Under Scottish Stars

by Carla Laureano

  Malcolm opened the patio door for Serena, and they stepped into the windowed conservatory they used as a dining room, its twelve-person table large enough to accommodate the family that always seemed to congregate on free weekends. Right now, it was decorated with streamers and balloons and a big paper banner that said, “Happy Birthday, Mara.” Serena had already set the table with pink flowered paper plates and matching plastic cups.

  “Where is everyone?” Malcolm asked with a frown.

  In answer, a round of laughter rang out from the front reception room. They followed the sound and found Serena’s family gathered on the large overstuffed sofas, Jamie and Andrea on one, Ian and Aunt Muriel on the other. Grace was kneeling in the corner, the ever-present camera in her hand, snapping photos of the three children standing stock-still in the middle of the room. Or at least Em and Max were motionless. Mara was wiggling with typical one-year-old enthusiasm, grasping one of Kylee’s fingers for balance. The teen looked absolutely smitten with her baby “cousin.”

  “Simon says . . . hop on one foot.” Jamie grinned as Em and Max started hopping. It took Mara a second to catch on before she started jumping in an adorably awkward two-footed hop. “Simon says, turn in circles. Stop.”

  Em and Max froze, but Mara kept on spinning, helped along by a grinning Kylee.

  “Mara wins!” Jamie said, scooping up his adopted daughter and smothering her in kisses. She laughed delightedly while Em and Max groaned over their loss. “Uh-oh, someone needs a nappy change.”

  “Here, I’ll take her.” Andrea held her hands out for her little girl, but Jamie just bent down and kissed his wife’s nose.

  “I have it. I’ll be back straightaway.”

  Andrea watched her husband and daughter with an expression just short of beaming and then fell back against the sofa. “All right, you two. Are we playing for second place?”

  Serena let out a happy sigh. Maybe it was the emotion surrounding her own news, but having everyone together in one place filled her heart to bursting. The house never felt more like home than when it was the center of a family gathering, even if it still felt strange to take over the status of hostess from her aunt. She plopped down between Muriel and Ian on the sofa and kicked her feet up on the padded ottoman.

  “How are you, Sis?” Ian slung an arm around her shoulders in an affectionate hug.

  “Good. Having fun?”

  “I am. Grace won’t sit down and relax, though.”

  “I heard that,” Grace called. “And this is relaxing.” But she rose and perched on the ottoman across from him. Ian tugged her forward by the strap of her camera and stole a kiss, earning him a smile from his wife in return.

  Jamie came back into the room, swinging a giggling Mara by the arms. “So I think there’s a birthday girl ready for cake and presents. What do you say, Serena?”

  “I think that’s an excellent idea.” She hoisted herself up from the sofa, and she couldn’t help but think about how difficult that was going to be in a few months, when she had a baby bump to maneuver around. She’d been so intent on the birthday party and the need to break the news to Malcolm that she hadn’t let herself dwell on what that meant. The first thrill of excitement shot through her at the prospect.

  The whole assembly moved to the dining room and adjacent kitchen, Muriel and Em following Serena to help move the cake and punch to the table while everyone else took their seats. As they filed in—the whole extended family that would be growing even more in the future—Serena felt tears well up again.

  “You okay?” Malcolm whispered in her ear, putting his arms around her.

  “Blasted pregnancy hormones,” she whispered back, but she smiled through her tears.

  It was impossible not to feel grateful when she looked back on how much her life had changed since coming to Skye more than a year ago. She had felt alone and disconnected, gripping what she had so hard that she couldn’t grasp the blessings God had for her future. And now the center of her universe was a home built of love and laughter, all proof that the greatest gifts were the ones that could never be planned.

  A Note from the Author

  ONE OF THE MARVELOUS THINGS about the Isle of Skye is its northern latitude, which produces a state of perma-twilight throughout much of the summer but sometimes makes it hard for authors to work stargazing opportunities into books whose time lines stray past spring. Peak stargazing in the Highlands and islands ends in late April rather than the first week of June as I’ve implied in the story.

