Some Like It Scot (Crescent Cove Book 1)

by Marlie May

  “Haven’t finished.” I withheld an even firmer “no” to the going out to celebrate. Mom just didn’t get it. The bad blood between me and Dad had solidified into concrete.

  Tiny creases appeared in her otherwise unwrinkled face. “How much time do you have before your book’s due?”

  “Plenty.” I tilted my head toward my house. “Want to come in?”

  She snorted. “Maybe I should stay outside. Because, if you’re still working on your book, I imagine it’s as bad as your lawn.”

  My feet shuffled in the deep grass. “You know my place will look decent again soon, once I’m done.”

  Banging erupted from out back. Couldn’t Dad leave it alone?

  “It’s not that bad,” I said. Reaching out, I held the door open for her. “I’m going to clean any day now.”

  She stepped into the living room. Shaking her head, she started for the kitchen, saying over her shoulder, “I don’t know why you don’t hire someone to do this for you. You can certainly afford it.”

  Maybe because I liked doing it myself. Most of the time, I kept everything spotless.

  Victoria had been after me all the time to hire someone, too. Yet another way she thought I ought to spend my money. Other than on her, that is.

  “Not bad,” Mom said, looking around the kitchen.

  It was surprising what loading and running the dishwasher could do to make the room look better.

  Mom frowned. “What if a woman came by and saw how messy your home is?”

  The day I put off writing to please a woman was the day I moved into a cabin in Siberia. “Why did you come over?”

  “Got a minute to talk?”

  I pulled out a chair at the table for her. “I need to go into town this afternoon, but sure.”

  “Plenty of time, then. While your father’s occupied out back, I want to plant a little bug in your ear.”

  Seated across from her, I tipped my chair back onto two legs. “Shoot.”

  Her eyes widened. “Chair down.”

  It plunked forward before I remembered this was my house, my chair, and my right to tip it back if I wanted to. “Mom.”

  “What?” Her smile grew. “We better get to it before your father comes in and starts ripping out your kitchen cabinets.”

  Which did need replacing, but the place was a rental. No need to gut it before I moved out.

  “Your dad and I have an anniversary in three months.” Mom’s long sigh shouted bliss. “Thirty years. Can you believe it?”

  Thirty years if they ignored the six-month hiatus they’d taken when Dad was with that other woman. Did she realize I knew? All she’d told me and Gunner back then was that Dad was away on a job, only able to come by a few minutes on weekends. Would’ve taken a hacksaw to cut through the tension in the room when he was there, though.

  I’d been fifteen at the time, beyond the age of believing in fairytales. Hearing her crying each night made me lay awake, cursing my father’s name.

  “Can you help me put a party together?” She held up her hand. “I’ll pay for everything, of course.”

  Money wasn’t the issue, but the excited gleam in her eyes couldn’t be denied. “I’d be glad to.” Followed up with more fake eagerness. “What do you need?”

  She pulled a folded piece of paper from her pocket. “I made a little list.”

  Little was an understatement. I barely held back my groan.

  “I think we should hold it at your house,” she said.

  Location was the least of my problems. I stared at the list. Where was I going to find a white-painted, wooden arbor and honeysuckle?

  Dad bustled in through the back door. “Deck’s all set. I replaced a few boards that were punky.”

  Stuffing the list into my pocket, I stood and tried not to grimace when Dad delivered his usual bear hug. The added back pats only made it worse.

  “If you want, I’ll weed-whack the grass along the fence.” Dad’s grin enveloped me like it had when I was five and my father handed me a fishing pole and told me to hop into the truck. “I know you’re busy with your book.”

  Of anyone in my family, my father’s acceptance of my writing romance novels came as the biggest surprise. Not sure why, but I always expected him to mock me.

  “How’s that deadline coming?” Dad’s grin held true.

  “I should be done soon.”

  “Book four, right? The last in your series.”

  “Your father can’t wait to read it,” Mom added. She clapped her hands. “He said your couple is finally going to find their happy-ever-after!”

