Page 6 of The Great British Bachelor Chase

TEN YEARS AGO…

It wasmy first weekend in London, and I was already having the time of my life. Nineteen, and away from home for the first time, studying in old libraries packed with classic literature, the whole city at my fingertips—and surrounded by a bunch of rowdy students looking for a good time.

And we found it, at the pub down the street from the student housing halls. They were hosting a fancy dress party, and I managed to pull together a Jane Austen-inspired look from borrowed pieces in the dorms: a floor-length linen nightgown, layered with a chemise and almost authentic looking bonnet. Of course, when I showed up to find every other woman in a sexy cat/nurse/nun outfit, it felt like the effort was wasted, but after a couple of pints of ale, I didn’t even care. The pub windows were fogged from the heat inside against the frigid January weather, the cheesy music was blasting, and I felt giddy with freedom and possibility by the time I get to the bar for another round.

“What would you recommend?” I ask the brassy barmaid, who’s not only wearing leopard print, but massive hoop earrings too, like she’s stepped out of those BBC soaps my grandma used to watch. “I’ve tried the English ale,” I add, “and a Welsh beer, too.”

“You want to complete the set with an Irish red beer?” she asks. “Or, if you want something harder, like a Scotch?”

“I’ve actually never tried a Scotch,” I admit, and the barmaid grins at someone next to me.

“You hear that, Fraser? This lass needs your help. I’ll let him take it from here,” She gives me a wink, and moves off to serve someone else.

I turn, confused, and find myself staring into a pair of heart stopping gorgeous blue eyes.

Well, actually, I find myself staring directly at his chest, but when I crane my neck up a few inches, I clock the eyes. And the jawline. And the tawny, rumpled hair.

Wow.

“Elsie’s just teasing,” the handsome stranger explains—in a sexy Scottish accent. “Scotch. Scots.”

“Oh!” I blurt with a laugh, wishing I’d gone for some ‘sexy-insert profession here’ costume after all. That is, until I realize that he’s in an outlandish historical costume, too. A nineteenth-century outfit, with frock coat, cravat, and top hat. “Dickens?” I exclaim in delight, and he gives a bashful grin.

“Almost. William Morris,” he explains, opening his jacket to show me the waistcoat he’s wearing, printed with the classic motif of birds and trees. “I don’t think either of us got the memo tonight,” he adds, as a guy in a soccer shirt stumbles past, his arm around a girl in a skintight catsuit.

“Or, we’re the only ones dressed right, and everyone else fails at fancy dress,” I declare, and he smiles wider.

“I like your version better. So, that Scotch… Did you want to try some?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

Yes, please.

My heart is already beating faster, that delicious shiver of anticipation in my veins. “Only if you drink with me. And promise not to laugh if I can’t take it,” I add with a bold grin. He chuckles, and easily reaches over the bar to grab a bottle and two glasses.

“You’re a regular, then?” I ask, as he pours a measure for us both.

He nods. “I work a shift here, from time to time. Me and Elsie go way back, to my first year, pulling late nights.”

“You’re a student, too?”

“Art school,” he replies. “St. Martins College. Printmaking, with a side of painting, too. I’m Fraser MacKenzie,” he adds, raising his glass.

“JJ,” I reply, lifting mine to clink his in a toast. “Jolene Jameson.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Jolene.”

And even though I’m not wild about my full name—having drunken frat bros break into Dolly Parton will do that to a girl—the sound of it rolling off his tongue in that sexy Scottish burr…

Well, let’s just say the scotch isn’t the only thing that makes me warm from the inside out.

Then I cough, smarting at the strength of the booze. Fraser chuckles. “Easy there,” he says, amused. “This is the good stuff. You need to sip, not chug.”

I recover, blushing. “It’s good,” I venture, after a more cautious sip. “Kind of earthy.”

“That’s just the five-year version,” he says with a smile. “Wait until you taste one that’s been barrel-aged for twenty, or thirty years, even. We like to say you can taste Scotland in every sip.”

“Are you secretly working for the tourist board?” I ask, teasing, and he laughs.

“No. Just a little homesick, I suppose. London’s a long way from Inverness.”

---