33. Happily Ever Kilted
HAPPILY EVER KILTED
CALLUM
Halloween in Seattle brings with it a peculiar magic—fog rolling off the Sound, autumn leaves swirling through downtown streets, and the strange permission adults give themselves to become someone else for a night.
Two years ago, I was standing in my brother's penthouse dressed as Hades, accidentally meeting the woman who would upend my carefully structured existence.
Tonight, my intentions are considerably more ambitious…
Host the perfect Halloween yacht party while gathering the courage to propose properly to the woman who's taught me the value of authenticity over perfection.
"Stop adjusting your kilt," Fiona scolds as she inspects the decorations aboard the Fidelity. "You look like you're smuggling contraband."
“For heaven’s sake, Gran. I’m not adjusting my kilt.” I immediately stop fidgeting with the wool pleats. "I'm making sure everything is properly situated."
"The kilt is fine.” She straightens the sporran with the authority of a woman who's been dressing Highland men for eight decades. "It's your face that needs adjusting. You look like you're facing a firing squad rather than hosting a party."
"I'm perfectly calm," I insist, despite the small velvet box burning a hole in my sporran.
"Of course you are. That's why you've rearranged the champagne glasses four times and checked your watch fourteen times in the past hour."
Before I can defend myself, Connor arrives with Ariana, both dressed as Greek gods.
Zeus and Hera, judging by the lightning bolt and peacock feathers.
"The kilt lives!" Connor announces, clasping my shoulder. "I thought we'd never see this legendary garment in person."
"You've seen me in a kilt at least a dozen times," I remind him. "Including at your own engagement party."
"Yes, but not since you became an international thirst trap," Ariana points out with the clinical accuracy that makes her an excellent PR strategist. "This is like seeing a celebrity outfit in person."
"Could we please," I sigh, "just for tonight, pretend that my traditional cultural attire hasn't been fetishized by the entire internet?"
"Where's the fun in that?" Luke appears with a glass of whisky, which he presses into my hand. "Besides, the memorial plaque demands historical accuracy."
The plaque in question—that ridiculous bronze monstrosity Connor and Luke presented at our family dinner—has indeed been installed in my office.
Not in the Abernathy Corp lobby as they'd suggested, but prominently enough that visitors inevitably comment on it.
"Has Karina arrived yet?" Connor asks, scanning the gathering crowd of guests.
"She's coming with her sisters," I explain, checking my watch again. "They had some last-minute costume adjustments."
Luke and Connor pass significant look that immediately puts me on alert.
"What?" I demand.
"Nothing," Luke says, unconvincingly innocent. "Just wondering when you're going to make honest woman of her."
"Excuse me?"
"It's been three months," Connor points out. "You've already moved your permanent residence to Seattle. You're selling your place in Edinburgh."
"And you bought that ridiculous pomegranate pendant," Grayson adds, joining our growing circle of interfering friends. "Which was clearly a pre-engagement gift."
"I'm beginning to question the wisdom of inviting any of you," I mutter.
"You love us," Alex assures me, completing the ambush. "And we love seeing you actually happy for once, instead of obsessing over acquisition strategies and security protocols."
"I still obsess over those things.” My jaw clenches. “I’m just more efficient now."
"Because you're not fighting your personal life anymore," Grayson says with the serene wisdom of a newly married man. "Admit it—being with Karina has made you better at everything else."
He's right, though I'm reluctant to give him the satisfaction of admitting it.
Since embracing this relationship, I've found myself more focused professionally, more present personally, and more at peace with the parts of my life I can't control.
"The question remains," Luke says, returning to their original interrogation, "why haven't you proposed properly yet? You clearly intend to."
I glance around to ensure we're not overheard. "I'm waiting for the right moment."
"Like what?" Connor presses. "A business merger? Quarterly earnings? Retirement?"
"I'm planning something appropriate. Something meaningful."
"Tonight would be meaningful," Alex suggests. "Full circle moment. Halloween. Two years to the day since you met."
"I can't just—" I begin, but my protest dies as the yacht's entrance suddenly illuminates with new arrivals.
Karina steps aboard, flanked by her sisters, all three dressed in coordinated costumes that take me a moment to recognize—the Fates from Greek mythology.
Viktoria as Clotho with golden thread and spindle, Susanna as Lachesis measuring life's thread with a ruler, and Karina...
