by Melissa Blue
Scot Appeal
Under The Kilt Series
Melissa Blue
Confessions of a Romance Author
SCOT APPEAL
Melissa Blue
* * *
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Cover Art by Melissa Blue
Self-Published 2016
Contents
AT A GLANCE
BLURB
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
BIO
AT A GLANCE
WEBSITE|FACEBOOK|NEWSLETTER
Other Titles by Melissa Blue
UNDER THE KILT SERIES
Under His Kilt
Her Insatiable Scot
Kilted For Pleasure
Kilt Tease
Scot Appeal
* * *
#DIRTYSEXYGEEKS SERIES
To One Hundred
Down To Ash
Bluest of Blue
Three Little Words
BLURB
Marcus Baird has been called a lot of things: Scottish bastard, heartless, ruthless, but thanks to his new neighbor, he could add ginger buff guy. The ruthless part is true, at least. His current occupation as a handyman is a front to fuel a bidding war between his former employer and the next private equity firm in his sights—an undertaking that should have all his attention, but Ivy makes him an offer he cannot refuse.
When Ivy Stewart imagined losing her virginity, she was at least a decade younger, a yes away from marriage, and her perfect man would make sweet, slow love to her. Waiting for that dream to unfold has kept her watching life from the sidelines. She's done biding her time. It's foolhardy to choose Marcus. He's a man with secrets and an ugly past, but he's honest about what their relationship will be, charming and...he's very good with his hands.
Since Marcus took Ivy into his bed, he's lived a lie. He could be the man she needs. He isn't a workaholic and he doesn't really have a heart of stone. But it's only a matter of time before Ivy finds out the truth, and once again he's nothing but a Scottish bastard.
* You can always sign up for my newsletter to learn about new releases:
http://eepurl.com/n0RR1
1
After six months, two days and sixteen hours of careful and ruthless scheming, Marcus Baird's plan was going tits up from a simple detail he'd overlooked. That wasn't like him, but he hadn't been himself for six months, two days...
Tension snaked up his spine. He rocked on his heels to alleviate the pesky anxiety, and often the thoughtless action helped him think. The crab grass crackled beneath his steel-toed boots as he continued to study the linchpin of his problem. He should have been able to achieve his goal on his own. He'd been so fucking sure of it. Money was on the line for this scheme to work.
He shut his eyes and imagined being back in the New York office he used to wo—practically live in, not his backyard in California. He wasn't wearing work gloves or denims. Sweat wasn't dripping down his spine, making his T-shirt stick to the hollow of his back. Honestly nothing was more comfortable than an Italian hand-stitched shirt. And that's exactly what he'd have had on instead.
“Now,” he muttered, “if a billion dollars were on the line...”
And I was in over my head...
Marcus smiled as the solution became clear. He'd phone an expert. Somewhat appeased for not foreseeing this hiccup, he pulled out his cell, snapped a picture of his problem then sent it to the best wood craftsman he knew.
Less than thirty seconds later, his brother Callan phoned. Instead of a greeting, he said, “Can you get your CEO job back?”
Marcus laughed. “That's exactly what I'm trying to do.”
“By making—I honestly don't know. It looks to be made of wood.”
Once again he glanced at the monstrosity in his back yard. He couldn't call it a coffee table, not with a straight face. Marcus wouldn't even dare to call the piece abstract art. One leg was shorter than all the others. That same corner was rounded instead of squared. Callan was a wood craftsman with a specialty in antique repairs. Any novice's attempts would likely be met with restrained horror. Apparently sharing blood meant Callan didn't have to hold back.
Swallowing any emotion down, Marcus asked, “Whatever do you mean? You don't like it?”
Callan coughed as though he was choking on the words he wanted to say. “Proud is a word.”
Marcus couldn't hold his laugh anymore. “Aye, it's a word in the dictionary. Not exactly something I would use in this circumstance.”
His brother joined in on the chuckle. The edges of it were frayed. “Walk me through what you did. You know what, never mind. I'm sending this picture to Tristan. Wasn't that long ago he was a carpenter. He'll also have pity and help you with your diabolical plan.”
Two months ago he'd laid out his idea to his youngest brother and cousin. Marcus would leave his position as CEO to Scotland International to become a handyman. During the long and mostly cold Scotland summers of Marcus's youth he'd made cabinets and counters, replaced baseboards and hardwood floors. So, not that far-fetched of a career change.
His old bosses at the private equity firm would sweat about shite PR from a former, loyal employee. They'd woo him back and he'd use that leverage to get a better position and power elsewhere. Simple but effective.
The less people who knew the better, but booze had flowed at Callan's wedding and Marcus may have had too much of it. Though Tristan had approved and called the scheme a long con. Even told him the only way Marcus could pull it off was to actually work as a handyman or, at the least, appear capable of being one.
