5. Grandmothers Know Best （And Everything Else）
GRANDMOTHERS KNOW BEST (AND EVERYTHING ELSE)
KARINA
“The what of the who now?” I say into my phone, parked three blocks from Abernathy Corp’s headquarters on a Seattle evening so gray and soggy it feels like I’m living inside a wet paper towel.
“The matriarch,” Alana repeats, her voice balancing perfectly on the edge of panic and resignation. “His grandmother. From Scotland. She’s landing in thirty minutes and Mr. Abernathy has requested—no, required—your presence at dinner. Tonight.”
I glance at my dashboard clock. 7:42 PM. The raindrops inching down my windshield look suspiciously like tears.
“Alana,” I say, rubbing my temple. I planned on grocery shopping tonight.
For a cheesecake pie and enough wine to make me forget the last week ever happened.
“I’ve been up since five AM drafting a response to TarTan Energy’s ‘Scotch and Sexy’ ad campaign.
I’m wearing yesterday’s blouse because someone mailed a bagpipe to the office that sprayed actual whisky when Security tried to X-ray it.
I smell like a Molotov cocktail, and my hair is having what my therapist would call an abandonment episode. ”
“Perfect,” Alana says brightly. “You’ll fit right in with the Abernathys.”
“That’s not?—”
"Ms. Peters," she cuts in, suddenly dropping her voice. "Fiona Abernathy once made the CFO of Deutsche Bank cry during afternoon tea. She called the Queen 'disappointingly predictable' to her face. She's ordered me to cook haggis despite me telling her I'm violently allergic to organ meats."
I blink. “What time is dinner?”
“Nine sharp. Bring wine. Something expensive. And not from California—she hates California.”
“Why am I being sacrificed to this Highland Games nightmare?”
“Because Mr. Abernathy said, and I quote, ‘we’re in this together.’ He looked terrified.”
I close my eyes. “Text me the address.”
“You’re a saint. Oh—and wear something nice but not too nice. She judges both underdressing and overdressing.”
“Helpful as always.”
“Welcome to Clan Abernathy. Nothing prepares you.”
She hangs up, leaving me alone with the kind of dread that usually precedes major dental work.
“We’re in this together,” I mutter.
Famous last words.
I’ve heard that one before—right before being left to sweep up the emotional debris solo.
But fine. This isn’t personal.
It’s a work dinner. A professional obligation.
A crisis containment mission in heels. And definitely not a personal investment in another Abernathy man and his family drama.
Ninety minutes later, I’m standing in front of Callum’s gleaming glass tower, holding a bottle of Washington State pinot noir that a smug wine clerk swore would “impress someone with adventurous taste.”
I’ve wrangled my hair into something vaguely controlled, slapped on my war paint—red lipstick that whispers “intimidatingly competent”—and squeezed myself into an emerald wrap dress that walks the tightrope between “business chic” and “not trying too hard.”
The doorman greets me with a polite grin. “Penthouse floor, Ms. Peters. Mrs. Abernathy said you’d be arriving.”
“She hasn’t even met me.”
“Said to look for a woman with excellent bone structure, questionable posture, and the energy of someone planning three escape routes.”
I straighten my spine reflexively. “Disturbingly accurate.”
The private elevator whooshes open. I step in, exhale, and text the group chat.
VIKTORIA: Update on your corporate hostage situation?
ME: About to have dinner with viral CEO's Scottish grandmother.
VIKTORIA: Need extraction coordinates?
ME: Not yet. But keep the helicopter fueled.
SUSANNA: Wear that green dress! The one that makes your butt look like you've been doing squats even though we all know that's a lie!
I look down at my outfit and scowl.
ME: You know me too well. Already wearing it
SUSANNA: HA! Power move. Get it, sis
I tuck my phone away. For a moment, the knot in my stomach loosens—then tightens again as the elevator announces my arrival with a discreet chime.
The doors slide open to reveal Callum's penthouse.
It’s something straight out of a GQ spread.
Floor-to-ceiling windows framing a rain-blurred Seattle skyline. Industrial-chic furniture softened by warm lighting…
And the unmistakable scent of something delicious roasting.
Not to mention, standing in the center of it all, like a flanneled tornado that's touched down in a Restoration Hardware showroom, is a tiny white-haired woman in a cashmere sweater that reads #KILTEDCASANOVA in perfect Celtic script.
"You're late," she announces in a clipped Scottish brogue. "But you've brought decent wine and your eyebrows are sensible, so I'll overlook it."
“Gran—” Callum emerges from the kitchen, tall and broad and devastating in jeans and a gray henley that hugs him like it has a personal grudge against my composure.
Outside of the office, somehow, my new boss is even more imposing.
He takes a step towards me, and my mouth goes dry.
