27. Between a Rock and a Hard Scotsman
BETWEEN A ROCK AND A HARD SCOTSMAN
KARINA
Five days after the Connor's engagement party disaster, I’ve got a new outlook on life. And a list of how to get there.
I've set up a makeshift office in my mother's dining room, where I can pretend to be productive while actually staring at the same spreadsheet for hours.
The late August heat has broken slightly, leaving Seattle with perfect 75-degree days and cool evenings that would be enjoyable if my life weren't spectacularly imploding.
"You've been looking at that same cell for twenty minutes.” Mom sets a cup of strong Armenian coffee beside my laptop. "Excel not solving life problems?"
"Shockingly, no." I sigh, rubbing my eyes. "Turns out 'career resurrection' isn't a standard Excel function."
"Should be. Would be very useful."
My phone buzzes with yet another notification—probably another journalist requesting an interview or another well-meaning stranger sharing their #BeyondYourLabel story.
I've been inundated since my credentials were exposed, with reactions ranging from scathing professional condemnation to surprising solidarity from others who've faced similar barriers.
I glance at the screen and freeze.
"What?" Mom asks, noting my expression. "Bad news?"
"Unexpected news.” I stare at the notification. "Fiona Abernathy is outside."
"Callum's grandmother?" Mom perks up immediately. "The Scottish matchmaker?"
"She's not a matchmaker, Mom. She's—" I'm interrupted by the doorbell. "Apparently very prompt."
Mom practically races to the door, clearly delighted by this development.
I remain frozen at the dining table, uncertain whether to flee or face whatever reckoning Fiona has brought to my doorstep.
"Mrs. Abernathy!" Mom exclaims. "What a pleasure to meet you! Come in, please!"
"Thank you, Mrs. Peters," comes the crisp Scottish brogue. "And please, call me Fiona. 'Mrs. Abernathy' makes me sound like I'm attending a funeral."
"Then you must call me Nadine.” My mom motions. "Come, come. Coffee is fresh."
I hear them entering, exchanging pleasantries as if this were a normal social call rather than whatever intervention or confrontation Fiona has planned.
When they enter the dining room, I shift on my feet, unsure of the proper etiquette for greeting the grandmother of the man whose career and heart I've potentially damaged.
Fiona Abernathy looks exactly as she did at our dinner weeks ago.
Elegant, sharp-eyed, and utterly formidable despite her diminutive stature.
She's dressed in a stylish pantsuit with a subtle tartan scarf, like she's ready for either tea or corporate takeover.
"Karina," she says, assessing me with those piercing eyes so like Callum's. "You look terrible."
“Um, thank you? I’ve—I’ve been working on that."
"Humor as deflection.” She frowns, nodding. “Effective, but not with me, dear."
Mom bustles in with coffee and an assortment of pastries she's apparently manifested from thin air. "Please, sit. Would you like Armenian coffee? Or I have Scottish breakfast tea. Dr. Finnegan left some."
"Coffee, please," Fiona says, settling regally into a chair. "Strong enough to stand a spoon in. I find that's best for difficult conversations."
My stomach clenches. "Is this going to be a difficult conversation?"
"That depends entirely on your capacity for truth.” Fiona accepts the tiny cup Mom offers. "Both hearing it and speaking it."
Mom glances between us, then announces, "I will go to garden. Herbs need cutting." She squeezes my shoulder as she passes. "Be brave, kheegees."
Once we're alone, Fiona takes a deliberate sip of coffee, then fixes me with that penetrating gaze. "I suppose you're wondering why I'm here."
"I assumed to tell me to stay away from your grandson," I say, the words nearly sticking in my throat. "Or to threaten legal action. Or both."
"How dramatic. And incorrect." She sets down her cup. "I'm here because I owe you an explanation."
I can feel my eyebrows lift. "An explanation for what?"
"For my role in this entire situation." She sits straighter, if that's even possible. "You see, I'm partly responsible for the #KiltedCEO campaign that started all this."