So he bought a house that needed repairs and moved in. Instead of getting started on the baseboards like he should have, he'd decided to make a coffee table first.
Ironic really, he'd spent most of his adult life running from his blue-collar upbringing, only to dash to it when his options were scorched earth or go nuclear to get a better position.
Marcus said, “I prefer nefarious plans. It rolls off the tongue better. And at least once a day I rub my palms together and cackle.”
At that, his brother laughed again. “Sometimes I can forget your humor is as sharp as mine.”
There was a history there, but from the happy note in his baby brother's voice, Marcus wasn't going to dredge it up. What would be the point other than to assuage his own guilt? When their father had decided fucking anything with tits was more important than being a parent, Marcus hadn't taken his brother in to raise him or even show him how to be a man. He'd left that task up to Uncle Douglass.
And that was why when they did talk, they kept the conversation surface level. “It can be.” His brother yawned again. Marcus smiled. “Since I have you on the phone, you bawbags, how's my nephew doing? Why am I getting pics from Uncle Douglass and not you?”
His brother let out a tired sigh. “She's practically just given birth to our boy. How did he even have pics ready to send? I haven't had the time or the sleep.”
The table caught his view again. He kicked it over. He'd chop it later for fire wood—hide the evidence of his failure.
“Yet you had energy to call my masterpiece ugly, you manky bastard.”
“It's Uncle Douglass,” Callan said and that answered it all.
“Aye, he's a manky bastard too.”
Callan snorted. “He has plans to spoil my boy rotten. Don't blame him. William is two weeks old and already he's a spitfire, just like his mum.” He sighed, sounding content. “Okay. So you're not really becoming a handyman or a wood craftsman, but you actually bought your house. You quit your job. You were the CEO, can't climb any higher on the executive totem pole. I get taking a break. You were due one five years ago. No. You walked, Marcus. What's really going on?
Marcus rolled his shoulders as tension squeezed his muscles and let his gaze skip over the backyard. The grounds needed a good hoe. Too much crab grass and un-leveled patches. The fence surrounding the perimeter had mismatched planks. Some were painted white, some were bare wood.
“This is all part of the plan. Trust me.”
It was eighty percent the truth. His emotions surrounding a sudden yearning for home, not just as a cover was complicated and it still didn't entirely make sense to him. His gut had never steered him wrong so he'd listened to the instinct. Now, telling his big-mouth brother all that? Fuck, no. Callan would likely call Quinton and they'd gossip about their big brother losing his edge, probably his mind.
Callan said, “I suspect it has more to do with the fact all your relatives are married and you're just sad and alone.” His brother Callan could barely contain the laugh as he spoke. “I should phone you more often to make sure you're not showering daily with Rogaine because of it.”
Marcus narrowed his eyes. “I would say something about a ball and chain, but I actually like Victoria. I honestly believe when she bronzes your balls and puts them in her purse, she'll take them out once a year to dust them.”
“Awww. You're worried about my balls.”
He smiled. Aye. He loved his baby brother. “Speaking of the fruit of your loins, I'm still waiting on pics of my nephew,” he said to divert the conversation.
His brother muttered something foul at the tactic that only made Marcus laugh, because Callan wouldn't be able to resist.
The noise on the other end muffled as though Callan put a hand over the speaker. “Victoria, where's that one picture of William when he's smiling?” rang in Marcus's ear.
He murmured, “It's gas, brother.”
Victoria yelled back at her husband, “It's on my phone. I think. Hell. I don't know.”
“It's not, I swear,” Callan responded then yelled again to his wife.
Marcus chuckled at the whole thing and planned to wait patiently when a shriek of curses cut across his yard. They drowned out his brother's next words. His gaze drew to his neighbor's second floor. A window stood open, draped in gaudy, pink trimming. Squinting he could see a woman shuffle from foot to foot in the small space as though she was trying to duck an unseen intruder.
His neighbor stuck her head out the window, her eyes wild as her gaze skipped over the yard until she saw him.
Her shoulders hunched in relief. “Neighbor! Yes, you, ginger buff guy. Oh thank God! You're a handyman, right? You fix stuff?”
Ginger buff guy? That was a first. “What's your problem?” he called back as his brother continued to try and find the best picture.
“Water. I'm about to be knee-deep in a river.” She glanced back and grimaced. “Probably an ocean. Shit. Dammit.” She disappeared from the window.
He stepped forward like he could follow her. That urge was also a first. He hadn't met many damsels, and the ones he had never looked to him for saving. At a glance she believed he could help, that was gratifying and...new. He didn't know how to feel about it.
Callan yelled, “His face looks squished in that one.”
Faintly Marcus heard Victoria's rebuttal. “He was just pushed through a birth canal. What did you expect?”
The woman came back. “Can you fix it? It's getting bad—real bad.”