  Another thing that astonished me. My father not only supported my career, but he also bought a copy when each book came out. Got me to sign it and displayed it on the top shelf of their living room bookcase.

  Mom stood and pushed her chair back underneath the table. “You ready to go?” she asked Dad. Her excited gaze turned to me. “We’re taking a drive down the coast.”

  I played a neutral card. “Sounds fun.”

  We walked outside, where Dad engulfed me in another hug. “You got time to come by to help me on one of my jobs, son? I’d love to see you.”

  Mom shot me a sharp look.

  “How about a week from Tuesday?”

  “Great. Great,” he said. “I’m out at that development on the south side of town.” He climbed into the driver’s side of his truck.

  I kissed Mom’s cheek and reached for the passenger door handle.

  She stilled my hand. “Don’t mention this to your father. The party’s a surprise.”

  What would my father think of that? “I won’t say a thing.”

  Standing on tiptoes, she kissed my cheek. “Thanks, honey.”

  After she climbed inside and buckled, Dad started the vehicle and backed down the driveway.

  I watched them drive away, wondering how I was going to put on their anniversary party and maintain a smile on my face.

  Shaking my head, I returned inside, where I dressed in khaki shorts, a tee, and hopped into my car to drive downtown.

  No reason I couldn’t get to my committee meeting early.

  Lark

  Saturated with sweat, I paced up to my house after a long run.

  “Good thing you went early,” Paisley said from where she sat on the deck. “Supposed to get hot later today.”

  Pretty hot already. I wiped my forehead with the edge of my tank. Not that it helped. Sweat immediately dribbled down my temples. “I went shopping, by the way.”

  “I saw.” Color filled Paisley’s face. “I might’ve sampled your peach rings. Had to make sure they weren’t rotten.”

  “Hope you saved me some,” I teased. I’d worked hard for them, scrambling to retrieve them from Dag.

  “Umm. Maybe one or two. Or ten.” She grinned.

  And Dag thought they weren’t for Paisley?

  “But I made a pot of coffee as compensation,” Paisley said, rising. “I’ll fix you a tall glass with ice, and extra cream and sugar.”

  “Do that, and all is forgiven.” I strode up the front steps and crossed the small deck to open the front door. Excited yips announced Cally, who dashed toward me, tail swirling a mini tornado. I dropped down to deliver pats before letting her out into our small, fenced-in backyard.

  After cleaning up, I joined Paisley and salivated over the tall glass of iced coffee waiting for me.

  She nudged a plate my way. “Eat.”

  My belly growled. I munched through a baby carrot, then dove into the slices of cheese she’d laid beside the veggies.

  Paisley squinted at the newspaper on her lap. “Did you see? There’s a big ad in here for the Highland Games. This event is going to be awesome.”

  “Esteban, the committee chair and head of the Foundation, placed them.” Ads for the Celtic festival, which would take place in four weeks’ time. The Games would include Scottish strength competitions, authentic food and dance, exhibits, and a bagpipe performance. “If things work out as I hope,
we’ll raise enough money for the Sweetwater Cancer Foundation to expand services, like buying groceries, paying bills, and even granting limited wishes.”

  Paisley looked up from the paper, crinkling her eyes. “Sounds rather ambitious.”

  “Esteban said so, too, but my goal with the Games is to raise one-hundred-thousand-dollars.”

  “Whoa,” she said, her eyebrows lifting. “I’d think forty, or even fifty thousand would be more than enough.”

  “I’ve set my heart on it.”

  “I hope you raise that much, but maybe be realistic? I’d hate to see you disappointed.”

  “It’s going to happen.” I leaned across the tiny table between us, squinting at the ad, which looked fantastic. “Love the tartan banner across the top.”

  Paisley stroked it. “Pretty, huh? You’re going to wear a tartan, right?”

  “Just a t-shirt.” Authentic tartans were expensive.

  As a Foundation volunteer, I’d spent the last six months helping Esteban coordinate the Games. My tasks had included everything from seeking donations from the Elks Club to ensuring we’d have enough port-a-potties at the site.

