3. Office Arrest
OFFICE ARREST
KARINA
My first day of “office arrest” dawns gray and wet—classic Seattle in July.
Rain drums against Callum’s skyscraper windows like it’s trying to stage a prison break on my behalf.
It’s been less than twenty-four hours since #KiltedCasanova exploded online, and already I’m questioning every life decision that landed me here.
Here, being the corner office of one Callum Abernathy, where my desk now sits at a painfully strategic ninety-degree angle to his.
My screen? Fully visible. My dignity? In witness protection.
I sip my third coffee and try not to appreciate how annoyingly cinematic his office looks—glass, steel, and brooding rain.
Like a villain origin scene.
Fitting.
“You planning to admire the rain all day, or are we going to address the twenty-seven press inquiries in our inbox?” Callum doesn’t glance up, but his voice slices across the room like a well-aimed paper cut.
“I’m just soaking in the aesthetic of my professional demise,” I mutter, cracking open my email. “Very end-credits energy.”
“A bit dramatic, aren’t we?”
“Says the man who slapped me with corporate house arrest,” I mumble under my breath.
I’m shocked when he actually catches the mutter.
“Office arrest,” he corrects, finally looking up. His green eyes stormier than the sky behind him. “I prefer to think of it as protective custody.”
“Protective of what? Your reputation or your ‘thighs that could crush a whisky barrel’?”
One brow arches. “You memorized that line rather quickly.”
“It’s been shared seventy-three thousand times. Hard to miss.”
“Eighty-two.” He swivels his screen to show me the updated stats. “Drake PR’s new hire is running with it.”
“Will Drake’s company?” I groan. “Perfect. I’m sure Richard is currently watching my PR funeral in 4K.”
“Speaking of your adoring public,” Richard’s ex-assistant—and Callum’s current one—Alana pokes her head in, pushing a cart loaded with tartan-wrapped chaos. “The first wave’s here.”
“The first wave of what?” Callum asks, accent thickening like storm clouds.
“Gifts.” She wheels in enough plaid-patterned energy drinks to power a rave. “TarTan Energy wants to sponsor ‘Scotland’s Most Electrifying CEO.’”
I bite my cheek to avoid laughing.
“Send it back,” Callum says.
“All six cases?” Alana blinks. “That’s, like, a thousand dollars of product.”
“Donate it. Recycle it. Launch it into the Sound. I don’t care—just get it out.”
“Yes, sir.” She pivots toward the door, then pauses. “Oh, also this.” She holds up a blue satin sash: Sexiest CEO, stitched in silver thread.
Callum’s soul visibly leaves his body. I’m debating whether that sash would clash with his copper hair.
“And that came from…?”
“Seattle Business Monthly,” Alana says. “They’d like to schedule a shoot.”
“Absolutely not.”
“They mentioned the cover...”
“No.”
“And a centerfold.”
“OUT.”
Alana vanishes like a puff of smoke. I clear my throat. “You know, a Business Monthly feature could help the MacTavish deal.”
“Not if it involves posing in a kilt and a sash like I’m Mr. Highland Universe.”
“Fair.”
We return to our laptops, and for a blissful moment, there’s quiet.
Then the door opens again.
This time it’s a delivery guy hauling in what appears to be—a bagpipe?
“Delivery for Mr. Abernathy,” the courier announces.
It’s not just any bagpipe. It’s a custom bagpipe. With Callum’s face printed on it, looking off into the distance like a brooding Scottish god.
“What fresh hell is this?” Callum breathes.
“From the Scottish American Heritage Society,” the courier reads. “They’d like you to perform at their annual gathering. They included instructional videos.”
Callum turns to me. “Sign for it.”
“Why me?”
“Because if I touch it, I accept the invite.”
I sign, and the bagpipe is deposited in the corner like some unholy art piece.
“This is your fault,” he mutters.
“My fault? I didn’t ask someone to immortalize your face on a wind instrument.”
“No, but someone using your login posted that bloody video.”
I choke on my coffee. “I didn’t post the remix!”
“It’s worse than the original. And now there’s TikToks with slow-motion close-ups of my face and Marvin Gaye in the background.”
“I swear, I didn’t authorize that.”
“Then who did?” he presses, voice softening just enough to make it worse. “You’re the only one with access.”
“I’ll find out. I need this job, Callum—Mr. Abernathy. I have... responsibilities.”
Something flickers in his expression, but before he can speak, Alana reappears with another delivery.