He studied reams of papers detailing a businesses' profits, their losses and gained insight into their earning potential. When he was sure he could almost triple those profits, he'd make recommendations, reassure skittish, small companies nothing at all would change without their say-so.
And sometimes that would mean he'd rip out the guts of a company, reassemble them, sell the business off to the highest bidder and make enough money to wipe his arse with gold bricks.
But this woman with wide eyes and dark hair, dripping with water meant could he fix what she'd broken in her home. He looked the part. To be honest, he could probably even play it well-enough.
That's what he was counting on. He may have had a longing for a home, but Marcus was a shark. Former Scotland International CEO gave it all up to work as a blue-collar stiff. He was a PR nightmare waiting to happen once word spread.
The woman stuck her head out the window even more, squinting at him, her expression desperate.
He muttered into his mobile, “Let me call you back,” and then hung up before shoving his phone into his pocket.
The neighborhood was decent, well below what he could afford, but it had kids, grandparents, newlyweds—it reminded him of home. He could run into the local butcher as easily as a mate from college. And in America that meant most of the houses on the block were built the same.
He cupped his hands around his mouth to extend the reach of his voice. “Open your garage, lass.”
Without a reply, she disappeared from the window again. By the time he'd hopped the rickety fence to get on her side, he could hear the mechanical and squeaky whir of her garage opening. She wasn't anywhere to be found though the door to the house stood open.
As he had suspected, the shut-off value was near her water heater, just like his. Looked older than shite too. He should have grabbed his tools. Well, he'd have to work with what he had. Pulling out the gloves he'd shoved into his back pocket earlier, he slid them on and got to work. Several curses and scrapes later, he used all his upper body strength to turn the spigot in the off direction.
The whooshing in the pipes stopped. Just to be sure, he gave the handle another firm push. He waited to see if she'd yell...something, but nothing came from inside the house. When she still hadn't come back after another minute, he straightened and glanced toward the door. Nothing.
Cautious, but curious now, he went to the open door. A trail of foot-shaped puddles led deeper into the house. He followed them to the bathroom.
Towels covered the floor, most soaked through. In the middle of the sea of fabric stood his neighbor. He hadn't introduced himself though he'd seen her in passing a time or two for the past week. A shame, really, because she was a bonnie lass.
Tightly coiled curls hung heavy, almost to the middle of her back and some were plastered to the sides of her heart-shaped face. Her tank top and short jean shorts showed off her dark brown skin and the curves that came along with her full breasts and hips. Water had spiked her lashes, making her amber eyes seem wide, but not innocent. He knew cunning when it reflected back at him. He saw that same trait in his own blue eyes every morning when he looked in the mirror.
Not sweet, likely not innocent, and definitely drenching from head to toe. Unfortunately on the best of days he was a piece of shite, so he also noticed and lingered over the fact he could see straight through her shirt. Her brown nipples pulled tight against the material. Perfect seemed to be the appropriate word. Fucking creeper was another as he fought to break his stare.
“What did you do?” she asked, her voice too crisp to be husky and still the hairs on the back of his neck stood as though she'd caressed him.
No fawning over him for being a white knight, just a question. Interesting woman, indeed. “I shut off your water.”
She smiled and did this little bounce. “Thanks.”
Jesus Mary Joseph. He glanced around, mostly trying to avoid eye-to-nipple gazing. The putrid orange paint on the walls clashed against the rustic clawfoot tub. And the room
didn't fit the woman. Even in a tank and jean shorts, she had style. Bracelets covered one wrist, thin gold hoops peeked from her hair. She even had an ankle bracelet that accentuated her small feet. Aye, right, she was bonnie. And wet. His cock refused to forget that very important detail.
Marcus cleared his throat, his mouth dry. “Did a pipe burst?”
She jolted as though surprised he'd spoken and then motioned to the open cabinet door beneath the sink. “It's been leaking for the past week so I decided to tighten...whatever it was, and then water just started shooting out everywhere.”
Marcus snorted. Aye. Sounded like something that would end in disaster. He stepped toward the sink and she shuffled out of his way.
She added, “It's been one thing after another with this house so I should have known better.” She pulled her hands down her hair to squeeze out the excess water. The tank top molded to her skin with the movement.
Now he knew she had an innie, and breasts that could fill his hands and still have more lush offerings to spill over. He knelt down extra hard as penance. She was in need, and his baser needs were pipping up like he'd never seen tits before.
“What did you just say?” he asked.
“Just that my house is trying to kill me.” She let out a short laugh that jiggled her tits enough to make his blood rush.
“I know the feeling.”
He stuck his head under the cabinet and focused. The pipe looked to be intact. One rusted valve closest to the wall had broken off. Checking the rest he saw they'd have the same disastrous end soon enough if they weren't replaced.
Marcus rose, wiping his hands on his jeans. “You need to call a plumber.”
