12. Once More with Feeling
ONCE MORE WITH FEELING
CALLUM
The Seattle Art Museum gleams with expectant elegance against the July night sky as I escort Karina through its towering glass doors.
Inside, the transformed Great Hall dazzles with suspended constellations of fairy lights that mirror the summer stars outside.
Art installations have been temporarily rearranged to accommodate nearly three hundred of Seattle's wealthiest residents.
All masked. All watching.
And most, I note with weary resignation, are watching me.
"Your fan club is in attendance," Karina murmurs, her arm linked through mine as we navigate the entrance.
"They're looking at you," I counter, acutely aware of how the sapphire silk of her dress catches the light with each step.
"They're wondering if I'm the next victim of the Kilted Casanova.” She smirks. "Even though you've disappointingly shown up sans kilt."
"A strategic decision I'm standing by."
"Standing very formally by. In very formal pants."
I should be focused on the mission—locate Duncan, gauge his reaction to our presence, extract information.
Instead, I find myself cataloging the subtle pressure of Karina's hand on my arm, the hint of jasmine in her perfume…and the way her mask transforms her pretty features into something mysterious.
And sexy as hell.
Doesn’t help that the almost-kiss in the car lingers between us, an unfinished conversation we're both pretending to ignore.
"Callum!" A familiar voice booms across the hall.
Connor Reeves approaches, his fiancée Ariana beside him. Both wear matching masks in sleek silver, making them look like fashionable superheroes.
"The man of the hour," Connor continues, clapping me on the shoulder. "Or should I say, the man of the hashtag?"
"The hashtag is dead," I reply. "We're burying it tonight."
"Seems very alive to me," Ariana comments, glancing around at the not-so-subtle smartphone cameras pointed our way. "And you must be Karina Peters."
"Guilty," Karina smiles, extending her hand. "The marketing director, not the social media saboteur."
"Jury's still out," I mutter, earning an elbow to my ribs.
Connor watches this exchange with undisguised interest. "Well, this is cozy."
"Professional," I correct.
"Absolutely," Karina agrees. "Strictly business."
Connor's eyebrow arches above his mask. "Right. The kind of business that involves strolling hand-in-hand and lingering glances, I’m guessing?”
“Hey, I do not linger," I grunt.
"You absolutely linger," Ariana counters. "You were lingering just now."
"I was assessing the security parameters of the venue."
"Through Ms. Peters' eyes?" Connor asks innocently.
Before I can formulate a suitably cutting response, more familiar faces materialize through the crowd.
"There he is," Grayson Dixon announces, his fiancée Roz at his side. Behind them, Alex Drake and his wife Mackenzie complete our usual circle. "Seattle's most eligible Scotsman."
"Not eligible.” I glare. "And as I told our equally pain-in-the-arse friend here, the hashtag is officially dead."
"Tell that to the gift basket in my office," Alex says. "Someone sent you a life-sized chocolate kilt with your face on the wrapper."
"I hate everything about this sentence," I mutter.
Karina’s shoulders shake beside me. "A chocolate kilt? That's actually impressive from a manufacturing perspective."
"Don't encourage them," I warn.
"Too late," Luke chimes in, appearing from nowhere in his typical fashion. "We've created a dedicated Slack channel for tracking the merchandise."
Karina turns to me. "You didn't mention your friends were enablers."
"It's our primary qualification for the inner circle," Connor explains.
"Speaking of inner circles," Ariana cuts in smoothly, "Karina, come meet Mackenzie and Roz properly. I suspect we have much to discuss."
Before I can intervene, the women have whisked Karina away toward the champagne fountain, leaving me surrounded by my so-called friends.
"So," Connor begins the moment the women are out of earshot, "Halloween two years ago."
I freeze. "What about it?"
"Richard's party," Luke clarifies. "Where you met Karina."
"Briefly," I manage. "What of it?"
"Grayson and I were discussing it," Connor continues. "Interesting coincidence that the one Abernathy Corp employee experiencing a viral crisis is the same woman you spent twenty minutes talking to at that party."
"Before disappearing with a suspiciously urgent 'business call,'" Grayson adds, making air quotes.
"You're suggesting what, exactly?" I reach for a passing waiter's tray and claim a whisky. "That I engineered a PR disaster to reconnect with a woman I spoke to once, two years ago?"
