Scandalous Scotsman: A Hero Club Novel

by MJ Fields

  Scandalous Scotsman

  MJ Fields

  Contents

  Introduction

  I Hate Monday

  Still Monday

  Thursday

  Friday

  Still Friday

  The Oasis

  Almost Saturday

  Wednesday

  Still Wednesday

  Thursday

  Balls

  Still Thursday-ish

  Well played, Ms. Bloom.

  Busted

  Piranha

  Water Fire

  Monday

  Still Monday

  Saturday

  Friday

  Still Friday

  Saturday

  Tuesday

  Saturday

  Scotland

  Epilogue

  Gaelic Phrases

  Acknowledgments

  Also by MJ Fields

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2020 by MJ Fields and Cocky Hero Club, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the authors’ imaginations. Any resemblance to actual persons, things, living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

  Editor: C&D Editing

  Editor: Virginia Tesi Carey

  Proofreading by: Deaton Author Services

  Introduction

  Scandalous Scotsman, is a standalone story inspired by Vi Keeland and Penelope Ward’s British Bedmate.

  It's published as part of the Cocky Hero Club world, a series of original works, written by various authors, and inspired by Keeland and Ward's New York Times bestselling series.

  I Hate Monday

  Lizzie

  Seven AM

  The age-old question: What’s the worst pain a person can physically experience?

  A burn?

  Electrocution?

  Tooth pain?

  Childbirth?

  Getting kicked in the balls?

  I find the answer, lying on the floor at the bottom of my stairs.

  Hands down, the worst pain ever is stepping on a Lego, barefoot.

  “Ouch, damnit, shit, fuuuuck!” I cry out in pain and anger.

  “Hello?”

  I hear a muffled, deep voice coming from my empty home. This place has been free of testosterone for over two years. A no-man zone.

  I know I’m alone.

  Is it possible I hit my head hard enough that I’m hearing things?

  Reaching out to grab the towel that had been wrapped around me, I answer my own question. “Thirteen stairs and 2017, anything’s possible.”

  I hear a laugh and ignore it. No need to question my sanity any more than I already do. I roll onto my stomach then push my naked self up onto all fours.

  I look around to see what damage the fall caused to the laptop, sketch pad, pencils, phone, last night’s empty pint of Halo— stop lying to yourself— Ben and Jerry’s, spoon, and the water bottle —um, hum—and empty wine bottle that I was carrying down to avoid another trip up the stairs.

  My laptop isn’t smashed, but my water bottle is spilling all over the floor and …

  “Son of a bitch.” I start to stand when a sharp pain shoots up my leg. “Motherffff-ather,” I nearly cry as I crawl to save my drawings from drowning and my phone from getting water damaged … again.

  I grab for my sketchpad first and hear a groan followed by a graveled, “Fuuuuck.”

  “Oh my God.” I cringe when I see that my fall somehow triggered my phone to not just call but FaceTime someone who has now possibly seen me completely and totally naked. I hit “end call,” and then hit it again, and again, and again to ensure the call has in fact ended.

  Still freaking out, I then hit “delete all calls.” Why? Gut reaction.

  Once I’ve settled down, I look at my pad and see that my happy faces are now wet and smudged to look like charcoal tears.

  Imagine that.

  8:30 AM

  Standing in the ER, because I can’t sit— my ass hurts that bad from bouncing down the damn stairs—I try not to put too much pressure on my throbbing leg, because it hurts like hell, or touch my bare foot to the floor. I’m still stunned it’s not bleeding profusely, because it hurts worse than hell.

  I look at my watch. I’ve lost an hour already, an entire hour, time I will never get back, time I need to get my new classroom in order before they tear it apart for the new academic year overhaul.

  I look around and see people actually bleeding but certainly not dying.

  I’m going to hell.

  But, in all fairness, I don’t have time for this, not when my classroom has now been added to the list of those getting fresh paint, and I’ve yet to preserve the murals and box up some inspiration so they don’t get ruined. It’s not just a classroom; it’s a creative environment. Who the hell decides painting over years of magical murals is a good idea?

  My mentor’s, Ms. Kennedy, the woman whose class I spent many days in substitute teaching, and as her long-term sub in June of last year, room was now going to be brushed over in one single color, dulling and removing all that she was leaving us. It wasn’t fair. Yet, life seldom is.

  I know it’s because creepy Ken, who used to clean this room like it was his job —by the way, it is his job— is still pissed that I didn’t swipe left, or maybe it’s because I blocked him on the devil app. Well, screw you, creepy Ken. I will persevere.

  I make a mental note to toss some Legos on the floor and hope he steps on them. I make another mental note to remind myself to pick them up before my kids start coming in after summer break.

  I look away from the pregnant woman, who I can’t help wanting to tell, This is nothing, sweetheart. Wait till you step on a Lego. Now that’s a kind of hell no breathing exercise can prepare you for … but I don’t.

