Page 22 of Wild Scottish Beauty

“This is Willow. She’s here to help design a custom fashion line for the castle shop.”

“Och, that’s right. With Ramsay, eh? Welcome to Loren Brae, Willow. I’m Agnes, and I own Bonnie Books, just down the way.” Agnes gestured to the village and shook my hand, her eyes bright and lively in the light from the streetlamp.

“I don’t know about the ‘with Ramsay’ part, but I’m definitely here to design.”

“Bloody hell. Is he giving you trouble already?” Agnes shook her head and turned down the main street and we followed, the icy wind driving us toward the warmth of the pub.

“He said no as soon as he saw her and walked out.”

“He did not. Fecking eejit.” Agnes shook her head.

“Oh, he did. But there’s history there. My mom was from the area, so we’d visit in the summers. Ramsay is one of my brother’s best friends, even though I haven’t seen him in years. Guess he doesn’t think I can hack it at his store.”

“How would he even know if he doesn’t try? God, he’s such a grump,” Sophie said, outraged on my behalf.

I wouldn’t have described Ramsay as a grump in my teenage years. Reserved, I guess, but with a devilish smile, maybe, but not necessarily grumpy. He did spend most ofhis time with my brother, so perhaps I never saw that side of him.

“I wouldn’t know. I haven’t really talked to him in forever.”

“He’s a tetchy one, and that’s the truth of it. Already it’s becoming a bit of a thing around town,” Agnes said, slowing her speed. “People have heard it’s impossible to get an appointment at his shop, so it seems to be a game to see if they can get through the door.”

“Like a VIP list at a club?” I asked, shaking my head. That was certainly no way to do business.

“Exactly that. There’s no rhyme or reason to when he’s open or accepting customers.”

“I’m not sure he really needs the business, does he?” Sophie asked.

“Then why even open a shop? If he just wants to work in peace, wouldn’t he have opened a workshop or whatever? Why have the storefront?” Agnes stopped in front of a pretty stone building. With paned windows that spilled warm light onto the sidewalk, a carved wooden sign readingThe Tipsy Thistle,and an arched doorway at the entrance, I was instantly charmed. No neon signs and dismal sports bar exterior here. Instead, stone walls and carved wood framed the building, showcasing true historical design and aesthetic. Why the United States had succumbed to bland strip malls and basic design, I do not know. City planning gone awry, I guess.

“Maybe it just feeds Ramsay’s ego to be in demand,” I said.

Both women stiffened at my words, and Iwinced. Had I gone too far? Ramsay was their friend, and I was new in town, so perhaps I’d put my foot in it.

“Ladies.”

I closed my eyes at the word at my back, the voice a rough timbre that shivered across my skin, and I knew instantly that Ramsay had overheard what I’d said. Turning, I confirmed my suspicions when I found him glowering down at me.

Once again, standing this close, I couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed by this man. His sheer size made me have to tilt my head to look up at him, and if possible, he made me feel like a fragile flower ready to shed her petals in the wind. Was this how thin woman felt around men all the time? Like delicate teacups that could break under their touch? If so, I was beginning to see the appeal. I’d never been one to aspire to have a man capable of manhandling me, but now that I was confronted with this rude, glaring, growly hunk of a man, my inner hussy wanted to roll over and flirt with him like a cat begging for more cream. His presence was potent, and my body instantly remembered how casually he’d carried me through the long halls of the castle as though he was rescuing a princess from a battle. Again, damsel in distress I was not, but damn it, Ramsay made me want to be one, just so I could press myself against his muscular body one more time.

“Ramsay. We were just talking about you,” I said, not bothering to try and cover up my faux pas.

“As I heard. You think I have an ego?” Ramsay lifted his chin at me, his eyes shrouded in darkness from the newsboy cap he wore.

“Don’t most men?”

“She has a point,” Sophie interjected.

“Delicate, fragile, whiny little egos,” Agnes muttered, and my lips quirked. I wondered who had annoyed her.

“Rough crowd,” Ramsay rasped. “I’ll be sure to keep my ego on the other side of the pub tonight.”

“Oh, come on, Ramsay. We need to talk about this,” Sophie protested.

Ramsay just shook his head and held the door open for us. Sophie sighed, and we clambered into the narrow front hallway.

“See?” Agnes hissed. “Fragile egos. Men need to be pampered at all times. It’s why I don’t want one.”

“Me either,” I agreed, though my inner hussy was still outside wrapped around Ramsay’s muscular thighs.

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