13. Kilts and Confessions
KILTS AND CONFESSIONS
KARINA
Our encounter with Duncan MacTavish turns out to be strikingly anticlimactic.
We find him by the Chihuly sculpture as promised, surrounded by tech executives hanging on his every word.
The moment he spots us approaching—Callum's hand still at the small of my back—his expression shifts from jovial to calculating.
"Abernathy," he greets, his Scottish brogue more pronounced than Callum's smoother accent. "And the lovely Ms. Peters. I've been hearing quite a lot about you both lately."
"All good things, I hope," I reply with a wan smile.”
"Interesting things," he corrects, a sly glint in his gaze. "Creative things."
We spend twenty excruciating minutes engaged in corporate small talk, all weighted implications and veiled threats wrapped in polite conversation. Duncan reveals nothing beyond his evident amusement at Callum's viral predicament.
Just as we're about to make our excuses to leave, Duncan catches Callum's arm.
"Before you disappear," he says, pulling an embossed card from his jacket pocket, "I'm hosting a little gathering at my Tacoma estate next weekend. Intimate affair. Only fifty or so of Seattle's finest."
Callum's expression doesn’t budge. "How generous."
"Ms. Peters is welcome as well, of course." Duncan's gaze shifts to me, evaluating. "I find it's always illuminating to see how potential business partners handle themselves outside the boardroom. Don't you agree?"
"Absolutely," I respond smoothly. “I’d even argue the most revealing moments happen in unexpected settings rather than carefully orchestrated ones."
Duncan's eyebrows lift slightly. "Well said." He presses the invitation into Callum's hand. "Saturday. Eight o'clock. Black tie, naturally." His smile turns predatory. "Do come, Abernathy. I'd hate for the board to think you're avoiding me."
“Of course not,” Callum replies, his tone pleasant but his eyes hard as stone.
As we walk away, Callum slips the invitation into his pocket with a barely suppressed grimace.
"That went well," I murmur.
"About as well as a root canal without anesthesia," he agrees under his breath.
"At least we got something out of it."
"An invitation to the lion's den?"
"A controlled environment to observe him," I push back. "On his home turf, where he'll be comfortable enough to potentially make mistakes."
Callum's sideways glance holds a mixture of surprise and something that might be respect. "Strategic thinking."
"That's literally my job…Marketing is just psychology with prettier graphics."
By the time midnight approaches, the evening has yielded precisely one ornate invitation and zero useful information about Duncan's involvement in our viral situation.
Now, as we ride back through Seattle's empty streets, I slump against the limousine's leather seat, the exhaustion of the night finally catching up with me.
The city lights blur into streaks of neon through the rain-speckled windows.
"Well, other than Duncan's invitation, that was spectacularly unproductive," I mutter, slipping off my heels with a groan of relief.
"Not entirely," Callum says. "We confirmed he's enjoying this too much to have orchestrated it."
"You don't think he's involved?"
"Oh, he's involved," Callum clarifies. "But he's reacting, not initiating. Someone else started this." He taps the invitation in his pocket. "And next weekend, we'll see just how deep his involvement goes."
I close my eyes briefly, longing for my bed and the oblivion of sleep. My phone buzzes insistently in my clutch. Then again. And again.
With a sigh, I check the screen.
SUSANNA: RED ALERT. Mom's pipes went Old Faithful again. Apartment flooded. We've evacuated to your place.
VIKTORIA: Charlie's with us too. Her “Dear Old Dad” dropped her early. You have any cereal that's not twigs and sadness?
MOM: Sorry, kheegees. Dr. Finnegan says to tell you pipe is fixed but floor is swimming. Also, we ate all your ice cream
I stare at the screen in mild horror.
"Problem?" Callum asks.
"My mother's kitchen is underwater again, and my entire family has commandeered my apartment." I scroll through more incoming texts. "Apparently including my niece Charlotte, who wasn't supposed to arrive until next week."
His brow furrows. "Your niece?"
"Charlie. Viktoria's twelve-year-old daughter," I explain, realizing I've never mentioned her before. "She's been with her dad for summer visitation, but apparently got homesick."
"I didn't realize your sister had a child," he says, genuine surprise in his voice.
"Viktoria, yeah. Charlie's going through a phase where her parents' divorce is suddenly the greatest injustice in human history."
"Ah," Callum nods. "The delayed reaction."
"Exactly. She was eight when they split. Seemed fine. Now at twelve, she's realizing it's permanent." I look up from my phone. "Her dad remarried last year. Nice woman, but not her mom."
The car slows for a red light, casting Callum's face in crimson.