  For travelers wishing to see this spectacular location for themselves, I highly recommend a trip in mid- to late April, when you can enjoy both the stargazing and the beginning of the spring warm-up. You won’t regret it!

  Discussion Questions

  Throughout the book, Serena struggles with insecurity and self-doubt over her choices. Why do you think that is? How have her past experiences affected how she feels about her abilities and worth? Have your past relationships—both platonic and romantic—colored the way you think about yourself?

  Serena feels guilty about wanting more from her life beyond motherhood. Do you relate to her need to have something of her own? In what ways is this important to her becoming a whole, thriving person?

  Malcolm takes great pride in his work. However, he gives up his dream job for someone else not once but twice. What does that tell you about what he truly values? How do you think his childhood experiences might have shaped what’s important to him?

  In Serena’s mind, art, faith, and passion are intertwined—when she lost one, she lost them all. Why do you think that is? How do you think those three things might be interrelated?

  Muriel tells Serena that until she stops blaming God for her heartaches, she will never hear His voice over the sound of her hurt. Do you think this is true? What examples can you give from your own experiences?

  Malcolm has a habit of defaulting to humor when he’s uncomfortable or at a loss for words. He rarely speaks of his faith openly. How might his behavior and choices be a better gauge of his beliefs and values than his words? Give examples.

  How does Serena’s attitude toward God change from the beginning of the book to the end? What events contribute to that transformation?

  About the Author

  CARLA LAUREANO is the two-time RITA Award–winning author of contemporary inspirational romance and Celtic fantasy (as C. E. Laureano). A graduate of Pepperdine University, she worked as a sales and marketing executive for nearly a decade before leaving corporate life behind to write fiction full-time. She currently lives in Denver with her husband and two sons, where she writes during the day and cooks things at night.

  DON’T MISS OUT ON THE REST OF THE MACDONALD FAMILY TRILOGY BY CARLA LAUREANO

  Five Days in Skye

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  Available in stores and online

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  CHAPTER ONE

  AT LEAST THEY COULDN’T FIRE HER.

  Andrea Sullivan propped her elbows on the bar and buried her head in her hands. How had things gone wrong so quickly? One minute she’d been on the verge of closing a half-million-dollar deal. The next, she’d nearly broken her hand on the jaw of a client who thought her company’s offerings extended to favors she had no intention of delivering. Three years of working her way up the ranks toward VP of sales all down the tubes because one man couldn’t keep his hands to himself.

  No, her company certainly wouldn’t risk an ugly public legal battle. They didn’t have to. Her boss had other, more subtle means of showing his displeasure.

  As punishments went, Scotland was a big one.

  “What’s so terrible about Scotland?”

  Andrea jerked her head up and met the bartender’s gaze. Had she said that aloud?

  The man’s eyes crinkled at the corners as he ran a towel along the polished mahogany surface of the bar, evidently amused by her slip. Round-faced and topped with a thinning mop of dishwater-blond hair, he lo
oked as stereotypically English as the London pub in which he tended bar.

  She let out a long breath, her shoulders slumping. “Scotland’s cold, it’s miserable, and the food is horrible.”

  “Oh, it’s not so bad as all that, is it?” His expression turned from amused to sympathetic. “Take in some countryside, tour a castle or two, maybe some high street shopping . . .”

  “This is a business trip. Trust me. My dream vacation involves sunshine and umbrella drinks on the beach, not rain and fog in some backwater village.”

  If she’d only managed to keep her temper in check, she’d have been spending the next week in the tropics with the promise of a fat commission and a guaranteed promotion, not serving time in Scotland babysitting a celebrity client who suddenly wanted to dabble in the hotel business.

  James MacDonald.