I stare at her blankly. "What?"
"Well, not personally, of course. I don't know a hashtag from a hash brown." She swipes at the air. "But I did orchestrate certain... situations."
“I—Are you…are you saying you planned the viral campaign?"
"Not exactly. I simply recognized that my grandson was becoming a corporate automaton—all work and no emotion. When he was called back from Scotland to handle Richard's mess, I saw an opportunity."
"An opportunity for what?"
"To humanize him.” She blinks. “To remind everyone—including Callum himself—that he's more than a CEO. That he's a man with a heritage, with passions, with a capacity for connection that he's systematically suppressed since his disastrous first marriage."
I shake my head, struggling to follow. "So what did you do?"
"I enlisted help, of course,” Fiona explains. "Alana proved quite receptive to my suggestion that Callum's image needed softening."
"Alana?" I repeat stupidly. "Callum's assistant Alana?"
"The very same. Bright girl. Excellent grasp of social media. She has a digital marketing degree, you know." Fiona looks smug. "She created the original #KiltedCEO posts—tasteful, professional photos with just enough personality to make him seem human. Nothing inappropriate."
The pieces start falling into place. "The original posts came from inside Abernathy Corp... from Alana."
"Under my guidance. It was working beautifully until someone else hijacked the campaign with that ridiculous 'Casanova' nonsense."
"Duncan MacTavish," I say, recalling what Viktoria had discovered. "With Richard's help."
"Precisely." Fiona nods. "They took our relatively innocent image campaign and twisted it into something tawdry. Though I must admit, the engagement metrics were impressive."
I laugh, the sound strangled from my dry throat. "This is insane. You're telling me you and Alana planned the whole thing?"
"Not the whole thing.” She raises a palm. “Just the catalyst. What followed was beyond our control—though not entirely unwelcome."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean," she says, leaning forward, "that while the explicit content was unfortunate, the crisis it created forced you and Callum to work closely together. To depend on each other. To see each other clearly in ways that might have taken months otherwise."
“Ah, so…you were matchmaking.”
"I prefer 'creating favorable conditions for natural connection,'" she replies primly. "Matchmaking sounds so manipulative."
"Because it is!" I stand, indignation flaring. "You orchestrated this entire situation? Do you have any idea what this has cost me? My reputation, my career?—"
"Your walls," she interjects calmly. "It cost you your walls, Karina. The ones you've been hiding behind your entire life."
Her words stop me cold.
“You have no right to say that to me,” I say finally.
"Perhaps not. But it's accurate." She sips her coffee, watching me over the mug’s edge. "You're not upset because I created a situation where you and Callum might connect. You're upset because it worked, and now you've lost something you weren't prepared to risk in the first place."
"You manipulated us both, Fiona!”
"Yes," she admits without a hint of remorse. "And I'd do it again. My grandson has spent twenty years building a company while neglecting to build a life. You've spent just as long caring for everyone except yourself. Someone needed to intervene before you both calcified into permanent solitude."
I sink back into my chair, anger deflating into confusion. "Why me? Why not set him up with someone less complicated? Someone without a fabricated resume and an ex-boyfriend brother?"
Fiona's expression softens slightly. "Because he needs someone who understands what it means to rebuild after collapse. Someone who knows that resilience isn't just about endurance, but about transformation."
Before I can process this surprisingly insightful assessment, she brightens suddenly. "Oh! I almost forgot to show you!" She pulls out her phone. "I've become quite the social media personality myself."
"I'm sorry, what?"
"Look!" She holds out her phone, displaying what appears to be an Instagram account with thousands of followers. "I've been documenting my perspective on this whole situation. 'My Grandson The Phenomenon,' I call it. The distinguished elderly set can't get enough."
I lean forward, stunned to see dozens of posts featuring Fiona offering commentary on the viral situation, complete with old photos of Callum in kilts at various family functions.
"You have fifty thousand followers," I say faintly.
