Page 113 of Some Like It Scot
If I’d have him?
Lord above. A perfectly delicious Scottish man shouldn’t go around saying things like that to an emotional American womanwho found him dangerously attractive, without fully counting the consequences.
So I did what any self-respecting woman would do.
I grabbed his face and pulled him right into another kiss.
Which he didn’t mind, because neither of us pulled away for... well, I’m not sure, but I was rather breathless and so was he.
“You’re crazy,” I murmured, patting the front of his shirt as my eyes started burning. Why in the whole wide world would a man like him want to be with me?
“Aye.” The simple word, spoken so confidently and with such a grin, nearly sent me vaulting right back into giving him a vigorous reward.
But my vision blurred instead. “I don’t understand, Graeme. What could you possibly see in me to counteract my bent for mayhem?”
“What do I see?” His hand slipped to my neck, his pale gaze roving over my face as if searching for an answer. “Can’t I just like you because of who you are? How much I enjoy being with you?”
Could he? My history of fleeting—and sometimes catastrophic—romantic relationships provided no assistance... or point of reference. “You did say you have a list at some point, if I recall. And it would be helpful in believing you, because... the only thing I’ve really done to impress you is attempt to die.”
He laughed. “You’ve done a little more than that.”
“Okay, accidentally wound others, including you.”
His grin spread all the way to his eyes, and from the way he looked at me, I was beginning to think he enjoyed self-harm. “Katie.” He laughed again, bringing his other palm to caress my cheek. “You’re funny.”
“You like me because I’m funny?”
“Aye.” He shrugged. “And you’re kind.”
Not what I’d expected.
“You don’t see it, do you?” He shook his head, still staring at me with such intensity and tenderness, I barely held on to enough brain power for comprehension. “You help those around you all the time, like it’s the most natural thing to do. I’ve seen it with Dupont and Lennox. You even saved Mark the Eejit from being overrun by Kirsty, at your own peril. You’re smart and clever, which anyone can tell from talking with you, but especially when reading your writing.”
He’d read more of my writing?
“And, whether it’s from what you’re searching for in life or your faith, or maybe a wee bit of both, you bloom with this sort of”—he waved his hand a little as if searching for the word—“hope about you. Even when the eejit betrayed you, you didnae really want him hurt. And unlike him, you’re not seeking to steal attention from others or puff yourself up. Even in your online presence, you’re promoting other people and their stories or the places they live. Not yourself.”
My grandparents had seen those things in me and told me so, but their voices had been gone from my life for almost seven years. And it was easy to forget the good parts about yourself when the record playing in your head only recounted all the clumsy, ridiculous, broken parts on repeat.
He framed my face with his hands, but this time his approach came slowly. Gently.
Maybe there was something to the magic of this place. Even their Scottish closets. Because once his lips touched mine, any doubts about our compatibility disappeared against the warmth of his mouth against mine. As large and gruff a man as he appeared, his lips moved with infinite tenderness, kindling a slow and wavering spark into a full-blown bonfire in my chest. I wound my free hand into the folds of his butler’s jacket. Holding on? Oh yes. Afraid I might wake up? For certain.
He wrapped me in an earthy-sea scent, which seemed so at home in these wild highlands. Woodsy. Him and his work, blended togetherwith the stories and tales pouring through these mountains. I’d never thought how a person could belong somewhere so certainly, but he did. Here. And maybe I belonged with him.
His thumb stroked my jawline as he took his time, teasing my lips with his, and I gave in to it all. The touch, the tenderness, the overwhelming sense of being found. Seen.
I could have blamed the faeries.
Or thanked them.
But if yesterday’s kiss kindled my blood, this one captured my heart.
And I realized how very dangerous Graeme MacKerrow was. He’d just killed all of my ready-made plans. Everything I thought I believed about myself and my future? Dead.
Mr. MacKerrow. In the linen closet. With a kiss.
Our date was still on!
