7. Plaid Intentions
PLAID INTENTIONS
KARINA
The universe has a sick sense of humor.
Seattle's nighttime fog presses against my windows as I fumble with my keys, exhaustion clinging to me like the dampness in the air.
July should be warmer than this, but the city seems determined to match my mood…
Clouded. Unsettle. And frustratingly unpredictable.
Good thing I only have three more items to cross off my to-do list…
Shower. Sleep.
Oh yeah—and forget the way Callum Abernathy’s hand brushed mine as he passed me coffee during our four-hour strategy session with Viktoria.
To forget the intensity in his eyes when he'd leaned forward, saying, "We're close to something here. I can feel it." Forget how Viktoria had stared at us both with her patented big-sister x-ray vision before announcing, "This is getting interesting."
I push open my door to find my apartment transformed into what can only be described as a blanket fortress designed by adults with questionable structural engineering skills.
"Surprise! Sister summit emergency session!"" My younger sister Susanna’s head pops out from between two precariously draped sheets, her expressive eyes crinkling in delight.
She’s already donned her signature look, her dark hair twisted into two messy buns with streaks of lavender peeking out—this week’s bold color choice.
My older sister Viktoria emerges from my kitchen, wine bottle in one hand, three glasses in the other.
As always, she's flawless in a sleek navy lounge set that somehow still looks like it belongs in a designer catalog. Her dark hair is cut in the sharp bob that never dares move out of place, and her golden-brown eyes zero in on me like a heat-seeking missile.
Even here, in my living room at 11 PM, she wears delicate minimalist gold bracelets that whisper ‘I paid too much for these’ rather than shout it.
"You're late," she sing-songs.
"I wasn't aware I was expected," I say, dropping my bag and kicking off my heels. "What's the emergency?"
"You spent four hours in a private cybersecurity session with Callum Abernathy and didn't immediately call us with details after Vik left the two of you alone,” Susanna says, crawling out of the fort.
Upon closer inspection, I see that she's wearing pajamas decorated with tiny wine glasses and has already applied a green face mask that makes her look like a swamp creature. "That's like, sister code violation number one,” she declares.”
I scoff. “I texted that the meeting went well.”
"'Meeting productive, home soon' is not a report," Viktoria says, handing me a glass of red wine. "It's a hostage proof-of-life statement."
I accept the wine, glancing around at my transformed living room.
Cushions have been conscripted from every piece of furniture to create seating inside the fort.
My coffee table is laden with an alarming array of junk food—cheese puffs, chocolate, those weird Swedish fish Susanna's obsessed with—and three laptops are set up in what appears to be a command center configuration.
"Did you hack my building's security to get in here?" I ask Viktoria.
"Please," she scoffs. "Your super gave us the spare key. We told him it was your birthday."
"It's July. My birthday's in November.”
"He didn't ask for ID," Susanna shrugs. "Also, we brought him cookies."
I take a long sip of wine. "I've had a very long day."
"Which is exactly why you need a sister summit," Susanna says, tugging me toward the fort. "Strip down, put these on, and prepare for intensive decompression."
She thrusts a pair of flannel pajamas into my arms—the matching set they'd given me last Christmas, with tiny pomegranates printed on dark blue fabric.
Twenty minutes later, freshly showered and pajama-clad, I crawl into the fort to find my sisters have created a surprisingly comfortable nest.
Christmas lights strung around the interior cast a warm glow, and my favorite fuzzy blanket has been arranged in the center.
"Better?" Viktoria asks, refilling my wine.
"Much," I admit, settling cross-legged into the cushions. "Though I still don't understand the emergency."
My sisters exchange a look—the silent communication that's both infuriating and comforting when you're the middle child.
"You tell her," Susanna nudges Viktoria.
"Tell me what?"
Viktoria opens one of the laptops. "This."
She turns the screen toward me, displaying a webpage titled "Kilt Nation: All Things Abernathy."
The site features professional-quality graphics, multiple discussion forums, and what appears to be a merchandise store.
"What am I looking at?" I ask.
"The fan site dedicated to your boss," Viktoria explains. "It launched three days ago and already has forty thousand members."
I nearly spit out my wine. "Forty thousand?"
"And that's just the beginning." She navigates to another tab. "This is 'Abernathy Analytics,' where they dissect his public appearances for 'clues' about his personal life."