  “You’re meeting up with the committee group this afternoon, aren’t you?” Paisley asked, turning the newspaper page.

  “Yup. For the first time, the entire group will be there.” So far, it had just been me and Esteban coordinating things from his office, though I’d been in touch with most of them via email. “I can’t wait to meet the other members in person.”

  * * *

  Two hours later, I was ripping out my hair and kicking myself.

  I was going to be late for my committee meeting.

  When my mom moved to Florida, she gifted me with Petunia, a faded red truck. Only a vehicle named after a flower would pull a diva fit and leave me stranded, unable to get to the town hall on time.

  I’d begged a jump from a neighbor twice this past week, so it was hardly surprising she’d failed me again. Knowing I’d have to buy a battery stirred my irritation as I jogged into town, my tote bag slapping against my hip. Another hundred bucks out the door.

  “Please, please, give me that job.” The managerial position would generate almost twice what I made waitressing in a month. Too often, we relied on 100 Ways to Mask Ramen. I’d bought the cookbook at a yard sale as a joke, but it was no joke trying to make oriental noodles taste gourmet.

  I raced up the stone steps leading to the town hall, and my sneakers squeaked on the tile flooring as I flew down the hall to the room at the end. When I thrust open the door, it banged against the wall. People at the table jumped. Too busy scrambling through my tote bag for a pen and paper, I didn’t note faces.

  “Sorry I’m late.” To think I could run miles without breaking a sweat. Now, I gasped after speed-walking a fraction of my usual distance. It hardly seemed fair.

  “No worries, Lark,” Esteban said. “We decided to give you a few more minutes to arrive.”

  “Thanks.” Stooping down, I re-tied my sneaker.

  Esteban spoke over my head. “I believe you know everyone in the group, except our new member. You might recall me mentioning he’s an expert in Scottish history. I’m confident he’ll help keep our Games authentic.”

  The sixth committee volunteer. I knew everyone from random meet-ups around town, but not this guy. A college professor, if I remembered correctly from Esteban’s email. I’d pictured an older, gray-bearded man wearing a tweed coat with patched elbows, a pipe in his mouth. A total cliché and unlike any college professor I’d ever met, but I had an active imagination.

  Esteban chatted with Alice while I worked my way between the table and wall, aiming for the remaining seat. Dropping into the wooden chair, I turned to the professor, hand extended, a frazzled smile on my face. My smile limped faster than curls on a hot summer’s day.

  “Dag Ross.” He shook my hand. “Nice to meet you, Lark.”

  I snapped my jaw closed. “You’re the Celtic expert?”

  “You got it.” Curse him for that sexy smirk.

  “I didn’t realize you knew anything about Scotland, let alone the Highland Games.”

  He narrowed his eyes on my face. “Don’t recall you asking.”

  Ye dinnae ask me, now, did ye lass?

  Why was I translating his words into Duncan-speak? I needed to unscramble my brain. This was Dag Ross, not Duncan Magnus Ferguson MacLeod, the hero I’d spent many evenings drooling over.

  “What are you doing here, anyway?” I dropped my tote beside my chair.

  “Excuse me, Lark. Do you know Dag?” Esteban’s brown eyes flicked between us. He rubbed his short, gray hair, before resting his tan forearm on the table.

  “We’re…friends.” The comfort in the word settled over my limbs like a soft blanket. We were friends, weren’t we? Sort of? Without the dating part messing things up.

  “Maybe more than friends.” Dag lowered his head near in my ear, and his words slid across my skin like hot maple syrup. “Once you say yes to going out with me, that is.”

  While my heart pattered against my ribs, my brain cried, danger, danger! I shifted away from him, where I couldn’t smell his minty scent. Or feel the heat of his body. This man kept my head spinning faster than a ride at the fair.

  “You’re really a Celtic expert?” Admiration and disbelief shone in my voice. Every time I turned around, he pulled a fast one on me. I’d thought he was a simple handyman, but no, he was a man of many skills, including—

  “Actually, my master’s degree is in Celtic Studies, from the University of Edinburgh. Got my bachelor’s in Celtic Languages and Literature at UMaine.”

