Page 2 of Kilt Trip

Rebuilding trust with the client took time she didn’t have, but this was a calculated risk. As a rule, executives didn’t take kindly to corporate espionage in any form. However, executives were also rarely objective about their own tours. They chalked lagging sales up to uninspired marketing or internet algorithms, never to generic itineraries, up-charging for headphones on an audio tour, or rambling guides.

Metrics on destination costs and ticket prices were important, but the way people responded to their guides told an indisputable story. One day trip could show her more about a company’s weak spots than five board meetings combined.

“You better hope you blend in.”

Addie bit her lip as she looked down at her attire. Between the yellow raincoat and poppy-splashed wellies, she looked about as unobtrusive as a knockoff Paddington Bear waving a sign that read I’m crashing your tour. But it was fine, she could totally pass as a tourist. “You’re not helping at all. I have to go be sneaky.”

Devika laughed and made the word bye last for three syllables.

Addie moved to the back of the group where two people speaking Japanese, having clearly forgotten their raincoats, wore see-through Heart of the Highlands–branded ponchos.

Practical and effective swag, 1 point.

Gigi shouted, “Keep right at the fork!”

All eyes swung to Addie and heat flooded her cheeks as she struggled to turn off the speaker. “Is this the Hidden Gems tour?” she asked the approaching guide. “I got lost...” Addie looked up into crinkling gray eyes.

Whoa.

Curls fell over his forehead, a wavy sea of honey and bronze. On anyone else, she’d have said he was in dire need of a haircut, but it worked for him—matched the close-trimmed beard and the power of his shoulders.

He would be intimidatingly rugged if he wasn’t draped in clear plastic.

“Aye. Welcome. Are you Heather Munro?”

Her gaze slipped down to his navy blue and forest green kilt... Damn.

She’d never considered herself one to swoon over a kilt, but his work boots and rounded calves were doing something to her stomach she couldn’t feasibly attribute to her bumpy flight. The navy cable-knit sweater, too—much better than the frilly pirate shirt that usually accompanied this getup.

Although, it did little to set their guides apart.

Gimmicky uniform, minus 2 points...on anyone else.

The last words he said filtered back to her, and heat crept up her neck. Shit.

“Oh, yes. Hi. That’s me.” Addie was more accustomed to sleeping on planes than in her own bed, but she was clearly more jet-lagged than she’d realized if she couldn’t remember her own fake name.

The guide’s lips curved into an amused smile. “I’m Logan.”

She could tell a lot from a handshake.

Crushing: domineering and a pain in the ass to work with.

Limp: kind but required vast emotional resources to make decisions.

Wet-fish: well...that was never a good sign.

But Logan’s firm handshake was warm. It said: I know what I want. I’m not afraid to ask for help or entertain new ideas.

Not that it mattered. She’d be working with the owner and his son, not the guides.

His grin sent tingles whispering over her skin as he dropped her hand and turned back to the group. “This way to the National Monument of Scotland, built to commemorate those who fought in the Napoleonic Wars.” Logan gestured to the Parthenon-style structure missing two and a half sides of pillars. “Or, as it’s affectionately called, Scotland’s Shame. As you can see, funding ran out rather quickly.” A few snickers and an abundance of smiles followed his remarks.

“Edinburgh is nicknamed the Athens of the North, and these buildings celebrate our architectural feats and enlightenment. But long before the monuments were constructed, Calton Hill was a site for many pagan rituals. My favorite is Beltane, the Celtic festival hailing the reappearance of summer and the fertility of the land. Fire represents the return of the light, and revelers celebrate in its glow.”

Logan could have described the architecture, the historical figures, or the politics at the time of construction. Addie had been on that kind of tour in the real Athens and knew firsthand how hard it was to keep guests’ interest with dry facts. Instead, Logan’s tales of rejoicing and fire, spirits and drums, enthralled the tourists. The group huddled around him, his voice low and soothing like it’d wrapped around everyone and pulled them in.

If all the guides were this good, Addie wouldn’t need to bring in a story-crafting coach; Logan would make a dishwasher manual sound interesting.

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