Page 7 of Kilt Trip

The dim light in the pub cast a cozy, intimate glow over the room. The TVs—tellies, Addie corrected herself—blared in the background with the clipped tones of soccer—er, football—announcers, and rowdy patrons yelled at the screens. Even the chairs were upholstered in red-and-green plaid as if to say Welcome to Scotland.

Relinquishing their hold on the community table, she and Logan settled on stools at the bar. Her brain whirred with all the reasons this was a bad idea. Definitely no way to stay inconspicuous. But maybe it was too late, anyway. It was also a drink, not an invitation back to his place—which, under different circumstances, she might consider.

They were simply two people used to meeting strangers, well-matched in harmless flirting.

Addie let herself sink into the buoying force of a new connection. Exploring, seeking, meeting new people, it kept at bay the deep sadness that had filled so many years. She frequented enough bars and restaurants that the prickly awareness of eating alone didn’t bother her anymore, but she wasn’t wasting a chance to chat and share a drink.

Especially with someone so damn charming.

“What are you having?” He pushed the hair out of his face with a sweep of his fingers. His bicep flexed, even under the bulkiness of his sweater.

Good thing her contract didn’t have a clause against ogling the tour guides.

“Benromach, please.”

Logan’s eyebrows arched. “An American who knows her whisky.”

“I know what I like.” Before she got swept away by this man’s accent and the warmth in his gaze and this drink turned into something it couldn’t, she refocused. “So do you tour all year round?”

“Aye. Winter’s the best time to visit Scotland. We have it all to ourselves.” Logan’s lazy smile curled around her like cocoa steam in predawn air.

He turned in his seat to face her more fully, their knees interlocking. His kilt bowed between his legs, bunching slightly where her knee pushed against it, exposing a sliver of muscle. She should’ve twisted away, but too much of her brain was distracted calculating the exact distance between their thighs. Centimeters was a good metric. They were in the UK, after all.

The bartender set their drinks in front of them, the tap of the glass against the polished wood startling her. She tore her gaze away from where Logan’s kilt rode up.

He raised his drink to Addie. “Then catch the moments as they fly, and use them as ye ought, man: Believe me, happiness is shy, and comes not ay when sought, man.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “That’s Robbie Burns for you.”

Trying to drown the lightness blooming in her stomach, she clinked her glass against his and sipped her favorite Scotch whisky. The smoky flavor tasted even better in Scotland.

In a life of busy airports and high-stakes board meetings, where so much was a blur of stress hormones or first-day-of-school jitters, it was rare to have an encounter like this, where time seemed to slow and stretch. Logan didn’t look at his phone or check his watch. She could bask in his attention. Settle in and stay a while.

“Are you here for business or pleasure?”

The way the last word rolled off his tongue, that lilting brogue...

Oh, shit.

Wait.

Panic tingled through her limbs. She couldn’t tell him she was here for work.

“Uh, a heritage trip...in part. This used to be my mom’s favorite place.” Her stomach curled around the impulsive answer.

Addie had resolutely avoided Scotland. She didn’t want to think about the graduation trip they didn’t get to take or find the untamed wilderness was little more than a folktale that didn’t live up to the magical stories her mom had woven.

“Used to be? What kind of place could knock Scotland from the podium?” Logan asked.

Addie looked down at her clasped hands. “She passed away.” More than ten years later, and the words still scraped her throat on their way out.

For someone who traveled light, Addie carried a hell of a lot of baggage.

Logan’s large hand, calloused and comforting, covered hers. “I’m so sorry.” His eyes were as warm and calming as a full glass of whisky, lowering her inhibitions enough that she wanted to tell him all her sad stories.

But if Addie had learned anything, it was that no one liked the Sad Girl. People withdrew when she talked about her past, and she didn’t need to burden this handsome stranger. She pulled away, forcing her mouth into a semblance of a smile and spun the cardboard coaster on the shiny bar top. “It was a long time ago.”

The arrival of an oversize plate of nachos interrupted whatever Logan was going to say.

When Gavin turned to the next waiting patron, Addie spread her hands in a gesture of outrage. “What kind of pub is this? Where’s the haggis? The fish ’n’ chips?” she asked, steering them back to lighthearted fun.

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