Page 34 of Wild Scottish Beauty

“So I can’t be in the fashion industry then?”

“No, not at all. I just…” Damn it, he was making me stumble over my words.

“My grandfather was a kiltmaker. My father didn’t take it up, he was a bookish sort. I learned at my grandfather’s knee.”

“Right. A family tradition then.”

Ramsay grunted, digging into the steamer trunk, and I pressed my lips together. Was every conversation with him going to be like pulling nails?

“No family tradition for me on my part,” I supplied, determined to talk enough for the both of us as the siren’s call of a huge trunk tucked in the corner was too much for me to ignore any longer. Crossing the room, I flipped the latches on the trunk and hefted the top open. “At least not that I’m told. My mother was creative, but more into painting and poetry. Nothing of a professional nature, either. Basically, I’ve always wanted to make clothes. Ever since I was a kid. I think fashion is such a great way to express yourself. It’s like…who do I want to be today? You can just choose your persona every morning and go with it. How cool is that? I’ve always wanted other people to feel empowered by their choices, and I think clothing helps you do that, you know?”

Silence met my words, and I rolled my eyes. Seriously, this man really needed to loosen up.

“How cool for you though, that your family has a history of kiltmaking. I mean, it has to make you proud, doesn’t it? To continue the tradition?” I squealed as I pulled the wrapping back at the top of the steamer trunk and revealed several bolts of tartan fabric.

Gorgeous tartan wool.

Deep blues and rich muted browns, emerald greens.

“Ramsay, look. Imagine how much we could make with this! There’s enough for kilts, or scarves …” Turning, I held up a bolt of tartan wool in a warm umber tone.

Ramsay straightened, fury crossing his handsome face, before he turned and stormed from the room without a word.

“Excited, are you?Great! Really looking forward to working with you,” I shouted after him.

Shaking my head, I put the fabric back and retrieved my scissors, my stomach twisting in knots. Despite my usually optimistic outlook—despite Ramsay saying he’s a man of his word—trying to work with him would clearly be a disaster. Weshouldhave many things in common. This roomshouldbe something that binds us together. And yet…he can’t stand to be in my presence.Why? Why was he being such a jerk about this?

Was this because of Miles?Would he ever let me find my way?

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Ramsay

“Imagine how much we could make with this!”

Willow’s words had sent me back to a happier time in my life.

Andrew and I had been in our grandfather’s workshop after he’d passed away, going through boxes. Having found some unusual patterns for kilts, he’d brandished the sheets of paper in front of my face.

“Make those?”

“Yeah, mate. Why not? These would sell like crazy.” Andrew’s eyes had lit, the promise of fast money exciting him.

“These are custom patterns. It would take time. You’d have to build your clientele.” At least that’s what my grandfather had always told me. He’d built a carefuland loyal clientele, having taken his time and care with each kilt, and it had provided him with steady work through his life.

“But we could make them faster. The two of us. Hire a few people. Just think, we’d make a killing.”

Andrew had danced around the workshop, revved like he’d always get with a new idea, enthusiasm lighting him up. He’d always been this way, ever since he was a small child, chasing after the next big thing that excited him and then abandoning it the minute it no longer held interest. His childhood had been littered with half-completed projects, puzzles left unfinished, and failed school projects.

We’d been in our early twenties when our grandfather had died, and Andrew, having burned his way through several trade jobs, had seized the opportunity to design kilts. It was hard to ignore his enthusiasm, and even though I had my misgivings, I’d also been excited about continuing our family tradition.

Maybe this would be the idea that stuck, I’d thought, finally something that would save Andrew from an endless loop of failed projects.

We’d even gone so far as to ask our father for an investment in our company.

What a stupid, stupid kid I’d been.

Within months, Andrew had stolen the money my father had invested in us, taken our family’s designs, and had outsourced the patterns overseas to create fast, cheap, and trendy kilts that would make my grandfather turn over in his grave. Synthetic fabrics, cheap fastenings, and pleather sporrans sold for bottom dollar in brightly lit tourist shops.

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