The page displays a detailed chart of Callum's tie selections over the past year, with commentary about what each color choice supposedly reveals about his emotional state.
"According to their analysis," Susanna says, leaning forward, "navy with subtle patterns indicates he's feeling confident but guarded, while burgundy suggests he's 'open to romantic possibilities.'"
"That's insane," I mutter.
"Wait till you see the dance video," Viktoria says, clicking another tab.
The screen fills with what appears to be a professional dance instruction video.
A kilted man and his partner demonstrate what the caption identifies as "The Abernathy Fling—inspired by Scotland's Most Eligible CEO."
I stare in mounting horror as the dancers perform an elaborate routine that somehow incorporates both traditional Scottish steps and suggestive hip movements that would make actual Scots collapse in apoplexy.
"Oh my god," I whisper.
"It gets better," Susanna says, barely containing her glee. "They've started theorizing about his romantic interests."
Viktoria scrolls to a forum thread titled "Who Will Tame the Highland Beast?" The first post features a meticulously researched list of all women photographed with Callum at public events in the past year, with detailed pros and cons for each potential match.
And there, halfway down the list, is my name.
"Karina Peters," I read aloud, voice faint. "Marketing Director. Pros: Professional equal, understands his world, spotted having 'intimate dinner' at his penthouse. Cons: Previously dated his brother (ew), may be too close to the situation."
"Intimate dinner?" Susanna repeats, eyebrows wiggling.
"His grandmother was there!” I cry out. “There was nothing intimate about it."
"The Internet disagrees," Viktoria hits back. “There's a whole thread dedicated to analyzing a photo someone took of you two entering work together.”
Sure enough, there's a grainy phone photo of Callum and me walking toward the Abernathy Corp building, him holding the door while I passed through.
From the angle, it does look unfortunately couple-like.
"This is a disaster," I groan, flopping backward onto the cushions.
"Is it?" Susanna asks. "Because from where I'm sitting, it seems like you might be enjoying your time with ScottyMan McGorgeous."
"That's not his name."
"You're blushing," Viktoria observes.
"It's the wine."
"You've had half a glass," Susanna points out.
I drape an arm over my eyes. "Nothing is happening between us. We're colleagues trying to solve a corporate crisis."
"Colleagues who spend four hours in private meetings and have 'intimate dinners,'" Viktoria says, making air quotes.
"You were at most of the meeting! You saw how professional it was."
"I saw how he looks at you when you're not watching," she replies calmly. "And how you pretend not to notice."
My stomach does an uncomfortable flip. "You're imagining things."
"Am I?" She closes the laptop. "Kari, I've watched you put your personal life on hold for years. I get it. You were with Richard. Trying to climb the corporate ladder, etcetera, etcetera. But…” She raises a finger, “I’ve never seen you look at someone the way you looked at him tonight."
"Which was how, exactly?" I challenge.
"Like he's a puzzle you both dread and can't wait to solve."
Susanna shuffles closer, her face mask now flaking onto the cushions. "Is he as intense in person as he seems in those photos? Because the jawline alone is giving me palpitations."
"We're not discussing his jawline," I mutter.
"So there is a jawline worth discussing!"
I grab a cheese puff and throw it at her. It bounces off her forehead and lands in her wine glass with a sad plop.
"Five points!" Viktoria declares.
"Cheating," Susanna pouts, fishing the now-soggy snack out of her glass. "Look, we're not here to torture you. Much. We're just concerned."
"About what?"
"About the fact that you're clearly attracted to your boss, who happens to be the brother of the man who nearly destroyed your career," Viktoria says bluntly. "And about what happens when he discovers the creative liberties you took with your resume."
The words land like a punch.
My already-shaky defenses crumble in the face of the one thing I can never hide from.
My sisters' unvarnished truth.
"He won't find out," I say quietly. "The investigation is focused on the social media hack, not my credentials."
"For now," Viktoria cautions. "But Kari, you've seen how thorough he is. How detail-oriented. What happens when the acquisition moves forward and they do a full audit?"
"Or when Duncan MacTavish's people start digging for leverage?" Susanna adds.
I stare into my wine glass. "I'll figure something out. I always do."
"That's what worries us," Viktoria says softly. "You always do—alone. You take on everything yourself, convinced no one else can or should help you."