“What now?” he sighs.
“A gift basket from HottieTottie,” she says, as a courier wheels in a monstrosity of whisky, luxury skincare, and—are those engraved cufflinks?
“HottieTottie? The dating app?” I ask.
“They’d like Mr. Abernathy to be their next spokesperson,” the courier says, handing me a contract. “Their ‘Highland Heartthrob.’”
Callum emits a strangled noise.
“I’ll just... put this over here,” I mumble, signing again.
The minute the door closes, Callum stands. “This ends now.”
“The deliveries?”
“All of it. The posts. The gifts. The bagpipe with my face. I’ve got a $2.4 billion acquisition to close in sixty days. I can’t afford to look like a bloody punchline.”
“I’m trying,” I say. “I’ve sent takedown notices, flagged content, drafted statements?—”
“It’s not enough. We need something... decisive.”
That word makes my spine stiffen. “What kind of decisive?”
He stares out at the skyline. “We change the narrative.”
“To what?”
“Anything that doesn’t involve my thighs or what I wear under my kilt. Jesus, not to mention all the investors that will be at Connor’s engagement party. The damn thing is in only forty-five days. Fuck. If the investors think I’m a meme, the MacTavish deal tanks.”
“Wait—Connor Reeves? The cloud computing guy?”
“One of my best friends. And his party isn’t just a social event—it’s a battleground.”
Another knock interrupts. This time, it’s the head of MacTavish Global.
Duncan MacTavish himself.
The security firm he’s built is super impressive, but nothing is as impressive as the man in the flesh.
Eighty-six, legendary, and dressed like a whisky ad—silver hair, sleek suit with a tartan pocket square…and a beard you could set a watch by.
“Abernathy,” he says, voice like granite. “Interesting marketing campaign you’ve got going.”
Callum’s jaw tightens. “Duncan. Didn’t know we had a meeting.”
“We didn’t.” His gaze drifts to the bagpipes. “But word travels. Thought I’d check if our deal needed... revisiting. In light of your newfound fame.”
The air shifts—thick and sharp.
“The terms remain unchanged,” Callum replies smoothly.
“Do they?” Duncan’s smile is polite and lethal. “Public image impacts valuation, son. Might be time for a reassessment.”
My crisis manager instinct kicks in. “This is a temporary situation. Engagement is already dropping, and we’ll have a comprehensive strategy by end of day.”
“And you are?”
“Karina Peters. Marketing Director.”
His smile grows sly. “Ah. The mastermind.”
“She’s resolving it,” Callum says quickly. “The acquisition proceeds as planned.”
“We’ll see,” Duncan says. “Board meets in six weeks.” He tips an invisible hat. “The tartan suits you, Abernathy.”
As the door shuts behind him, the silence is deafening.
“That,” I say, “was very not good.”
“No,” Callum agrees, sinking into his chair. “He’ll either use this to lower the price or kill the deal entirely.”
“This was supposed to be your clean slate,” I say quietly. “After Richard.”
His jaw clenches.
“I’ll fix this,” I say before I can stop myself.
He looks up. “How?”
“I don’t know. Yet. But I will. We’ll change the narrative. Find the real culprit. Make it all disappear before the board meeting.”
He studies me, eyes unreadable.
“And why should I trust you? You’re still the prime suspect.”
“Because I need this job. Because my mom’s medical bills won’t vanish on their own. Because I’m not letting another Abernathy man wreck what I’ve built.”
Something shifts in his gaze. Not softening—recalculating.
“You’ve got six weeks,” he says. “Fix it.”
“I will. But I need my own office. My team. My?—”
“Not a chance.” His smile is all teeth. “Where you go, I go. Consider us joined at the hip.”
That phrase sends a wholly inappropriate shiver down my spine.
“Fine,” I say. “But fair warning—there’ll be more gifts. More chaos. More...bagpipes.”
“I can handle it.”
The universe hears him—and laughs.
Alana pokes her head in. “Delivery from KiltFlicks? They’re a streaming service. Want to discuss a limited series?—”
“Thank you, Alana,” we both say.
As the door clicks shut, our eyes meet. And for one heartbeat, my boss, my CEO—and my ex-almost fiancé’s brother—almost smiles.
Maybe we’ll survive this PR nightmare.
Or maybe we’ll kill each other trying.
Especially if he starts digging too deeply into who I really am.
Because the version of Karina Peters who landed this job?
She looks a lot better on paper than in reality.