"Fifty-two thousand as of this morning.” She beams proudly. "My videos teaching traditional Scottish sayings have been particularly popular. Would you like to see?"
Without waiting for an answer, she plays a video where she stares directly into the camera, explaining with perfect deadpan delivery.”’
Yer bum's oot the windae'—literally 'your bottom is out the window.' Used to indicate someone is talking complete nonsense or has lost touch with reality. For example, 'If you think my grandson isn't devastated about Karina, yer bum's oot the windae.'"
I choke on air. "Fiona!"
"What?" She looks innocently pleased with herself. "It's generating excellent engagement. And bringing Scottish culture to a wider audience."
"You're using your grandson's personal crisis for content."
"I'm creating a narrative.” She twirls a hand in the air. “One that might help salvage both his reputation and yours, if you're paying attention."
I narrow my eyes suspiciously. "What do you mean?"
"I mean that public sentiment is shifting.
" She navigates to another screen showing analytics.
"The #BeyondYourLabel movement has prompted significant discussion about credential gatekeeping.
Meanwhile, my followers are quite invested in your reconciliation—they've even started a hashtag of their own. #MendTheKilt."
"That doesn't make any sense," I point out. "Kilts don't break."
"Metaphors don't have to be logical to be effective.” She nudges my shoulder as if I don’t have the sense that God gave me. “Point is, there's an opportunity here. For both of you."
I shake my head, overwhelmed by the absurdity of it all. "Even if that were true—and I'm not saying it is—Callum would never forgive me. You know how he feels about trust."
"I know how he thinks…he feels about trust.” Fiona’s hands fold together. "Which is not the same thing at all."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
She sighs, suddenly looking every one of her eighty-eight years. "It means that Callum equates trust with perfection. He believes people are either entirely trustworthy or entirely not—with no room for growth, forgiveness, or the messy reality of being human."
This assessment is so accurate it stings. "He has his reasons."
"Yes, he does. Reasons he's never fully shared with you.
" She fixes me with a pointed look. "Just as you had reasons for your own deceptions that you never fully shared with him.
Until you're both willing to be truly vulnerable—not just physically, but emotionally—you'll continue to miss each other entirely. "
I stare at her.” That's... surprisingly insightful."
"I'm old, not stupid," she says, an echo of my mother's frequent refrain that makes me smile. "Age has few advantages, but clarity is one of them."
My phone buzzes with a notification—an email from Abernathy Corp HR confirming my official termination meeting scheduled for tomorrow morning.
The reminder of reality crashes through our strange conversation.
"None of this matters anyway," I say, showing her the email. "I'm being fired tomorrow. Whatever connection Callum and I might have had is irreparably damaged."
"Only if you both allow it to be," Fiona replies, standing with surprising grace for a woman her age. "The question is whether either of you is brave enough to risk being truly seen."
She gathers her purse, then pauses, eyes fixing on my face. “You know, in Scotland we have a saying: 'Whit's fur ye'll no go by ye.'"
"And what does that mean?"
"What's meant to be will find its way to you." She pats my cheek. "But that doesn't mean you get to hide in your mother's dining room waiting for it to arrive."
As she heads toward the door, she turns back with a mischievous grin. "Oh, and tell your mother I expect her at my place for tea next Tuesday. Dr. Finnegan is welcome too, of course. I've been dying to compare notes on our respective grandchildren."
The door closes behind her, leaving me alone with my coffee, my confusion, and the dawning realization that I've been outmaneuvered by an octogenarian Instagram influencer.
My phone buzzes again—this time with a notification that Fiona has tagged me in a new post.
A candid photo of me looking stunned at the dining table, captioned: "Having tea with the future. #MendTheKilt #BeyondYourLabel #GrannyKnowsBest"
I stare at the screen as the likes accumulate in real-time.
From the garden, I hear my mother's delighted laughter, followed by her voice calling out: "Karina! Did you know you are trending again? Dr. Finnegan just texted!"
The universe, it seems, isn't finished with me yet.