Max focused on the pastor. Father Andrew seemed to be a few years younger than himself. He bestowed a smile on each of his parishioners, until a worried expression passed over his face as he looked at one woman—Moira, the shy one from Quilting Central and Glenna’s guardian. Moira didn’t meet Andrew’s eye, but kept her face fixed on her hymnal. It was clear that Andrew was in love with Moira; Max knew it instantly. He always caught these kinds of micro-emotions, whether he wanted to or not. He looked one more time at Moira and Andrew, wondering what might be going on between them.
The service was pretty similar to the one at home, except for the kneeling, with Andrew delivering a nice sermon about helping thy neighbor. Back in Houston, Max didn’t know his neighbors. With all his time spent at work, he hadn’t gotten around to making friends at the apartment complex. He glanced about the church and was struck that he knew the names of more people here in Gandiegow than he did back home, and he’d lived in the same apartment for six years.
At the end of the service, Andrew asked if there were any announcements. Kirsty, the new schoolteacher, stood. She was also one of the people he’d met last night at the restaurant. She was a petite brunette who was into yoga and taking charge of things.
“As most of you know, the set for the Christmas pageant has seen better days. We’ve gathered together some supplies to build a new one. I’m looking for volunteers to help construct a nativity scene. Is there anyone who could help this afternoon?”
Pippa’s hand shot up in the air. “Mr. McKinley and I will help.”
His mouth fell open.
She turned to him and shrugged unapologetically. “Ye can’t ignore Christmas in Gandiegow.”
But ignoring Christmas was better than the alternative.
The last time he trusted in Christmas was three years ago. His mom, everyone, convinced him it was time to give up his grudge against the holidays. But when Max tried to get into the spirit of things and sent Jake on a Christmas errand, his little brother was hit by a car and paralyzed. The holidays had sliced his family’s heart in two. Again.
Pippa was looking at him, apparently expecting an answer.
“Fine,” he finally whispered back. He didn’t mind helping people out. He never had. But Christmas wasn’t the only thing that he’d boycotted. The last time he’d used a hammer for more than hanging a picture was before his dad died. He felt too guilty to work with a tool since.
Crap. He hated when he remembered stuff like that. Even to this day, grief could overtake him, making him feel helpless. Automatically, he reached for Pippa’s hand, but stopped himself, jerking back.
When she looked at him questioningly, he turned away.
After church, Pippa went to speak with Kirsty, who was not only spearheading the set construction but was also the pageant director. Max wanted to slip outside for some breathing room, but person after person kept stopping him. Father Andrew first, shaking Max’s hand and thanking him for volunteering his time to work on the manger scene. Then Bethia to see how he was feeling. Even Amy made a point to ask how the warm clothes were holding up. When Moira nodded in passing, Glenna pulled away and ran over to him. She yanked on his hand as if to pull him down to her level.
“I want to give Mr. Christmas a hug.” Glenna’s lilting voice tugged at his heart.
He knelt down and hugged her back.
“Talk to Santa Claus for me,” she whispered in his ear. “I want Cousin Moira to be happy again.”
Max had no words for her, but nodded his head as she looked into his eyes. Now, how am I going to do that?
As she ran off, Taog and Murdoch cornered him, wanting to recount the drinks they’d had last night. Max broke away to stop Deydie and thank her for the chicken stew, which he declared was as much responsible for his quick recovery as Bethia’s tinctures. Deydie beamed at him with an alarming grin.
The experience of a tight community was almost surreal. He hadn’t shared this much conversation since college. Back home, he mostly talked about work, either technical issues or corporate gossip. He’d certainly never had the occasion to thank someone for chicken stew! The villagers reminded him a lot of his own family—a bit nosy, but endearing. How had he developed a strong connection with Gandiegow in such a short period of time?
Pippa returned and grabbed her coat from the rack. “We better hurry to noonday meal with my da. I promised Freda and Kirsty we would be back in an hour to work on the new nativity scene.”
Max took her coat from her and held it up so she could slip her arms in. He stopped himself from doing more. He could tell her hackles were already up that he’d played gentleman to her lady.
Lunch was a quick affair of potato soup and fresh bread—provided by Freda. As promised, they were out the door within the hour, leaving the McDonnell to visit with Abraham Clacher, one of the old fishermen.
Back at the church, the manger crew consisted of Father Andrew, a couple of teenagers named Samuel and Robert, Freda, Kirsty, and Ross—Pippa’s supposed beau.
As they walked to the rear of the building, Max considered introducing himself to Ross. Not because Pippa was promised to the fisherman; Max needed to befriend all the people of Gandiegow if he was to close the deal with the North Sea Valve Company.
But at the doorway of the makeshift workroom, he stopped short. The smell of sawdust and the sight of workhorses and carpentry tools strewn out across the floor knocked the breath from him.
Old memories flooded his senses.
Helping his dad in his workshop, aka the garage, was one of his earliest recollections. It was their special father/son time. So many of his memories of his dad were when they had tools in their hands. Max always felt comfortable telling Dad things when they were alone like that. There were never any lectures in the workshop, only the sharing of wisdom among the claw hammer, the palm sander, and the scraps of wood.
