Page 25 of One Night in Glasgow
“Yeah, Colter,” I said, the words tasting like ash and surrender. “A party for two sounds perfect. I’ll see you there.”
“Attagirl, MacLeod. Knew I could count on you.”
I ended the call and tossed the phone onto the passenger seat, pressing down on the accelerator. I had no intention of going to my parents’ house. Not now. The one thing I thought I had, the one thing I was going to use to fight them, was gone. And in its place was a familiar, gaping void that I now had a concrete, terrifying plan to fill.
CHAPTER EIGHT
SEAN
My phone wouldn’t stop buzzing,but for the most part, I was ignoring it. It was Danny who was practically vibrating with a manic energy, waving his own phone like a winning lottery ticket as he barged into my side of the suite.
“Have you seen this? You’re a trending topic, my friend!” he crowed, a huge grin splitting his face. “The ‘passionate guru’ finally shows some actual passion! The booking requests are going absolutely mental. I told you; even bad press is good press!”
I shook my head with a dry chuckle, grabbing the remote. “As long as they spell my name right.” I flipped on the TV, just looking for some background noise. “Didn’t you say it’s not a big deal, Danny? A little shagging isn’t exactly a federal crime?”
“Not in Britain, it’s not!” he laughed. “It’s practically a national pastime. They’ll probably give you a medal for contributing to international relations.”
Danny left for his usual morning walk, and I turned my attention to the local news. Out of nowhere, my face appeared on the broadcast, alongside a blurry image of Beth. The ticker at the bottom scrolled by: “MOTIVATIONAL SPEAKER’S SECRET TRYST WITH WILD CHILD SOCIALITE.”
My stomach dropped. They’d identified her. I snatched the remote, turning up the volume just as the anchor’s voice cut through.
“…Elisabeth MacLeod, daughter of Scottish business tycoon Alexander MacLeod, was caught in a compromising position with American motivational speaker Sean McCrae. Sources close to the MacLeod family say this is just the latest in a long line of scandals for the notorious party girl…”
“Holy fucking shit,” I whispered, the blood draining from my face. Elisabeth MacLeod. The name echoed with wealth and power. I’d heard of the family, of course. They were practically royalty here. And I had just dragged their “notorious” daughter into another media firestorm.
Grabbing my laptop, I quickly searched her name. What I found made me feel sick. The headlines were brutal, and the double standard was so blatant it was infuriating. For me, the articles used words like ‘rogue,’ ‘dashing,’ ‘passionate.’ I was the charming American having a bit of fun. For her? She was the ‘wild child,’ the ‘scandal-plagued socialite,’ the ‘party girl seductress.’ They dredged up every misstep from her past, painting a picture of a broken, reckless woman.
It was the same story, the same two people in the same photo, but seen through two completely different lenses. For me, this was a temporary boost in name recognition. For her, it was a character assassination.
“Shit,” I said, closing the laptop. Now I understood her panic. The absolute terror in her eyes when the camera flashed.This wasn’t just embarrassing for her; it was a weapon being used against her, and I had handed it to them.
I needed to talk to her, to apologize, to make sure she knew I understood. To do something to fix this. But how? I didn’t have her number. I only had the one I’d saved from Danny’s phone. The mysterious representative.Kinna.
My hands were shaking slightly as I pulled up the contact, my earlier nonchalance replaced by a raw, urgent need to make this right. I pressed dial, my heart hammering against my ribs.
“Kinna speaking.” Her voice was crisp, professional, and guarded. She was clearly expecting a call, just maybe not from me directly.
“Hi, Kinna. This is Sean McCrae. I’m calling for Beth.”
There was a tight, controlled pause on the other end of the line. “Mr. McCrae,” she said, her tone as cold as the Glasgow air. “I trust your agent passed along my message regarding my client’s desire for privacy.”
Client.The word was a shield, a professional wall she threw up between us. “He did,” I said, my voice sounding rougher than I intended. “And I respect that. This isn’t about the press. I just saw the news reports. I saw how they’re painting this, what they’re calling her. I need to talk to her, Kinna. Just to make sure she’s okay.”
“My client’s well-being is being managed, thank you,” she replied, her voice clipped and precise. “And all things considered, your concern seems a bit late.”
“Please,” I pressed, hating the desperation in my voice but pushing past it. “I know this looks bad. But I’m worried about her. Seriously worried. I just want to apologize. I had no intention for any of this to happen.”
“Your ‘intentions’ have resulted in a significant crisis, Mr.McCrae,” Kinna said, the professional ice in her voice cracking, revealing the fierce loyalty beneath. “One that we are currently handling. Your direct involvement is not required, nor is it welcome.”
“I understand why you feel that way,” I said, trying to appeal to her on a human level. “But this isn’t just about the media. This is about… her. Is she okay?”
That’s when her composure finally snapped. The frustration and anger she’d been suppressing boiled over.
“No, she’s not okay!” she practically shouted into the phone. “She’s a mess, thanks to you and this whole bloody circus! She doesn’t need to hear from you right now. She’s with her family, Sean! At the estate! They’re dealing with this. The last thing she needs is you stirring up more trouble. Just go back to the States and leave her alone!”
The line went dead with a brutal click.
I stared at my phone, the dial tone buzzing in my ear. Kinna hadn’t budged an inch. But in her anger, she’d given me something:“She’s with her family, Sean! At the estate!”