My heart stutters as I take in her appearance.
As Atropos, she carries decorative golden shears, but it's her dress that renders me momentarily speechless.
Midnight blue silk that shifts between indigo and black as she moves, adorned with constellations that seem to twinkle with her every step.
Her dark hair falls in loose waves, crowned with a circlet of stars.
She spots me across the deck and smiles—that subtle sexy smile that never fails to make me hard no matter where I am.
"I think your moment just arrived," Connor murmurs, nudging me forward.
I move toward her as if magnetically drawn, barely registering my friends dispersing behind me.
"You look..."
"Appropriately mythological?" she suggests, eyes twinkling. "The scissors are fake, I promise. No life-threads being cut tonight."
"You're stunning, darling. And slightly terrifying, which I suspect was intentional."
"The terrifying part was Viktoria's idea," she admits. "She thought it added appropriate gravitas."
"It suits you."
She studies me in return, appreciation evident in her gaze. "You finally wore the kilt."
"Don't sound so surprised. I do own several."
"Yes, but you've been remarkably resistant to wearing one in public since the whole hashtag situation."
"Perhaps I'm embracing my cultural heritage…Or perhaps I knew you'd appreciate the historical accuracy."
"The girlfriend or the marketing director?" she teases.
"Both.” I offer her my arm. "Though I prefer the authentic Karina to all other versions."
She slips her hand through my arm, the warmth of her touch grounding me as we begin circulating among our guests.
The yacht glows with Halloween decorations.
Elegant rather than garish, with carved pumpkins, autumn floral arrangements, and thousands of fairy lights strung across the decks.
For the next hour, we play host to a gathering that would have seemed impossible a year ago—corporate executives mingling with Karina's neighborhood friends, Fiona holding court with tech journalists, Dr. Finnegan explaining Armenian medicinal herbs to fascinated venture capitalists.
Even Alana has come, dressed as a "hashtag fairy" complete with a wand topped with a glittering # symbol.
"Your friends are plotting something," Karina murmurs as we momentarily find ourselves alone near the dessert table.
"What do you mean?"
"Connor, Grayson, Luke, and Alex have been giving you significant looks all evening," she says. "And they keep glancing at your sporran like it contains state secrets."
I can barely swallow my champagne. "That's ridiculous."
"Is it?" She tilts her head, studying me. "You've been unusually jumpy too. Are you hiding something in there?"
"What would I possibly be hiding in traditional Scottish attire at a Halloween party?"
"I don't know," she says slowly. "But I intend to find out."
The gleam in her eye sends a mixture of panic and exhilaration through me.
Before I can respond, we're interrupted by Alana appearing with a tablet.
"Sorry to disturb you," she says, not looking sorry at all, "but I thought you might want to see the latest social media update."
I take the tablet. "What fresh hell is this?"
"Your Halloween kilt debut is trending," she explains. "Already at twenty thousand reposts."
"Wonderful. Just what we need. More viral content."
"Actually, it's excellent timing," Alana counters. "The Beyond Your Label Initiative launches next week. This keeps both of you in the public eye without any scandal attached."
"She's right," Karina says, scrutinizing the trending data. "The sentiment is overwhelmingly positive. Look at these comments—people are celebrating how you've embraced the whole situation rather than hiding from it."
I scan the screen, surprised to find she's correct.
Rather than the objectification I'd feared, most posts express admiration for how we've transformed a potential career disaster into something meaningful.
"I still don't understand why people care what I wear," I grumble, though with less conviction than before.
"Because you represent something now," Karina explains gently. "The ability to maintain dignity while not taking yourself too seriously. To be both professional and authentically human."
"All that from a kilt?" I raise an eyebrow.
"All that from how you handled becoming #KiltedCasanova. People love a redemption story, especially one with excellent legs."
I can't help but laugh, still amazed at how she can simultaneously tease and reassure me. "Speaking of redemption, shall we head to the upper deck? There's something I want to show you."
Curiosity piqued, she follows me up the stairs to the yacht's uppermost level, which I've had specially prepared.
The space is illuminated only by candles and fairy lights, creating a private sanctuary above the party.
A small table holds champagne on ice and a plate of pomegranate seeds—a reference that makes her smile in recognition.
"What is all this?" she asks, taking in the romantic setup.
"Privacy. Something we've had precious little of since becoming viral sensations."