But Max’s last memory of the workshop was filled with regret. He’d bailed on his dad, wanting to hang out with friends instead of the old man. Go on, his dad had said. Have a good time. We can work on this bench later. If Max had known then it would be his last chance to build something with his father, he would’ve ditched his friends in a heartbeat. But he hadn’t known. All opportunities to make it up to his dad for being selfish had been obliterated when the oil rig exploded.
A warm hand touched his arm. Max shifted his gaze to find Pippa looking at him with concern.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” His voice sounded scratchy. “I’m fine.” He walked farther into the room to prove to himself that he had overcome those feelings long ago.
Ross picked up two hammers, handing one to Max. “We haven’t met yet. I’m Ross Armstrong.”
“Max. Max McKinley.”
Ross sized him up. “Are ye any good with a hammer?”
“I used to be.” Max hefted the tool from one hand to the other.
Kirsty clapped to get their attention as though they were her students. “Here are the plans for the collapsible stable and manger. I printed them off the Internet. If we do it right, the pieces should convert to a food stand for the children to use during the summer months.” She handed out their assignments.
Max headed off to a corner to work alone. Between the smell of fresh-cut wood and the buzz of the circular saw, he couldn’t think clearly. Why was Pippa torturing him by dredging up old memories? But she couldn’t know how painful it was to use tools again, or how much he missed his dad.
He glanced up. Pippa stood there as if he’d conjured her.
She grabbed a handful of nails. “Can I help?”
No. He wanted to work alone. “Sure. Can you get me three slats?”
She retrieved them and held them in place while he hammered. “Ye’re skilled,” she remarked. “Like you’ve built a manger before?”
Max sat back on his heels. “Yes. My dad taught me. We mad
e the manger for our church when I was twelve.” He chuckled, remembering more.
“What?” Pippa said. “Why the smile?”
“That wasn’t the only manger we built together. We decided to make another crib, similar to this, one for my little sister to play with.” He shook his head.
“And?” Pippa prompted.
“Bitsy, my kid sister, decided, instead of using it for her dolls, she wanted it for herself. Christmas night, my dad called me in to see her sleeping in it. Her legs were hanging over the edge. It’s a wonder the thing didn’t collapse under her weight.”
The warmth of the memory filled him—his dad’s hand on his shoulder while the two of them watched Bitsy sleep. He glanced at Pippa now, grateful she’d helped him to remember something good.
They continued to work together, and within the span of three hours, the crèche was done. Max wiped sawdust from his hands. He helped the crew put the room back in order and move the hybrid manger scene/food stand to the far wall. Before they left, Father Andrew thanked each one for donating their time and talent.
Pippa brushed sawdust from Max’s arm. “Ye did a fine job.”
It was nice having her beside him, but things were getting a little too cozy again. He stepped away from her and retrieved his coat. “I better head back to the pub now.”
Pippa put her hands on her hips. “Not so fast, Mr. McKinley. Aye, ye better head back to the pub to clean up, but then we’re expected at Quilting Central.”
“Why? Am I required to make a quilt next?”
She laughed. “Nay. To Christmas carol. ’Tis a lovely way to send off the quilters at the end of the retreat.”
Good God. Was she going to make him take part in every single Christmas tradition while he was here in Gandiegow?
He screwed a smile on his face. “Shouldn’t I rest? Wasn’t I recently in grave danger with the Highland flu?”
“Singing is good for you.”
“Says who?”
“Says everyone. Besides, caroling at Quilting Central will help people forget that ye’ve come here to steal our subsea shutoff valve.” She’d said it without missing a beat, as if that sentiment was always first and foremost on her mind.
“Let’s get one thing straight, Pippa—”
She cut him off. “We’ll have to argue later. Deydie said we better be on time or else. The quilters’ bus is headed back to Glasgow at six p.m. After that, ye can rail on me all you want.”
She was so full of life and determination. Her competency, her drive, was incredibly sexy.
Without warning, all blood in his head rushed southward. He had the urge to grab her and kiss her senseless. He stared at her for a few steamy moments, then finally answered, “Fine.” The word was sharp, begrudging—which had little to do with caroling and more to do with how little control he had over himself when he was near her.
She blushed as if she could read his dirty mind. “No dawdling either. I don’t have time to come and get you; I need a shower, too.”
Not the image I need right now. He ran a hand through his hair. Maybe he should suggest they shower together . . . to save water and time.
She put her hands on her hips. “What are you grinning about?”
“Nothing,” he said, imagining all sorts of angles at which to soap her up.
“Well, stop it.” She looked at her watch. “And get going.”
“I am.” But not before he gave her the once-over again. For good measure.
Thirty minutes later, when Max walked into Quilting Central, he was hit with estrogen overload. Four men from the church choir and two fishermen—Ross and his brother, Ramsay—stood at the back wall, a small battalion against an army of women, especially gray-headed women. Max ignored the appreciative female glances as he stalked by them to join the men.
Pippa noticed the women, too, and gave an eye roll, but then she moved on to the business of arranging the carolers. “Stand there, Max. Everyone else gather around.”
