Page 1 of Wild Scottish Fortune

CHAPTER ONE

Orla

“Surely you just need to jam it in there.”

“When does jamming something in ever help the problem?”

“Depends, is your date in a huff with you or not?”

I rolled my eyes at the two men currently bent over a lock on a stall door in an old outbuilding outside MacAlpine Castle. Munroe Curaigh of Common Gin was opening a new branch of his famous distillery here, and I’d bid for the project, knowing it would give my crew steady work for months if we’d got it.

And we’d landed it.

We were already two months into the project, and I’d been able to hire in more help, as well as take on a few other local projects like the rebuilding of Ramsay Kilts, which had recently suffered a tragedy.

Such a shame, that fire. I still couldn’t believe his brother had started it.Who does that?

I was excited to work on the kilt shop, largely because the space wasn’t exceptionally large, which meant Ramsay and Willow required explicit attention to detail. I always enjoyed the challenge of crafting out useful small storage or interesting details in unique spaces.

The distillery, on the other hand, was a much larger project where form needed to meet function. The building itself held considerable history, which Munroe hoped to preserve, and we were working with a team to blend the old with the new in a seamless design that should offer a light and airy workspace for his crew.

“I’d suggest a gentle touch,” I said, interrupting the two men, coming to the intricate latch at the stall door. “As most women prefer that over getting jammed.” Both men straightened as I slid my hand softly over the locking mechanism and turned it lightly, unhinging it so the door opened smoothly.

“Ah.” Munroe cleared his throat sheepishly.

“Your technique is noted,” the other man said, a twinkle in his gray-green eyes.

“Your future dates can thank me,” I said, and Munroe winced.

“Apologies for our crudeness.”

“I’m well used to it, lads,” I said, continuing through to the tack room that we were converting into a front office.

“Orla, this is Finlay Thompson. Our Chief Operations Officer. He’s just arrived in town to have a look over everything and will be moving here once things are up and running.”

I glanced over at Finlay, my eyes taking in his crisp gray trousers with a muted tartan print, well-shined shoes, and gold watch peeking out from beneath his collared shirt.

Posh bastard.

“Are you here to clean then?” Finlay asked, smiling at me, and Munroe cursed under his breath.

“Aye, that’s me. The cleaner. What would you recommend needs cleaning in here, sir?” I tipped my head at him, pretending to give a wee curtsy, and his eyes narrowed.

“Well, I imagine everything, no? Och, it’s quite dusty in here. Will need a good brush down.” Finlay surveyed the room that was smack dab in the middle of a literal construction site, covered in sawdust, and had the gall to suggest it needed a good dusting. Clearly the man didn’t know his head from his arse, and I opened my mouth to tell him just that when Munroe intervened.

I knew Finlay’s type.

Hell, I’d dated his type.

They walked into everywhere they went, assuming they knew what was what, and acted like a cock of the walk. He had the air of confidence about him, a man used to getting his way, and I didn’t doubt that most things in life worked out exactly the way he wanted.

It didn’t hurt that he looked like he’d just stepped out of a glossy magazine.

The man was seriously good-looking.

But in the way of a man that might roll back his cuffs and go a few rounds, if the need called for it.

I shouldn’t find it appealing, and it was probably my incredibly long dry spell that made me find himattractive. It certainly wasn’t the nonsense he was spewing from his mouth.

---