Forty, Flirty & Framed (Forty and Flirty Billionaires #4)

1. Kilt-y Until Proven Innocent

KILT-Y UNTIL PROVEN INNOCENT

KARINA

There's a particular sound a career makes when it implodes.

It's not a crash or a bang.

Nope. It's more like the soft whoosh of air leaving your lungs when you realize you've royally screwed up.

That sound is currently filling my ears as I stare at Abernathy Corp's official SkySnap account, which, until approximately seven minutes ago, had been a model of corporate blandness.

Now it features a detailed ranking of our CEO's "best physical attributes" with the hashtag #KiltedCasanova.

Attribute #3 includes a disturbingly specific description of what Callum Abernathy supposedly wears under his kilt.

"No, no, no, no," I whisper, frantically trying to delete the post that has already been shared over two thousand times. My fingers scramble across the keyboard like panicked spiders. "This is not happening."

But it is happening.

And according to the system logs, it has happened under my login credentials.

My phone buzzes with a text from the Peters Sisters Survival Squad group chat:

VIKTORIA: Did you see the new clinical trial for Mom's RA treatment? Sending you the link.

SUSANNA: More importantly, are we still on for Friday dinner? I'm bringing that hot guy from my pottery class!

I stare at their messages, my normal life continuing in blissful ignorance while my professional one burns spectacularly to the ground. My pulse pounds in my ears as I type a quick response.

ME: Can't talk. Career death spiral in progress. Will update from unemployment line.

SUSANNA: Drama queen much?

VIKTORIA: What happened now?

ME: Someone hacked our social media and posted a ranking of my boss's body parts. With my login. Kill me.

Three dots appear, disappear, then come back with a vengeance.

SUSANNA: WHAT? Screenshots or it didn't happen!!

"Karina?" Tracy from Accounting pokes her head around my cubicle. "There's something... um... interesting on the company SkySnap.”

"I know," I hiss, minimizing the screen as though that will make the catastrophe disappear. "I'm handling it."

"Good, because..." Tracy lowers her voice to a whisper. "Is it true about the thighs? Because I've always wondered?—"

"Tracy! Not now!"

She scurries away, but I can already hear the whispers spreading across the office like wildfire.

My email dings with a new message. Then another. Then twenty more in rapid succession.

The subject lines are variations of:

- EXCLUSIVE COMMENT REQUEST: Seattle's Kilted Casanova

- Media Inquiry: CEO Hottie List

- Sponsorship Opportunity: Scottish-Themed Undergarment Line

I click on the last one with morbid curiosity.

"Dear Ms. Peters," it reads. "Our company, Highland Hammocks, would like to discuss a potential endorsement opportunity with Mr. Abernathy following his viral moment.

Our premium men's undergarments feature authentic tartan patterns and our slogan 'What's Under Your Kilt? ' would pair perfectly with..."

My phone rings, Viktoria's name flashing on the screen. I answer while still frantically trying to delete the post.

"Please tell me you're joking," she says without preamble.

"I wish. Someone hacked our account and now the entire internet is discussing our CEO's... assets. And it's all under my login." My voice cracks. "I'm going to get fired. I'm going to get fired and then I won't be able to cover Mom's medical bills and?—"

"Breathe," my oldest sister Viktoria commands in her cybersecurity specialist voice. "Have you changed your passwords?"

"Yes, but?—"

"Have you alerted IT?"

"They're tracing it, but?—"

"Has Mr. Abernathy seen it yet?"

The office suddenly goes deadly quiet. The kind of quiet that spreads when a predator enters the room.

I slowly swivel in my chair.

Callum Abernathy stands six foot three of pure, chiseled Scottish intimidation in the doorway of the marketing department. His copper-red hair is perfectly styled, his custom suit immaculate, and his expression could freeze the ice on a penguin’s ass.

"I'll call you back," I whisper to Viktoria, ending the call.

Every employee suddenly becomes intensely fascinated with their computer screens as our CEO stalks through the department, his gaze fixed directly on me. The post has been up for exactly seventeen minutes, and in that time it has gone properly, thoroughly viral.

"Ms. Peters," he says, his voice carrying the faintest hint of a Scottish accent that thickens when he's angry. Right now, it's practically a brogue. "My office. Now."

I rise on shaky legs, clutching my tablet to my chest. "Mr. Abernathy, I can explain?—"

"Not here." His jaw ticks—an actual muscle spasm of rage. His forest-green eyes narrow as he turns on his heel, clearly expecting me to follow.

As I trail behind him, my phone vibrates continuously with notifications. I glance down to see SUSANNA has shared screenshots of the now-viral post to our group chat with the caption: HOLY SHIT KARI THIS IS GOLD!!! IS #5 ABOUT HIS BUTT REALLY TRUE???

And below it, a message from my doctor's office: REMINDER - Your mother's appointment has been rescheduled for tomorrow at 10 AM. Please confirm.

The universe really has impeccable timing.

Callum leads me to the executive elevator, stabbing the button with enough force to potentially crack the brushed metal. We stand in excruciating silence as the doors close, trapping me with six-feet-three-inches of furious Scottish billionaire.

"Mr. Abernathy," I try again, "I know how this looks, but I swear I didn't?—"

"Ten thousand," he cuts me off.

"Excuse me?"

"Ten thousand retweets." He holds up his phone, displaying the still-growing social media disaster. "In seventeen minutes. A new company record, I believe."

My stomach drops into my sensible heels. "I'm trying to delete it, but someone hacked my?—"

"And the most fascinating part," he continues as though I haven't spoken, "is discovering that my Marketing Director has apparently conducted such... thorough research on what I wear under my kilt."

The elevator dings mercifully, saving me from having to respond to that particularly mortifying accusation.

As we step out, his twenty-something year-old assistant Alana looks up with wide eyes. "Sir, Highland Hammocks is on line one about an underwear endorsement, and the Seattle Tribune wants a statement about being named 'The Most Eligible Highlander in Tech.'"

Callum closes his eyes briefly, as if praying for strength.

His phone pings with a new notification. He glances down, his expression darkening to thunderous levels.

"And now," he says with deadly calm, "my grandmother is texting me from Scotland asking if the 'assets list' is accurate." He fixes me with a glare that could cut glass. "So, Ms. Peters, would you care to explain exactly how my personal anatomy became today's trending topic?"

My phone buzzes one final time with a message from my mother:

MOM: Sweetheart, what's a Kilted Casanova and why is your boss one?

If the universe wants to kill me, it could at least have the decency to be quick about it.