The makeshift choir did as they were told. Pippa started singing “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing” and they joined in. Max was surprised he remembered the words. The last time he’d sung carols was at a school Christmas concert. Next they sang “Good King Wenceslas.” As he looked out at the quilters and their genuine smiles registered, his annoyance at Pippa began to fade. The quilters clapped along with “Jingle Bells,” and then the choir finished with “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.”
As they disbanded, Pippa touched his arm. “Still angry with me?”
“Not so much.”
“Does that smile on your face mean you’re not the Grinch you thought you were?” she asked.
“No,” he lied. “I can keep my inner Grinch under wraps when I have to.”
“Nay. You enjoyed yereself, I think. I told you singing was good for you.”
He didn’t get to respond as the Glasgow women converged. Pippa had mercy and steered the crowd toward the cookies and hot cocoa.
Max watched her from across the room as she entertained a large group with an animated story. He couldn’t hear what she was saying over the noise in the room, but he could tell it was one whopper of a tale. Suddenly, she pointed at him and they all laughed, but instead of getting up in arms over it, he waved back good-naturedly.
Bethia sidled up beside him. “Our Pippa is something special.” She examined him closely, chewing her lip in thought.
Max didn’t know what Bethia was getting at, so he answered cautiously. “Pippa does have spunk.”
Bethia nodded. “Aye. One in a million.”
Aye, indeed. There was something magnetic about Pippa McDonnell. But he wouldn’t let on that he agreed.
Pippa left her audience and joined him and Bethia, her face flushed from laughing. “And Mr. McKinley, what are you doing for dinner? Are you coming to my house and feasting with the McDonnell and myself?”
He would like nothing more than to remain near her. But the Highland flu wasn’t the only thing he was susceptible to here in Scotland. Wanting to spend more time with Pippa was running rampant through him. And that was not good.
“Thanks for the offer, but I’m bushed,” he said. “I’ll grab a bite before I go to bed.”
The light in her eyes dimmed for a moment but she recovered quick enough. “Aye. You must keep up yere strength.”
“Yes, we have a lot of work to do,” he reminded her.
“Then I’ll wish you good night.” She stuck out her hand as if they were only acquaintances. Maybe it was for Bethia’s sake.
He took it and had quite the shock. A sizzle pulsed between them.
Hell.
Bethia was too observant. She raised her eyebrows and canted her head in the direction of Ross. A little reminder?
As if on cue, Max’s cell phone dinged. A text.
Pippa heard it, too, and she let go.
He glanced at the message. Miranda. He should’ve waited to check it, or at least hidden the screen. When Pippa saw who was texting him, her face tensed and she stepped away. But physical space wasn’t the only distance she put between them.
“I’ll see you in the morning, Mr. McKinley.” Her smile was gone, her tone professional. The warmth between them had turned to frigid air.
“Fine.”
Pippa had the right of it. Between now and then, he better regain some perspective. The electric attraction between them was only a distraction. And though she claimed there was nothing there, in Gandiegow’s eyes Pippa was promised to Ross.
Chapter Seven
In the morning, Max dressed for business in his suit and tie, but wearing the warm boots Pippa had given him at the factory.
No more Christmas Roundups, no more Christmas carols. No more bullshit. The e-mail from Miranda this morning had been a veiled threat. He should’ve been more reassuring in his text back to her last
night. If Max didn’t make headway on this deal soon, she’d send someone who would. In other words, he’d be out of a job. He went downstairs and waited for NSV’s chief engineer. She would not derail him today.
Pippa showed up wearing jeans and a blue cable sweater, not the business attire he expected.
She gave him the once-over. “You’re certainly not dressed appropriately for today’s task.”
He glanced down at his dark suit, hoping she meant they were going to get their hands dirty. “I don’t mind if we’re working on the production lines, but afterward we’ll discuss the MTech/NSV partnership, right?”
She screwed up her face. “Not exactly.” She held out the last word.
He didn’t budge. “How not exactly? We’re going to work on the production lines, but we’re not going to discuss the partnership?”
She shook her head, not making anything clear. Surely she didn’t expect him to do any more Christmas crap today.
She gestured toward the steps behind the bar. “Hurry and change. Make sure to wear Amy’s dreadful sweater.”
Max stayed rooted to the floor as a terrible feeling crept over him. “What’s this about?” He prided himself on his good manners, but felt close to losing his temper.
She flipped her long curls over her shoulder. “We’re running errands today.”
“What kind of errands?” Maybe they were heading into Inverness to pick up something for the factory. That would give them plenty of time to discuss the deal. “Did you order some new equipment?”
“Ye’re wasting time.” She thrust her hands on her hips impatiently. “If ye must know, we’re running Christmas errands. We’ve packages to deliver.”
Good grief. Not again.
He was drawing the line here and now. It was one thing for her to have the kids call him Mr. Christmas, but it was a whole other nightmare to impersonate Santa Claus himself.
Max glared at her. “No. No way.” He was done playing her game. “No more Christmas activities. I’m here to discuss the MTech deal and nothing else.” Or nothing more. He’d already crossed the line and kissed her, but it couldn’t happen again.
The Accidental Scot Page 10