  “Why Celtic Languages?”

  “Because I love Scotland.”

  I sputtered, my tongue tied in knots. Who was Dag and what being had possessed him since he’d juggled my oranges at the supermarket? “Why work as a handyman, then?”

  His smile widened, and he patted his flat abs. “For the exercise.”

  I floundered under the weight of the assumptions I’d made about him.

  Lowering his head, he said, “When you going to let me show you how handy I truly am?”

  God. I needed to keep the smile off my face because it would only feed his ego. “You’re driving me out of my mind.”

  “Enjoy that about me, don’t you?”

  I snickered, then slapped my hand over my mouth, horrified I was encouraging him.

  “All right, then,” Esteban said. He walked over to an easel holding a whiteboard. Removing the cap off a marker, he held it poised over the surface. “Let’s get started. We have four weeks until the event and plenty of work to do.” In big letters, he wrote Highland Games, and July 8, 9, & 10. Then: History, agenda, assignments, discussion. He returned to his chair. “Since this is the first time we’re all together outside of emails, I thought we should start with some historical information about the Games.” He nudged his gray-bearded chin Dag’s way. “Would you care to elaborate for the group?”

  “As many of you may know,” Dag said. “The Games have been around since before written word. Some historians suggest the origin of what we know as the Highland Games today can be traced back to the 11th century when King Malcolm of Scotland hosted a foot race to the summit of Craig Choinnich. He planned to make the fastest runner his royal messenger.”

  I blinked at Dag, overwhelmed by this educated version of a man I’d dismissed as a flirting handyman.

  “Modern Games,” he said. “Those events made up of athleticism and dance, actually began during the Victorian Era, after the Act of Proscription in 1780.”

  “Very interesting,” Esteban said.

  Wait a minute. My brow knitted together while Dag explained that the Act had banned all Scottish culture, including sword training, the bagpipes, and even wearing a kilt.

  1780 wasn’t right. Hadn’t it been…?

  “The events have since become a way to preserve Scottish history and culture. Games are held all over Scotland, and compe
titor’s in the Heavy Events compete to win the most points by the end of the season. I love how we’re bringing Scottish heritage to Crescent Cove by hosting our first Highland Games.” Dag settled back in his chair while the others smiled and one woman applauded.

  I leaned toward Dag. “I think you got your date wrong. Wasn’t it—”

  “1780. I’m confident about that.”

  “You could be wrong.” One of my favorite Highlander books took place during the last years of the Act, which I was equally confident ended in 1782.

  “I never have a problem admitting when I’m wrong.” His assured tone sent irritation spiking through me. “I don’t think I’m wrong about this, but—”

  “If you two would focus on the discussion, please,” Esteban said.

  I squirmed.

  Esteban continued, “I was mentioning teams. Since there are six of us, I’m pairing everyone up. We can report back at our next meeting.”

  “Sounds great,” I said. But my mind kept returning to Never Mock A Highlander, which took place when the Act of Proscription ended. I’d have to look the date up later.

  Dag’s thigh nestled against mine as if this was Antarctica and he worried he’d freeze. Why didn’t I move mine away?

  Esteban handed a folder to the couple on his left. “I’m giving you two food and clean-up.”

  “Kind of lucky we didn’t get food, right?” Dag said with laughter in his voice. “If you’d been assigned that, we’d starve.”

  “That’s not true. I can cook.” If I had to. “In fact, tomorrow, I’m going to—”

  “Please, folks,” Esteban said.

  “Sorry,” me and Dag said at the same time.

  Everything I’d worked for during the last six months was falling to pieces. Because Dag was so appealing, I couldn’t ignore him. He was hijacking my hormones. My every thought process. If I wasn’t careful, I’d melt into a puddle underneath the table.

  Or let down my hair.

  Esteban smiled at the older woman on his right. “Alice, I’m pairing myself with you.”

  “Don’t get any ideas, honey.” She tapped his forearm. “I’m a happily married woman.” The gleam in her eyes made it clear she was joking. “What do you have in mind?”