I adjust my tie and ask Max Bernstein’s assistant for another espresso, no sugar. I try to ignore the stream of young women passing behind the glass wall since I arrived. One of them giggles and points at me before whispering something to her friends, setting off another round of laughter.
Fantastic. Exactly what I needed—being the topic of conversation for a group of overly excited Americans.
My phone buzzes. Keira’s name lights up the screen, her smug smile practically taunting me before I even read her message.
Pain in the ass
So? Did you propose yet? Invitations sent?
I roll my eyes and type back quickly.
Hard to propose to someone who isn’t here. 28 minutes late.
The three dots appear almost instantly.
Pain in the ass
Already your first fight! That’s adorable. I love her already, my future sister-in-law.
Keira is enjoying this far too much. To her, the idea of her serious, structured older brother getting tangled up in an arranged marriage with an American actress is like Christmas, her birthday, and Hogmanay rolled into one—with a magical unicorn thrown in for good measure.
I’m still trying to come up with a response when the office door swings open. A woman steps inside, oversized sunglasses on, then stops short as if she’s just walked into hostile territory. Her gaze sweeps the room before settling on me.
Jane Carter is smaller than I expected. Her long brown hair is pulled into a messy ponytail, and she’s dressed in jeans, a white T-shirt under a leather jacket, and heeled boots that click against the floor as she approaches the table.
I stand, keeping my expression neutral despite the irritation simmering beneath the surface.
“Miss Carter, I presume?”
She removes her sunglasses, revealing sharp brown eyes that study me with surprising intensity.
“And you must be the desperate Scottish bachelor. Nice to meet you.”
The sarcasm lands fast and hard. My brows lift slightly.
“I prefer ‘pragmatic businessman.’”
A faint smirk curves her lips as she takes the seat across from me.
“Sorry I’m late. My Uber got stuck in apocalyptic traffic, and then the driver insisted on telling me how he almost landed a role inGame of Thrones.”
“Fascinating. Should I assume punctuality is a foreign concept to you?”
Her eyes narrow just a fraction. “Should I assume Scottish charm is an exaggerated myth?”
So. She doesn’t intimidate easily.
The assistant steps in, and Jane orders a coffee with so many specifications the poor woman has to pull out a notebook to keep up.
“…and just a hint of cinnamon—but not too much, okay?”
The assistant nods, slightly overwhelmed, and quickly exits.
“Do you always order coffee like it’s a chemistry formula?” I ask, unable to resist.
“Only when I’m about to discuss selling my freedom for a million dollars,” she replies without missing a beat. “Moments like that deserve the exact coffee I want.”
Her bluntness throws me off slightly.
