Wild About My Scotsman (The Butlers’ Romance #4)

Chapter 1

Sean

Sean Butler had never met a wedding crasher or a woman who made him want to commit to anything, but right now he got the distinct feeling he was staring at a two-in-one package.

Surely, though, women you could spend forever with didn’t flirt combatively with security before strolling into the glittering New York City ballroom where your eldest brother was getting married, throwing your concentration off course with their sparkling sequinned dress, high-tops and dark-golden mermaid waves, then make a beeline for the vol-au-vents.

Surely forever started differently to this.

There was one way to find out.

Sean excused himself from chatting to the bride’s uncle and strode across the room, the kilt swishing at his knees providing a welcome breeze. Whose idea was it to have a Scottish wedding in New York in July? Even the air con wasn’t providing relief.

And this woman’s presence notched up the mercury one thousand percent. As he approached, their eyes locked, hers flashing with surprise yet holding a playful readiness. Adrenaline he’d never felt before coursed through his veins. Was he ready for this? Whatever ‘this’ was?

‘Evening.’ He met her dead-on. She could be a friend of the bride, Bea, but why not head to your friend rather than the French pastries?

‘Good evening.’ The woman fanned her mouth, now full of food, and he noticed the lack of wedding ring. ‘Catering have done themselves proud here.’

‘Aye, they have.’ Nice attempt at deflection, you wee chancer. ‘Bea’s over there, if you want to chat to her.’ Sean motioned indiscriminately over his shoulder. It didn’t matter because this woman didn’t know Bea.

‘Ah, great.’ She nodded as if grateful of the direction. ‘I’ll pop over and see her shortly.’

‘I’ll tell her you’re here. Your name is?’

‘Sorry, I’m so rude.’ The interloper held out a perfectly manicured hand. Sean detected a hint of a Scottish accent underneath lacings of American. ‘Cherry. Cherry Paradise.’

He laughed. ‘Aye, right.’ That was the name of a shampoo scent or a tray bake, not a human being. At least not where he came from. In Sean’s part of the world, women were called Elspeth McKay or Fiona Gilmour, not Cherry Paradise.

‘Aye,’ she said. ‘That is right. And yours is?’

‘Johnny. Johnny Castle.’ Watching Dirty Dancing on a loop with his sisters had finally borne fruit.

She cocked a brow and almost certainly stifled a smile. ‘I see.’

‘Good. And like my namesake, I like to dance. You coming?’ Sean should have been asking her to leave, but here he was holding out his hand.

There were two ways to deal with this situation, and the dancing version was less disruptive than eviction.

The Butler family had dealt with a lot of pain, since the recent death of Sean’s father after a long-fought battle with Motor Neurone Disease.

Cal and Bea’s big day would not be marred by the dramatic ousting of a wedding crasher.

Even one who was hotter than an NYC summer.

Sean hadn’t expected her to agree to dance.

The visions he had were of a sparkling figure dashing into the night, handbag full of vol-au-vents, his question still hot in her ears.

But after grabbing a glass of champagne from a passing server, she downed it in one and followed Sean onto the dance floor.

The music was an eighties’ power ballad, Take it on the Run by REO Speedwagon, made for bouncing off the walls in high-ceilinged spaces like this.

‘May I?’ Sean motioned to Cherry’s hand.

She nodded, and he took it in his own, surprised at how small and soft it was – a contrast to her bold presence.

The heady scent of honeysuckle drifted into his senses.

Heady suited her. She seemed like the kind of woman who took life by the reins, including crashing other people’s weddings.

‘So, Cherry Paradise, I’m pretty sure you don’t know my brother, so how do you know the bride?’ Sean asked as they melded into one another and the music.

‘Oh, I don’t.’ Cherry quirked her head sideways and smiled like she’d won a game Sean didn’t even know they were playing.

Did she know that now they were dancing, now that he could smell and feel her up close, kicking her out had become an impossibility because there was something more powerful than a summer cyclone in this tiny space between them?

Some sort of intoxicating chemistry swirling around that made you adjust the way you breathed.

She knew this. It was there in the cobalt sparkle of her eyes, in the soft bounce of her high-tops as she moved her feet in time with his.

Cherry Paradise knew that Sean would vouch for her as his plus-one in a second rather than risk her leaving.

Because letting her go meant never finding out what the hell this feeling was. Where it could go.

‘As I thought. Do you know anyone here?’

‘I know you. Kinda.’

‘And I’m the person you know the best?’

‘Yes.’

‘You make a habit of crashing weddings?’