My fingers tighten around my wine glass. “That's not fair.”
"Isn't it?" Susanna challenges. "Remember when Mom fell last year? You didn't tell us for three days because you 'didn't want to worry us.' Or when your car died, and you took the bus for two months instead of asking for a loan?"
My teeth grind together. “That's different."
"How?" Viktoria asks.
"Because..." I struggle to articulate something that's always felt like breathing—instinctive, necessary, unquestionable. "Because I signed up for this.”
"Says who?" Susanna demands. “The little fairies between your ears? A psychic healer? Who?”
"Says me,” I snap. "I'm not going to end up like?—“
“Like who?” Viktoria prompts gently.
I shake off the question, taking another swallow of the wine. “Like no one. And I’m not sure I appreciate being hounded after the year I’ve been through.”
The fort falls silent.
Outside, an ambulance siren wails in the distance, then fades.
"Oh, hell," Susanna mutters, scooting forward to wrap her arms around me. "We didn't build this fort to make you cry."
"I'm not crying," I lie, even as Viktoria hands me a tissue.
"Listen," Viktoria says, her voice softening. "We're not saying walk away from this job. We're saying be careful with Callum. Either as a boss or...whatever else he might become."
"There is no 'whatever else. I’m not interested.”
"Because of the credentials thing?" Susanna asks.
"Because I’m not. The rest doesn’t help, either. The credentials, the professional barriers, the family history. Take your pick."
"And yet," Viktoria keeps going, "you're still planning to work closely with him, despite all those risks."
I meet her gaze. "The MacTavish deal closes in five weeks. After that, he goes back to Scotland, I keep my job, and life returns to normal."
"And if you develop feelings for him in those five weeks?" Susanna asks.
"I won't."
My sisters exchange another look.
"Okay, enough heavy talk.” Susanna reaches for her laptop. "You need to see the rest of this video."
Before I can protest, she hits play on "The Abernathy Fling" again, this time at full volume.
The exaggerated bagpipe music fills our blanket fort, and the instructor's overly enthusiastic voice booms: "And now, ladies, swing those hips like you're trying to catch the attention of a Highland chieftain!"
A bubble of laughter escapes me.
The dancers on screen execute a move that looks less like traditional Scottish dance and more like an audition for an adult entertainment venue.
"Oh my god," I gasp through emerging giggles. "That's not even remotely authentic."
"Wait for the finale," Viktoria says, grinning.
The music reaches a crescendo as the male dancer suddenly rips away his velcro-fastened kilt (revealing shorts underneath, thankfully) and twirls it overhead while his partner pretends to swoon.
By now, all three of us are howling with laughter. Susanna actually falls over, knocking into one of the fort's structural supports.
The entire construction shudders, then collapses in slow motion, burying us in sheets and pillows.
"Structural integrity compromised!" Viktoria shouts from somewhere beneath a comforter.
I emerge from the fabric avalanche to find Susanna still cackling, her face mask now smeared across her cheek and pillow. "The fort has fallen! Just like Callum's reputation!"
"Not helping," I gasp, but I'm laughing too hard to sound stern.
We lie there in the ruins of our fort, breathless with laughter that feels like release after weeks of tension.
For a moment, I'm not a Marketing Director with fabricated credentials, or Richard’s ex.
Or the woman accused of inappropriately posting her new boss on socials.
I’m just me.
With the only people who've seen every version of me and loved them all anyway.
"So," Viktoria says eventually, extracting herself from the blanket wreckage. "What are you going to do?"
I sit up, surveying the chaos of my living room. "About the fort or about Callum?"
"Both," Susanna says. "Though I vote we leave the fort as is. It's very avant-garde."
I take a deep breath. "I'm going to keep working with Callum to solve this. We're on our way to solving whoever framed me. And if my credentials come up..." I hesitate. "I'll deal with it then."
"And the attraction?" Viktoria presses.
“I’m not one of the recent Callum fan-girls. I’m his employee. And a mature adult.” I breathe out. “Five weeks. I can handle anything for five weeks."
Susanna snorts. "Famous last words."
Maybe so. But as I help my sisters rebuild our fort (with better engineering this time), I can't help feeling that something fundamental has shifted.
For the first time in forever, the path ahead isn't clear, isn't safe, isn't entirely under my control.
And strangest of all? I'm not sure I want it to be.