  “Ms. Bloom?”

  I look toward the hallway.

  “Ms. Valentine,” I sigh.

  “Mrs. Hogue,” she corrects me with a smile as she walks toward me, two cups of coffee in hand. “Are you okay?”

  I nod. “I am. Just a bit banged up.”

  She looks around the room. “Would you like some coffee while you wait?”

  “If I could be honest with you, Bridget, I really don’t have time for waiting. My classroom needs to be boxed up before they start demolishing it. I’m already late getting things done because …” I pause, because admitting I’ve procrastinated would be further embarrassing. “Because —”

  She holds up her hand. “Dr. Hogue is about ready to clock out, but I don’t think he’d mind seeing Brendan’s all-time favorite substitute teacher.”

  Her son, Brendan, is one of those kids you never forget. As a student teacher, I was there when his father was killed in a car accident. I will never forget what a brave little man he was. But it wasn’t until I lost my own father that I realized the strength he truly carried.

  She looks around as if she’s trying to make sure no one is looking, nods toward the hallway, and whispers, “Follow me.”

  Uncomfortably lying on my belly with a cold pack on my ass, completely and totally embarrassed, I wait for Bridget, who is scheduling an appointment with the orthopedic surgeon, who I had to literally pinky promise the very handsome and hilarious British Dr.
Hogue that I would see today.

  The curtain moves, and I look back over my shoulder. Even in pain, I can’t help smiling.

  Looking down at her tablet, she tells me, “Dr. Stewart has an opening at four.”

  “Your husband is not just a beautiful man, he has a beautiful soul.”

  She looks up at me, smiling with her eyes.

  “I bet Brendan adores him. He obviously adores you.”

  She shakes her head. “Back when Ben died, I never thought I would ever be happy again. I never truly believed a man would ever come into our lives and love us like Ben did. Turns out, Simon loves us better.”

  I sense there is a story behind that statement, but I don’t pry. Opening old wounds is not something I care to do to others … just myself on occasion.

  After removing the cold pack from my ass, I roll to my side. “You look so happy.”

  “I really am.” She sits on the stool beside me. “But you’re in a hurry. Your very own classroom. You must be so excited.”

  “I am, but I’d love to hear all about it one day.”

  “When you’re healed up, I’m sure I’ll see you in yoga class again.”

  I don’t tell her that yoga is no longer a luxury I can afford. I simply nod.

  “Do you have anyone to help?”

  “I’ll be fine. Not a big deal at all.” I start to sit up and cringe.

  “Let me help you up.”

  After giving me instructions and asking if I have a ride, which I lie a little and tell her yes so she doesn’t insist I leave my car behind, she gives me a copy of my instructions and the appointment information for this afternoon.

  Crutching through the parking lot, it dawns on me that I have a double shift on Sunday at The Oasis. When I told Shirley, my manager, I had taken a full-time position and would still like to keep a couple weekend or evening shifts at the restaurant, but I wouldn’t be able to help do lunch shifts during the week, she advised me to keep it under my hat until the summer student staff left for college so my shifts wouldn’t get cut. Now, there is no way in hell I can carry a tray while on crutches.

  Anxiety begins to build. I have two weeks until I begin work. With them holding two paychecks, I know I’m a month without a steady income. Add not only an ER visit, but an orthopedic surgeon appointment on top of that, and my credit is about to take another massive hit.

  As well as your date nights with wine and booshie ice cream habit.

  I exhale anxiety as I do a mental financial inventory.

  I may have to forgo my own little version of luxuries, and my credit may take longer to rebuild, but in less than two months, I will have a steady paycheck and a bit of financial stability for the first time.

  Freaking Noon

  Looking around my classroom, camera in hand, I’m happy with the progress. Even creepy Ken can’t stop me from saving every bit of magical inspiration I can from this classroom’s walls where, for seven hours a day, I will be a full-time magic wand wielding wisdom wizard.

  Halfway there, I think as I scoot myself across the floor, holding the back of a chair, with my knee on the seat and my good foot pushing me across the room, where another box waits to be filled.

  When I glance up at the clock, I gasp, and then … I crash into the box.

  It’s definitely a Monday.

  4:15 PM

  When I crutch into my appointment fifteen minutes late, I am the only person, aside from the receptionist, in the office’s waiting room.

  She looks up and smiles then picks up the phone and announces, “Dr. Stewart, your four o’clock has arrived.”

  “Well, that’s just braw that her majesty decided to show up. By all means, let’s not keep her waitin’; show her in.”

  “Of course, Dr. Stewart.” She hangs up and stumbles to her feet, waving me toward the door.

  Before opening it, she whispers a shaky, “I’m sorry.”

