Page 43 of Wild Scottish Beauty

I peeked in the back room, watching as Ramsay expertly measured and pinned, measured and pinned, methodically folding the kilt’s fabric. His rhythm was smooth, his focus absolute, and I found myself entranced by the way his arm muscles bunched under his shirt as his large hands smoothed the fabric and neatly folded the next pleat. The tattoos winding up his thick forearms and disappearing under the fabric of his shirt made me want to move closer, to examine each design and ask him their meaning. He’d likely bite my head off, of course, so I stayed by the door instead, watching a master at work, even though my hands itched to join in.

I loved the process of creation. The feel of fabric under my fingers, testing the weight of a material, examining the stretch, the color, the sheen. All of it invigorated me, and I wanted to learn this too, even if making and designing kilts wasn’t exactly what I wanted for my future. Any opportunity to learn a new skill was exciting, and for all I knew, itwould spark an idea that would show up in a collection of mine down the road.

“I can hear you breathing.”

“I’m pretty sure ‘don’t breathe’ wasn’t in the rules, but I can double-check my list if you’d like.”

“Breathe elsewhere.” Ramsay continued to fold, never breaking rhythm, and I sidled closer, ignoring his grunt of disapproval. I was used to dealing with difficult men, Miles being one of them, and if those two were best friends, well, Ramsay shouldn’t be too difficult to handle.

I just had to outshine his grumpiness.

“I like this tartan,” I said, directing his attention away from the fact that I was breathing in his space. “It’s a pleasing pattern.”

Ramsay grunted again.

“The colors balance well. Is it for a certain clan?”

After our first client of the day had left, a groom planning for his wedding, I’d spent some time paging through the fabric books that Ramsay had in stacks by the fire, reading about Scotland’s history of clan tartans.

“Aye, it’s a Douglas tartan. Shared with several other clans, in fact. One of our more common and popular tartans.”

“Wow.”

At that, Ramsay glanced up at me.

“What?”

“A whole, like, fifteen words. Careful, Ramsay, or you’ll be accused of carrying on an actual conversation.”

Ramsay just leveled me a look, which I’m sure would be considered withering by many who weren’t used to rudeand consistently angry older brothers, and I inched closer to the table.

“Can I touch it?”

“Bloody hell.” Ramsay paused, his hands holding a pleat in place, a pin at the ready. He looked up at me under heavy lids, his expression mutinous.

I shouldn’t find this hot.

Pasting a wide smile on my face, I shrugged.

“It sounds like you’re particular about the type of fabric you use. Where the wool comes from. How it’s woven. Dyed. I’m interested is all.”

“In what part of my explicit instructions to leave me alone in my workroom could you interpret to mean ‘come blether on in my ear while I’m trying to work’?”

“Jeez, that had to have been at least twenty words. You’re doing great.” I nodded encouragingly at him, and Ramsay’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, I know that look. That’s the look of a man who is dying to tell me all about how he sources his fabrics for his famous custom kilts. No problem, Ramsay, I’ve got all day. Go on…” I waved my hand in the air, as though ushering him to continue talking.

“What do I have to do to make this stop?”

“Answer my questions. Show me your process. Talk to me like a real partner and not an annoying kid sister.”

At that, Ramsay looked up, and something flashed behind his eyes, before it was gone. It was enough to make me want to squirm on the spot, whatever his thoughts were, and a delicious tendril of heat unfurled low in my stomach.

“It’s not a kid sister I’m thinking of you as.”

Say what now?

I was going to need clarification on that. Like, immediately. I opened my mouth to speak, but his warning look caused me to pause. The seconds ticked by—the moment hung suspended between us—as a log snapped in the fireplace and rain pattered on the roof.

“I pride myself on continuing the Scottish tradition of weaving our own fabrics.” Ramsay methodically placed a pin and then paused, gesturing to the fabric. I gingerly reached out, running my fingers over the tartan, testing the weight of it against my palm.

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