"Or," Alex proposes, "that she engineered it to get your attention."
"That's absurd," I snap.
My friends exchange glances.
"Defensive," Luke notes. "Interesting."
"I'm not defensive," I say, doing my best impression of a non-angry person. "I'm irritated by baseless conjecture."
"Methinks the Scot doth protest too much," Grayson quips.
"Definitely defensive," Connor agrees.
I take a slow sip of whisky. "There is nothing happening between Ms. Peters and myself."
Four skeptical expressions greet this declaration.
"So that wasn't you about to kiss her in the limo?" Luke asks.
The whisky nearly comes back up my throat. I cough. “What the—How could you possibly?—"
"Security cameras.” He shrugs. "I have an alert set for suspicious activity around my friends."
I can’t help the Scottish slipping out. “None of you fookers ken the saying ‘invasion of privacy’?”
"That's friendship," Luke advises. "Also, technically legal in public spaces."
"Your definition of friendship needs recalibration.”
"Your definition of 'nothing happening' needs a dictionary," Connor retorts.
From across the room, I spot Karina laughing with the women.
The sound carries even over the string quartet, brightening the stuffy atmosphere of wealth and pretension.
She belongs here—not as an outsider or Richard's plus-one, but in her own right.
The ocean blue of her dress makes her glow amidst the crowd, as if she's captured a piece of the night sky.
The realization is both comforting and unsettling.
“Hey! Mr. Nothing’s Happening!” Alex's voice breaks through my thoughts. "You're staring again."
“It’s called ‘drinking my bevy and ignoring you bawbags’.” I grunt again. “By the way, any of you seen Duncan?"
"Smooth subject change," Grayson notes. "But yes, he's by the Chihuly sculpture with two board members."
I follow his gaze to where Duncan MacTavish stands holding court, his silver hair distinctive even at a distance. "Perfect. Keep him occupied for ten minutes, then I need a casual introduction for Karina."
"Roger that," Connor says. "But first, non-business matters. You're confirmed for the engagement party? Four weeks from tomorrow?"
"Of course."
"With a plus-one?" Grayson asks innocently.
I glare at him. "Solo."
"Really?" Luke questions. "Because I hear Fiona is already shopping for tartan fabric that would complement Ms. Peters' coloring."
I sigh. “My grandmother needs a hobby that isn't matchmaking.”
"Or she's seen what the rest of us see," Alex suggests.
"And what's that?"
"That you haven't looked at anyone the way you look at Karina since before you left for Scotland."
I open my mouth to protest, then close it. The simple observation cuts closer to truth than I'm comfortable admitting.
"It’s…not a simple thing to explain,” I finally say.
"It never is," Connor agrees. "Until suddenly, it is."
"Very profound," I deadpan.
"He's engaged now," Grayson explains. "Comes with philosophical superpowers."
"More like a financial incentive to justify the expense," Luke slides in. "Wedding planning has rendered him temporarily insane."
"It's a pragmatic insanity," Connor defends. "Speaking of which, you're giving a toast."
"I am?"
"Yes. We've already arranged the speaking order. You're after Alex but before Grayson."
"Why am I last?" Grayson protests.
"Because you cry," Alex, Connor, and Luke answer in unison.
“Jesus. A man finally starts expressing emotion appropriately, and suddenly he’s a crier. I’m writing this down on my ‘Screw You’ list.” Grayson sniffs. “At least I’m better at emoting than some stoic Scots.”
I drain my whisky. "I'm going to find Karina and intercept Duncan. Try not to plan my wedding while I'm gone."
"Too late," Connor says cheerfully. "Fiona's already booked Edinburgh Castle."
The sad part is…I can't tell if he's joking.
I navigate through the crowd, nodding at familiar faces but avoiding extended conversations.
By the time I reach Karina, she's deep in animated discussion with Ariana, both women laughing.
"—and then he actually said, 'That's not how we did things in Scotland,'" Ariana is recounting. "As if Scottish spreadsheets are fundamentally different from American ones."
"That sounds exactly like him," Karina agrees, glancing up as I approach. "Speak of the devil."
"Should I be concerned about what's being shared?" I ask.
"Absolutely," Ariana confirms. "We're systematically dismantling your mystique."
