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A bottle of whisky. Blue eyes. A kilt. It's the Buchanan tartan. Lips brushing against mine. The whispering of breaths. Rough hands touching me.
I jerk upright, which sends my chair rattling across the floor with me still sitting cross-legged on it. I set my feet down and roll the chair up to my desk. An epiphany slammed into me a moment ago. Without Thane Buchanan, this distillery would never have gone anywhere. I know it's true. The whisky isn't the heart and soul of this operation. Thane is.
How can I convince him of that?
For several minutes, I sit here with my arms on my desk, tapping my pen on the surface. Ohhhh, I've got a fantastic idea. Thane will hate it---at first. But I have to try. If I can't seduce him into climbing on board for this marketing train, I don't deserve my job. No one else can convince him the way I can.
Okay, that sounds awfully arrogant. But I don't see it that way.
In my career, I'd created or helped create hundreds of campaigns for the agency's clients. None were as perfect or as racy as this one. Whisky is for adults, after all. I can push the envelope like never before---if my boss will go along with this idea. Fiona will agree, for sure. The boss I'm referring to is the man I spent the weekend with while naked and moaning.
Our mutual attraction is the key to my whole plan.
I straighten, turn up the volume on my earbuds, and get to work.
Chapter Twenty-One
Thane
I've been avoiding Rebecca as much as possible since our barnie with Holden De Boer on Monday. That means I've alternately been holed up on the malting floor, in the still room, in the dunnage warehouse, or in my hothouse. The new flavors I hope to glean from this crop of plants might become the best I've ever crafted. But I can't focus on anything long enough to do my work.
Thoughts of Rebecca consume me.
Well, thoughts and fantasies. Aye, for the past five days including Monday, I've taken matters into my own hands, literally, to relieve my lust for the lass.
A self-made orgasm isn't as fulfilling as fucking Rebecca.
But I need to stay away from her. What happened on Monday should never have happened, and all I can do to protect Rebecca is to keep my distance. Naturally, Fiona has other ideas that involve meddling in my relationship with the American lass. Whatever we had is over now, thanks to Holden.
Fiona stalks into the hothouse and slams the door shut. Then she sets her hands on her hips, lifting her chin in a defiant pose. "You are behaving like a flaming ersehole, Thane Robert Buchanan."
"Only my mother calls me that. But it doesn't intimidate me no matter which woman in my life uses my full name."
"Rebecca is working all day on your marketing campaign, and she keeps working after she goes home."
"That's not my fault." But I do feel a twinge of...something in my chest. "Order the lass to take the weekend off."
Fiona marches up to me and rolls her eyes. "Oh, aye, that will do the trick. She's as stubborn as you are."
I focus on pruning a plant to avoid looking her in the eye. "Did ye want something specific? Or is this strictly a verbal lashing?"
"Both." She stabs her finger into my chest. "You and Rebecca are perfect for each other. Whatever's fashing you, get over it right now. Fall to your knees and beg Rebecca to forgive you."
"Maybe it's best if our dalliance doesn't become a relationship." It already has become that, but Fiona shouldn't assume such a thing.
The stubborn lass gives me a mulish look. "You weren't like this when you and I were dating." She tips her head to the side and narrows her gaze on me. "You know what that means, ye pigheaded cacan."
Aye, I'm well aware of what it means. But with Holden plotting who knows what, I cannae keep romancing Rebecca. And I won't discuss my feelings with Fiona.
She wags a finger at me. "Dinnae bollocks it up with Rebecca. She's a wonderful woman, and she's perfect for you."
I cannae deny she's right about that. What I want doesn't matter anymore. I need to push Rebecca away for her own safety. That means I need to pretend I'm a bod ceann in the hopes that will silence Fiona and convince Rebecca to stay away from me. "Haud yer wheesht, ye siursachd. Dinnae need anyone telling me how to live my life, ye phitean."
Fiona shakes her head. "Calling me the C-word and a whore proves how desperate you are. That's not a good sign."
Before I can open my mouth to spew a litany of even worse Gaelic insults, Fiona spins around and marches out the hothouse door. She attempts to slam it shut after her, but the door isn't sturdy enough for that.
Aye, I'm bloody brilliant at cocking up my life. It's not a skill I ever wanted to acquire. But if my display at least convinces Fiona to tell Rebecca that I'm a worthless riatach, I will have accomplished my task. Protecting Rebecca means chasing her away.