‘Nope. But I’m staying in the hotel, and I heard on the grapevine that this one was Scottish, so I thought I’d take a peek. And then honestly––’

‘You do honesty?’ The urge to laugh was palpable.

‘Honestly…I saw something I liked the look of.’

‘The buffet?’

‘Nope. It was…’ Cherry threw her glittering gaze up and down Sean’s form, from the tip of his heat-mussed hair to the toe of his Ghillie brogues.

‘This gorgeous man in a kilt. What can I say? I’m a sucker for one.

And this particular one – I couldn’t look away.

Can’t.’ Her glossed lips parted, and she searched his face, making a laboured point of enjoying the view by biting on her bottom lip.

‘I saw you looking at the food.’

‘That is true, and I tell you what, I’m still hungry.’

‘Oh, aye?’

‘Very much so. You have the most beautiful green eyes, Johnny Castle. Women must tell you that all the time.’

‘On occasion,’ he admitted. ‘And you can call me Sean. Seeing as that’s my name.’

‘Okay, Sean. You can call me Cherry. Seeing as that’s mine.’

He roamed over her face as if searching for signs she was lying.

‘Oh, don’t dull those gorgeous greens with such cynicism. Cherry is my name.’

Sean nodded and watched her steadily, as if waiting for the rest.

‘And Paradise is also my name. Look...’ She retrieved her driver’s licence from a small crossbody bag, holding it up for Sean to inspect. And sure enough, unless she was an elaborate counterfeiter, then he was facing Cherry Paradise.

‘Okay, Ms Paradise.’ Were you after some kicks and decided to crash a Scottish wedding? Are you homesick? I detect a half-Scottish accent, although that name doesn’t sound very Scottish.’

‘To answer your questions… Firstly, I was curious. I am also homesick for Scotland.’ Cherry curled her fingers partway around Sean’s bicep. ‘There’s a lot to love about it. And the name is of Greek origin, from Paradisopolous, since you asked.’

Sean darted his brows upward. He was on a fast-track tour of this woman – five-star so far.

The reflection of the sparkling chandelier in her cobalt eyes surrounded with sweepings of blue glitter eyeshadow seemed to sum up her whole character.

His attention dropped to her lips. Luscious cherry-coloured gloss was begging for a tongue to swipe over it.

If she wanted a man for the job…

He bet she tasted as a sweet as cherries, too. Her gold dress dazzled the corners of his vision, and something near her cleavage caught his eye.

‘What’s that?’ Sean motioned downwards.

‘Those are boobs.’

He laughed hard. ‘I meant the little bit of paper stuck inside your dress. Is that your shopping list?’

‘Kind of. That’s my bucket list.’

‘People still write bucket lists?’

‘I can’t speak for people, but I have one. Don’t you?’

‘Not officially, no. There are things I want to do, but I haven’t written them down and stuck the list inside my underwear.’

‘Are you wearing underwear?’

Was she for real? This conversation might be the best one Sean ever had. ‘Not tonight, no. Kilt equals no underwear. It’s the rules. You should know that, being Scottish.’

‘Just checking for my records. You should put a bucket list in your underwear – when you’re wearing some. It will remind you never to let go of your dreams.’

‘Hmm, okay. Thanks for the advice.’

‘You’re welcome.’

For a moment, they danced without talking. Sean loved the way this rocket of a woman felt in his arms. The way her smaller frame fit into his, her head flush with his upper chest.

He would admit, at least to himself, that he needed something like this.

A woman to dance with. To hold. Over the past few years, he’d watched three of his brothers find the love of their life: Cal with Bea, Jamie with his fiancée, Alicia, and Niall reunited with his childhood sweetheart, Carli.

Sean believed it would happen for him, although living and working in the small Scottish village of Kinshore, he had to wonder how.

There was nobody there he could see being ‘the one’.

He’d considered and re-considered them all.

The love of his life was not in Kinshore.

But could it be that she was right here, on this dance floor in New York City?

Had he met his match?

Steady on there, Seany. You might be getting ahead of yourself.

But that was what Sean did. That was his MO.

He got ahead of himself, always had done.

He was not a man for measure. Sure, he was good at providing it for other people’s problems. Giving a good listening ear to serious issues and offering subjectivity.

But with his own decisions, Sean went ahead and made them.

And something told him this woman did the same.

‘You’re thinking about my bucket list, aren’t you?’ Her voice drifted up to him like syrup spun round a spoon, the soft contours of her face glowing.

‘It’s one of the things I’m thinking about,’ he admitted.

‘I can tell you about it, if you like.’