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‘He owns that estate in the Scottish Highlands. Amazing lodge, complete with fairytale turrets. You read about it in that magazine and then asked me to contact him after we had that enquiry from the family in Seattle. We talked about it last month and I called him.’
‘Of course. House parties in a remote Scottish glen… don’t they have an actual reindeer herd?’ Samantha leaned back in her chair. ‘I know it’s not something we’ve offered before, but I feel in my gut it would work. Everyone is wild about Scotland—particularly for the holidays—and the place is by a loch, on the edge of a forest. Guests could cut their own Christmas tree. A fresh one that actually smells of the forest, and not of chemicals. The possibilities are endless. Whisky in front of a roaring log fire… Maybe we could add a couple of nights in Edinburgh for Hogmanay.’ She saw Charlotte’s expression. ‘New Year’s Eve.’
‘Ooh.’ Charlotte smiled. ‘I want to book that vacation myself. It sounds dreamy.’
‘And that’s what we do. We give people their dream. The Christmas they’ll never forget.’ Samantha tapped her pen on the desk. ‘What did he say? Did you tell him that the demand for properties in the Scottish Highlands is going through the roof?’
‘Yes. Also that you speak to all your clients personally, and that you’re wickedly good at what you do so he can expect to be busy.’
‘And…?’
‘He said that he’s interested in principle, but he’d want to discuss it further. Because the lodge is a family home and before he accepts guests he’ll need to know he’s entrusted the task of renting it out to the right person.’
‘Get him on the phone and I’ll convince him I’m the right person.’
‘He wants to meet you.’
‘Why?’ Samantha tried not to think of her packed schedule. ‘Never mind. Whatever it takes. When is he in Boston?’
‘He’s not. He wants you fly to Scotland.’
Samantha shot up in her chair. ‘Scotland? You mean Scotland, Connecticut?’
‘No.’ Charlotte frowned. ‘Is there a Scotland in Connecticut?’
‘Yes. It’s a town. There are others.’
‘I mean the actual Scotland. The country. Land of hill and heather. And those cute cows with horns.’
‘Highland cattle. Are you serious? He wants me to fly to Scotland?’
Charlotte held up her hands in surrender. ‘I’m just the messenger. He’s emotionally attached to the place. He cares about it. It’s his home. He was actually born there. Imagine being born in a Scottish Glen instead of a sterile white hospital room…’
‘He told you all this?’
‘Yes. We’ve chatted a few times. He says it won’t suit everyone and that you’ll need to know what you’re selling.’
‘He’s right, of course. And I usually do visit before we start recommending. But I’m snowed under.’
Samantha loosened another button on her shirt and paced to the window. The view always calmed her. From her office in Back Bay she could see Boston Harbor, the water glittering pale under the winter sun. It was barely December, but the first flurries of snow had fallen the week before—a reminder that winter had arrived.
Samantha was one of those few people who loved snow. No amount of cold weather could damage her love affair with this city. There were no memories here. No ghosts haunted the brick sidewalks and historic architecture. Moving from Manhattan was the best thing she’d ever done. Boston was her city. She loved everything about it—from the art galleries and upmarket boutiques of Newbury Street to Beacon Street with its vintage gas lamps. Even at this time of year, with a bitter wind blowing off the Charles River, she loved it.
‘Boss?’
‘Yes.’ She turned to Charlotte. ‘Scotland. Fine. We’ll take the risk and have someone visit because I think the place sounds perfect. Send Rick. He’s been known to wear a kilt to fancy dress parties.’
‘The Laird insisted it was you.’
‘The Laird?’
‘Just my little joke. I’ve been reading too many of those historical romances you gave me. I dream of being swept onto a horse by a man wearing a kilt.’
‘With Amy attached to your breast? This does not sound comfortable.’ Maybe it had been a mistake to share her reading habits with Charlotte, who wasn’t known for her discretion. ‘Please don’t tell Brodie McKintyre that we read historical romance.’
‘Why not? Read what you want, I always say.’
‘I agree, but I prefer to keep all personal elements out of my professional discussions. I’m running a business, and it would be hard to keep my credibility with clients and these Scottish folk if they knew we spent our free time fantasising about being swept into the heather by a sexy guy in a kilt.’