  Eyes wide, heartbeat accelerating, I feel as though I’m being sent to the principal’s office. Yet, I also feel something quite on the contrary.

  My ears are tingling. I’m almost sure this … Dr. Stewart … has a wee bit of a Scottish brogue, but I’m unsure. Also … why the tingles?

  That’s never happened.

  I glance over at her and force a reassuring smile.

  “He’s a bit of a stickler about keeping on schedule,” she explains quietly as she opens the door.

  “I could reschedule.”

  “You have a fractured ankle, a battered arse, and from what I gather, a schedule more important than yer health or anyone in the Continental United States, Ms. Bloom.”

  Looking at the back of a tall, broad-shouldered, trim-waisted man in very professional attire, not a white lab coat or scrubs, who definitely has a Scottish accent, I am extra tingly and mortifyingly turned on.

  The curse of Jamie, I think to myself.

  “Exam room six,” he snaps as he passes, not even looking back at me, and I follow him.

  “Dr. Stewart,” the shaky voice of his receptionist comes from behind me.

  He stops, and I’m mid-swing on my crutches and inches from crashing into him, so I swerve.

  In a pile on the floor, I look up, horribly embarrassed, into the green eyes of the angry god— I mean, doctor.

  Eyes narrowing further, he looks from me to his receptionist.

  “I’m terribly sorry,” she apologizes, “but room six is—”

  He doesn’t wait for her to continue, cutting her off. “Nine then.” Without a second glance to me, he hisses, “Help Ms. Bloom up.” He then spins on his heels and storms to the end of the hall, disappearing behind the door.

  “I’m so sorry,” she says as she reaches underneath my arms to help me up.

  “What a dick,” I whisper as I fix my dress.

  She gasps as she hands me my crutches.

  “I’ve dealt with children with more maturity and better manners than that man.” I throw my thumb over my shoulder in the direction of his door. “If he were one of mine, he’d be —”

  “Room nine, Ms. Bloom.”

  I glance back and see him step out of a room, crossing the hall with a tablet in hand into what I surmise is an exam room.

  “You should report him to HR—”

  “Oh, no, Ms. Bloom,” she whispers. “He’s a wonderful man and an even better doctor. Follow me please.”

  “Comparing him to who, Dr. Evil?”

  She gasps again.

  “Should I expect a little mini … him … to be standing in the exam room?”

  “Oh, no,” she whispers.

  “It’s whom, Ms. Bloom,” comes from exam room number nine. Then he mutters, “Eighteen minutes.”

  Annoyed, I make my way to the exam room, where his broad body fills the doorway, back to me.

  “Eighteen and thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two—”

  “That’s enough, Ms. Bloom.” He steps forward and aside.

  “To think you were referred to me by a friend,” I mutter as I move past him.

  “To whom do I owe the debt of gratitude?”

  I huff as I lean the crutches against the stark white wall, hop onto the table, and turn. Then, crossing my arms over my chest, I look up at him. “Tell me, Dr. Stewart, am I gonna live?”

  Still Monday

  Lizzie

  I watch as Dr. Stewart looks down at his tablet, not answering my question but giving me enough time to truly look him over.

  He’s tall, really … really tall, and broad, really … really broad. Bulging shoulders, broad chest, thick thighs … Dear God, why am I looking at his thighs?

  I quickly glance up into glorious green eyes and an arching eyebrow and realize I’ve been caught.

  Busted.

  WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU!!! in shouty caps and all three exclamation points screams in my head.

  He looks back down at his tablet, and his thick, wavy, dark brown hair with copper hues falls slightly, covering his eyes. His jaw is chiseled and lightl
y dusted with facial hair, his lips full and —

  I need to get off. This is ridiculous!

  “Ms. Bloom, I’d like ye to put on the gown.” He points toward the exam table. “Open in the back.” He turns toward the door. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

  Tossing my clothes off, I inwardly curse this day.

  Great, just great, the day from hell will end with me bare-assed in front of a gorgeous man with a shitty bedside manner. Kind of like my seven-year marriage, except my ex, in my eyes, is no longer even the slightest bit attractive. Oh, how one night with your best friend can make the prettiest of men ugly. But, I digress. There are more pressing issues, like the fact that I have on granny panties.

  Oh. My. God. WHAT WAS I THINKING?!?!

  A knock on the door forces me from the train of thought, or train wreck of thought.

  “Ms. Bloom.”

  I quickly pull the robe on and turn to face him.

  The look of bemusement passes quickly over his face then snaps like the big, fat elastic band to my granny panties right back to broody.

  “The back, Ms. Bloom.”

  Immediately, I feel my cheeks flush. “Right.”

  I turn around and quickly right the positioning of the robe, thankful that my bra, a nice demi cup push-up, matches at least the black god-awful cotton briefs. Once situated, I turn back around, straighten my shoulders, and look up, thinking but not saying, Ta-da!