His expression has softened into something less CEO, more human.
"Do you need to go home?" he asks.
I glance again at my messages.
SUSANNA: We've made a blanket fort in your living room. Also, we finished your wine.
VIKTORIA: Charlie brought her anime posters. Hope you don't mind but she's already thumb-tacked Naruto to your wall.
MOM: Your refrigerator has no real food. We ordered pizza. Dr. Finnegan recommends the meat lovers.
"Home is apparently now a combination slumber party and refugee camp," I sigh. "Four Petrosian women in my one-bedroom apartment. I love them, but I might actually murder someone before sunrise."
Callum blinks, his forest-green gaze lowering before lifting again. "You could stay at my hotel suite."
My eyebrows reach for the sky. “Yours?"
"I've been sleeping on my boat the last few days. Been jumping from spot to spot since the indomitable Fiona Abernathy commandeered my penthouse. The suite is just sitting empty."
“A boat?” I ask, and he nods solemnly as I continue. “That sounded judgmental, and I’m sorry, but…I can’t imagine sleeping on a deck would be very nice to one’s back or neck. Your masseuse is probably having a field day with this.”
“Well, it does have rooms.” He pauses when I start staring. “The boat.”
“A boat with rooms? You mean… a yacht?”
"A small indulgence," he says, looking faintly embarrassed. "I needed somewhere to escape that wasn't a hotel room. Somewhere on the water. My family was in shipping after all.”
"So you're offering me your empty suite while you sleep on a boat?"
"It's more comfortable than it sounds. And it keeps appropriate boundaries."
"Boundaries?”
"Professional ones…” His eyes seem to glitter. “I’m still your boss, Karina."
The driver turns, awaiting instructions.
"You're sure?" I ask.
"Entirely. The suite is paid for regardless, and I prefer the yacht. It helps me think."
"Fine. But I'm borrowing a t-shirt. This dress wasn't designed for eight hours of wear."
He directs the driver to the Four Seasons, and we ride in silence, the tensions of Richard's unexpected texts and Duncan's cryptic behavior temporarily set aside.
My phone continues its symphony of notifications.
VIKTORIA: Where are you? Mom's teaching Charlie how to make dolma and your kitchen looks like a crime scene.
ME: Staying at a friend's. See you tomorrow. Don't let Charlie reorganize my bookshelf again.
VIKTORIA: A 'friend'? Would this friend happen to be tall, Scottish, and trending?
ME: Staying at his hotel. He’s staying elsewhere
VIKTORIA: Suuure you are
I silence my phone, ignoring the flurry of sister interrogation that's sure to follow.
"Family concerned?" Callum asks mildly.
"Nope, just nosy. It's different."
"Sisters are protective."
"Sisters are invasive.” I snort. “It's genetic. We learned it from our mother, who could extract your dental history within five minutes of meeting you."
His mouth curves into a slight smile. "Sounds like she and Fiona would get along."
"God help us all if they ever team up."
The car pulls up to the hotel, and we ride the elevator to his floor in charged silence.
This late, with just the two of us in the enclosed space, I'm acutely aware of his proximity and the memory of our almost-kiss from earlier.
"Your mother seems remarkable," Callum says as the elevator ascends. "Raising three daughters alone. It couldn't have been easy."
"It wasn't." The words come hesitantly, each one weighted with memories I usually keep tucked away. "After my father left, she barely spoke for months. Just worked and slept. Sometimes I'd find her at the kitchen table at three AM, staring at nothing."
The elevator stops, but neither of us moves to exit immediately.
"How old were you?" he asks softly.
"Twelve." I swallow against the tightness in my throat. "Old enough to understand what was happening, not old enough to do anything about it."
"Except you did, didn't you?" His perception cuts right through me. "Do something about it."
I look away. "Someone had to keep things moving. Viktoria was already in college. Susanna was too young."
"So you stepped up." It's not a question.
"I did what anyone would do."
"We both know that's not true."
The simple understanding in his voice makes something shift in my chest.
I step out of the elevator, needing air that doesn't feel charged with too much truth.
"Your mother left too," I say as he unlocks the suite door. "When you were sixteen."
His jaw tightens. "She couldn't handle the reduction in circumstances. Her American family offered an escape from our financial collapse."
"And your father?"
"Retreated into a bottle." He opens the door, ushering me inside. "Fiona says he died of a broken heart. The reality was more prosaic. Liver failure. Three years later."
The detachment in his voice doesn't quite mask the pain underneath.
I suddenly understand Fiona's obsession with seeing him settled…
She's witnessed what losing love did to his father.
"I'm sorry," I say, meaning it.