  She’d never heard of the man. Then again, she didn’t own a television. She spent so much time on the road, she wasn’t even sure why she owned an apartment. She seemed to be the only one on the planet, however, who hadn’t heard of the Scottish celebrity chef. Half a dozen restaurants, four cookbooks, his own television show. Even her taxi driver had been able to name MacDonald’s three London restaurants without hesitation.

  Andrea toyed with her half-filled wineglass, watching the golden liquid slosh around the bowl. “I should be on my way to Tahiti right now, not sitting in a pub drinking a rather mediocre glass of wine.”

  “That’s because you go to Paris to drink wine,” a deep male voice said over her shoulder. “You come to London to drink ale.”

  Andrea straightened as a man leaned against the bar beside her. He was tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in a pair of dark slacks and a business shirt, the collar unbuttoned and sleeves rolled up to show off muscular forearms. Dark hair worn a little too long, brilliant-blue eyes, handsome face. Handsome enough she took a second look and immediately wished she hadn’t been so obvious about it. His grin made her heart do things it was certainly not intended to do.

  She couldn’t prevent the corners of her mouth from twitching up in a smile. “Now you tell me.”

  He glanced at the bartender. “Get me a 90 Shilling, and whatever light’s on draft for the lady.” He looked back at her. “We can’t have you leaving London thinking that pathetic chardonnay is the best we have to offer.”

  “That’s very thoughtful.” She offered her hand. “I’m Andrea.”

  “Mac.” He held her hand just a moment too long while he studied her face. Her stomach made a peculiar little leap. She quelled it ruthlessly and drew her fingers from his grasp while he slid onto the barstool beside her.

  “Now tell me why you’re sitting here instead of on what sounds like a brilliant holiday in the South Pacific.”

  Because my temper finally got me into more trouble than I could talk my way out of. Aloud she said, “I’m doing research on the owner of this pub.”

  “Ah, the illustrious Mr. MacDonald. Brilliant chef, but not the full quid from what I hear.” The sparkle returned to those devastating blue eyes, and she had the feeling she was the butt of a private joke.

  Andrea couldn’t pass up the opportunity to gather some local gossip. She plowed onward. “You know him?”

  “That depends on why you’re asking. Is it business, or is your enquiry of a personal nature?”

  “Business. I’m supposed to meet him in Inverness tomorrow, and I’m looking for a little background.”

  “Are you always so unprepared for meetings?”

  Andrea bristled. “Of course not. I only got the call from my office a few hours ago. I’m now fortifying myself for a long night of web browsing back at the hotel.”

  “I can see that. Well, I’d say this pub is a pretty good reflection of him. Comfortable, slightly sophisticated. Best selection of locally brewed beers in England and some truly inspired food.”

  Andrea looked around. Typical decor, lots of wood and brass, dim lighting. Stained glass and leather accents. Upscale but not uptight. Welcoming but not sloppy.

  “Middle of the road,” she murmured. “But that still doesn’t tell me much about the man.”

  “And why do you need to know so much about him?”

  The bartender returned with Andrea’s drink and poured Mac’s from the bottle into a glass, watching them as if they were his evening’s entertainment.

  “My job requires rapport,” she said. “I can’t convince someone we’re right for the project if I don’t know what he’s looking for. I can’t win him over if I don’t know which buttons to push.”

  “Hmm.” He sipped his ale, his eyes dancing over the rim of the glass.

  Was he laughing at her? “What?”

  “I’ve just never heard a woman worry about which buttons to push when she’s wearing a skirt that short and heels that high.”

  Heat crept up Andrea’s neck and into her cheeks as she tugged down her suit skirt. It wasn’t as if she were wearing a miniskirt. The length was perfectly modest when she wasn’t sitting on a barstool. The heels were admittedly less conservative, but she wore them for height, not for looks. Then she realized he was watching her with a satisfied smile. She had taken the bait. Who exactly did he think he was?

