Hardcore Scottish, as a matter of fact. Both sets of my grandparents still live in a quiet corner of the Highlands, in the same little stone cottages my parents were raised in. Pubs. Sheep. Everyone knows your name—and your entire family history going back six generations. My parents got married and moved to the States as newlyweds and used to take me to visit at least once a year.
Annabelle’s eyes widen. “Like—bagpipes and castles and kilts Scottish?”
My laugh is short. “Yes.”
She presses her lips together, fighting a grin. “Do you own a kilt?” She sounds too hopeful.
“Aye. Two of them.” Both tartan.
Annabelle’s face lights up with absolute delight. “Oh my God, Iknewyou were hiding something interesting.”
“I’m not hiding anything.” And owning kilts certainly isn’t the most interesting thing about me.
She wiggles her brows. “So ... you’ve actually worn them?”
I give her a look. “Yes.”
“Wait.” She nibbles her lower lip again. “And what about the ... you know.” She makes a vague hand gesture as if expecting me to read her mind. “Underpart.”
My brows furrow. “Underpart of what?”
“Do you wear anything underneath?”
“No.” Of course not.
She props her chin on her elbow, eyes bright and dancing. “I think I would paygood moneyto see you in a kilt.”
“You wouldn’t have to.” I shrug. “You can probably find plenty of photos online.”
She lets out one of those big, unapologetic laughs that I can’t help but notice makes her tits jiggle. “That’s not the same, and you know it.”
“Oh? What are you saying?” I lean back in the chair, folding my arms, letting a grin tug at the corner of my mouth. “You want aprivateshow?”
Chapter 7
Annabelle
Callum McBride.
I roll the name around in my head, testing it out, letting it settle like warm honey over my tongue. Callum. It’s rugged and earthy, rooted in centuries of plaid-wrapped masculinity and thick Highland brogue. It’s the name of a hero in a windswept romance novel who storms castles and breaks hearts with one steely stare.
Except, he’s here. In a pair of worn sweatpants and a faded T-shirt, brooding on a lakeside dock, scowling at me like I’m the reason the sky is blue.
Callum.
The name hits different. Like I just discovered an extra layer to him—a secret code that gives me the tiniest peek at the soft center underneath all that growly, closed-off “don’t talk to me” bullshit.
God help me, I’m so freaking into it. It’s hot. Like—a total hot guy’s name.
And don’t get me started on the fact he owns kilts. Plural.
Suddenly I can’t stop picturing him standing on a misty Scottish cliff, wind whipping his kilt around muscular thighs, hands on his hips, gazing off into the vast horizon.
Callum McBride.
It’s everything—the gravellyRrolling off his tongue, the quiet pride, the tiny smirk he made when he admitted Maverick was not his real name. I fight off a full-body shiver just thinking about him in plaid, all the wicked possibilities that go along with a man who owns kilts and wears nothing underneath them.
Jesus, take the wheel.