It’s never escaped me that my boss—my ex-boyfriend’s brother—is super attractive. Even more so than Richard.
But this? This is just unfair.
No man should look this good in just a shirt and simple jeans.
Pasting on a smile, I somehow manage to keep my uterus from throwing confetti as he gestures towards me, green eyes steady and sure.
“This is Karina Peters, our Marketing Director. Karina, my grandmother, Fiona Abernathy.”
“Charmed,” Fiona says, scanning me like a TSA agent with opinions. “Callum didn’t mention you’d have such excellent childbearing hips.”
I make a sound halfway between a gasp and a wheeze. Callum closes his eyes like he’s praying for the earth to swallow him whole.
“Gran.”
“It’s a compliment. In my day, we knew good breeding when we saw it. You’re Armenian, yes? Hardy people.”
“Uh, yes. We emigrated when I was three.”
“Peters? Not very Armenian.”
“It was Petrosian originally.”
She nods. “Much better. You should change it back. Authenticity is undervalued these days."
Clearing his throat, Callum gently extracts the wine from my hands, brushing my fingers in the process, and a stupid spark jumps from my skin to my brain.
I tamp it down as Callum handles the bottle.
“Let me open this. Dinner’s almost ready.”
“You’re cooking?” I ask, distracted by the way his forearms flex as he uncorks the bottle.
“Aye. Learned from my grandfather.”
“The only Abernathy man who knew that feeding yourself was a basic skill,” Fiona adds. “I don’t believe women should cook for men unless they’re legally obligated or drunk.”
“There’s a difference between insisting and expecting,” Callum deadpans, pouring wine.
“Semantics. Karina, sit.” She gestures me toward the living room. “Let’s talk strategy. Callum refuses to embrace the power of his internet infamy.”
“Because I’m not trying to become Scotland’s Next Top Bachelor,” he mutters from the kitchen.
“You could do both,” she replies, serene. "Do you think the MacTavish clan rose to prominence by hiding from attention? Duncan's great-grandfather once wrestled a bear at the Highland Games. Bare-chested. In January."
"Did he win?" I can't help asking.
"The bear later died of embarrassment," she says with perfect seriousness.
"My point is—publicity is currency. And my grandson is trending.
I've received seventeen marriage proposals on his behalf since arriving.
One woman sent me this." She tugs at her sweater—which I now realize is hand-knitted.
"Excellent craftsmanship. Addressed to 'Grandmother of the Kilted One. '"
"You're... wearing it," I point out.
"Of course I am. It's cashmere and the woman clearly has talent. Why waste good knitwear over prudishness?"
"Dinner," Callum announces, appearing with a bottle of opened wine and three glasses. "Before this conversation deteriorates further."
We move to the dining area, where a rectangular table with a spectacular view of the Space Needle awaits.
I take a seat, careful to keep my back to the wall, a habit so automatic I don't register doing it.
My eyes silently catalog details of the space—the precise arrangement of furniture, the polished surfaces that reveal nothing personal, the strategic lighting that creates atmosphere without warmth.
A home designed like a fortress.
I feel an unexpected jolt of recognition.
To my surprise, dinner is salmon, roasted vegetables, and potatoes that taste like they were made by a Celtic god.
Fiona was right about Abernathy men cooking after all.
“Did Richard ever cook for you?” Fiona asks mid-bite.
My fork freezes. Callum nearly chokes.
“Gran—”
“What? The boy couldn’t toast bread. All shortcuts and instant gratification, that one.” She studies me. “You’re well rid of him, though I’m sorry for the fallout. Abernathy men are loyal. Usually.”
“Some of them,” I say before I can stop myself.
A beat of silence.
Fiona nods. “Indeed. But loyalty wears many disguises. Callum, for instance, is loyal to duty. Which makes him a brilliant CEO and, I imagine, a frustrating date.”
“We’re not dating,” Callum says, but something flashes across his face.
“Pity.” She turns back to me. “You strike me as a woman who’s made choices. Career. Family. Independence. Leaves little room for love, doesn’t it?”
My throat tightens. “My work is... demanding.”
“As is his. Two demanding people rarely find time for softness.”
“Gran,” Callum warns.
“Fine, fine. Let’s talk business. What’s your plan to spin this kilted disaster into PR gold?”
I clear my throat and shift into marketing mode. “The hashtag isn’t going anywhere, but we can pivot—leverage the attention. Recast Callum as a modern-day guardian. Strength, protection, heritage. Less sex appeal, more security titan.”
Fiona beams. “A Celtic protector. Excellent. Callum, listen to her. She understands branding and foreplay.”
Callum coughs into his wine glass.
"The Guardian angle," Fiona muses. "Not bad. Celtic warriors were guardians, after all." She turns to Callum. "You should listen to her. She has good instincts."