  She stilled her fidgeting and fixed him with a direct stare. “I could close a deal in jeans and tennis shoes. I just don’t like being unprepared. Besides, I’m used to dealing with hotel groups with hundreds of properties, not celebrities with nothing better to do than play innkeeper.”

  “So MacDonald’s a dilettante?” He swiveled on the stool and leaned back against the bar, arms crossed over his chest. Repressed laughter flashed in his expression.

  “Frankly, I don’t know the first thing about him. I’ve never seen his show, I certainly don’t cook, and I can’t fathom why anyone with a successful career in London would want to open a hotel on the Isle of Skye.”

  “Now that just sounds like bigotry. We Scots have an overabundance of national pride.”

  Andrea’s cheeks heated again. How could she not have noticed? His accent, while refined, had a distinct Scottish burr. She was really off her game if she had failed to pick up something that obvious. Still, he had needled her about both her clothing and her professionalism, and she had to pry the apology from her lips. “I didn’t mean to be rude.”

  He waved a hand in dismissal. “You’ve got bigger problems if you know so little about your client. Though you’ll do fine if you avoid the pejoratives about his native land. I do think you have one thing in common.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You both think work is a terrible reason to cancel a trip to Tahiti.”

  A reluctant smile crept onto her face. “I can drink to that.”

  “Slàinte, Andrea.” He clinked his glass to hers, took a long pull of the ale, and hopped off the stool. “I should get going now. I would suggest you do the same, Ms. Sullivan. You’ve got a long day ahead of you tomorrow.”

  She blinked at him. “How did you—?”

  “Night, Ben. Her drinks are on the house.”

  “Night, James.”

  Mac—or the man pretending to be Mac—winked at her and sauntered out of the pub.

  “That was . . . He was . . .”

  Ben seemed to be fighting a smile. “Mr. MacDonald, yes. I daresay that’s the first time not only has a woman not fallen all over him, she’s actually insulted him to his face.”

  Andrea’s heart sank to the soles of her Jimmy Choos. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  “I wouldn’t worry too much. I rather think he liked you.”

  Right. She glanced back at the door, but James MacDonald had already gone. Why, oh why, did this happen now? She had to hook this account if she had any hope of getting back into her boss’s good graces, and now she’d be spending the next few days trying to placate a celebrity ego.

  She’d never been particularly proficient at groveling.

  Andrea hopped off the stool and reached for her purse before she rem
embered Mr. MacDonald had taken care of her bill. She found a couple of one-pound coins in her change purse and set them on the bar as a tip, even though Ben had done nothing to signal her impending disaster. Would it really have been so difficult to give her a shake of the head, a raised eyebrow? But of course he’d stay out of the matter when his boss was involved.

  “Thank you, Ben.” For nothing.

  “Good night, Andrea.” He slipped the coins beneath the bar and added, “Don’t think too badly of Mr. MacDonald. He’s a good man, beneath it all.”

  Andrea forced a smile and hiked her handbag onto her shoulder, then escaped onto the dark London street. At nine o’clock on a Sunday evening, traffic had tapered off, and the usual haze of diesel fumes faded into the musty scent of damp concrete. She made a left and strode toward the Ladbroke Grove tube station, irritation speeding her steps.

  How many times had she lectured her junior account managers on the importance of maintaining professionalism at all times? Every contact was a prospective client or referral. She’d just proved her own point in a particularly embarrassing manner.

  Not that she excused James MacDonald for his role in this debacle. She knew his type. Wealthy, good-looking, famous. He expected women to fall at his feet, and God forbid one had a mind of her own. She’d probably be dodging his advances for the next three days while she tried to convince him she was more than a pretty face. He was lucky she hadn’t smacked him for commenting on her clothing in the bar.

  Truthfully, she hadn’t been in much shape to do anything but put her foot firmly in her mouth. It had been years since she’d let a man rattle her, and it had taken only a smile and a lingering handshake to do it. Heaven help her.