"Consider it market research," Karina adds. "For the Guardian rebranding."
"Of course." I offer my hand to Karina. "Duncan's by the sculpture garden. Care to strategize?"
"Duty calls," she says to Ariana, accepting my hand with a smile that sends an unexpected warmth through my chest.
As we move away, her fingers remain twined with mine—longer than necessary.
Not that I'm exactly complaining.
"Your friends are charming," she laughs lightly.
"They're interfering busybodies with no concept of boundaries."
"Like I said, charming." She glances up at me. "They care about you."
"They enjoy tormenting me. There's a distinction."
"I don't know. Connor seems to think you've been happier since the hashtag disaster."
I nearly miss a step. "He said that?"
"Mmm. Something about you being 'less Scottish' lately. I assume he meant less brooding, not less literally Scottish."
"Connor should focus on his own impending domestic apocalypse."
"You mean his meticulously organized engagement party that everyone's calling the event of the season?"
"Precisely."
She laughs, and I find myself smiling in response—a reaction that's becoming disturbingly automatic in her presence.
We're halfway to Duncan when the string quartet transitions to a slower melody.
Couples drift toward the center of the room, forming an impromptu dance floor.
"Dance with me," I say impulsively.
She blinks. "What about Duncan?"
"He can wait." I glance around at the numerous smartphones still not-so-subtly pointed in our direction. "Besides, it's strategic. The Guardian needs a partner, not a lone wolf."
"Very smooth," she says dryly, but allows me to lead her toward the dancers.
As I draw her into my arms, the familiar weight of responsibility momentarily lifts.
Here, with one hand at the small of her back and the other clasping hers, I'm not the CEO fixing a PR crisis. Nor am I the elder brother cleaning up a family mess.
I'm simply a man dancing with a woman who fits against me like she was designed for it.
"You're surprisingly good at this," she notes as we move seamlessly with the music.
"I've had practice," I admit. "Mandatory cotillion classes at boarding school."
"Of course you went to cotillion. Let me guess—you excelled at the quadrille."
"I was passable. My true specialty was the Gay Gordon."
"Is that a real dance or are you making that up?"
"Scottish country dance. Very vigorous. Lots of spinning."
"Spinning, huh?" Her brown eyes sparkle behind her mask. "I'd like to see that sometime."
"Perhaps at Connor's party," I suggest before I can think better of it.
Her step falters slightly. "You want me at Connor's engagement party?"
I hesitate, suddenly aware of the implications. "It would maintain our narrative consistency," I say carefully. "For the Guardian angle."
"Right, sure. Professional continuity."
But something in her expression suggests she's no more convinced than I am.
The song ends, and we remain standing close together, neither quite ready to break the connection.
"Callum," she begins softly.
My phone vibrates in my pocket—once, twice, three times in rapid succession. I ignore it.
"Yes?" I prompt.
Whatever she might have said is interrupted by another vibration, this one more insistent. With a muttered apology, I check the screen.
Three texts from a number I haven't seen in months.
RICHARD: Heard about your viral stardom, big brother. Quite the sensation you've caused.
RICHARD: Also heard you've been spending time with my ex. Moving in on my leftovers? Not very gentlemanly.
RICHARD: Anka and I are wrapping up our Icelandic adventure. Might be heading back to Seattle soon.
The messages land like ice water down my spine. I stare at the screen, aware of Karina watching me with growing concern.
"What is it?" she asks.
I lock the screen, forcing my expression to remain neutral. "Nothing important."
"You've gone pale," she observes. "Not nothing."
I hesitate, then decide on honesty. "Richard. He's apparently considering a return to Seattle."
Her expression shifts from concern to alarm. "He can't possibly think he still has a job."
"No," I say, tucking my phone away. "But he seems to think he has unfinished business here."
She searches my face. "What kind of business?"
"He didn't specify." I offer her my arm again. "Nothing worth discussing tonight."
The easy comfort between us has evaporated, replaced by a subtle tension neither of us acknowledges.
"We should find Duncan," she suggests after a moment.
"Yes," I agree. "Back to business."
But as we resume our course through the crowded ballroom, one thought loops persistently through my mind.
Why do I suddenly care less about thwarting my brother's return than I do about protecting Karina from it?