sometimes. They weren’t an accurate reflection of reality. Everyone knew that.
This was simply a product of stress and proximity and…getting my wires crossed in sleep because here I was in this giant Scottish castle, planning a very Scottish festival, while pretending to be married to my very Scottish husband. No wonder I had kilts on the brain!
I sucked in a steadying breath, releasing it slowly.
But that wasn’t the full truth, was it? Weston had grown on me in a way I hadn’t expected since arriving here.
He’d slipped past my defenses, and not just with those sexy forearms. It was the way he smiled at me in the quiet moments.
The way our hands fit together. The sound of the word “wife” tumbling between his lips.
God fucking dammit! I wasn’t just lusting over my boss. I was falling for him.
Gah!
I jammed my face into the pillow, knowing full well that falling for Weston Kincaid was a bad idea. I needed to slam those boundaries back into place before these dreams got me into real trouble.