by Virna DePaul
Having never been to New York City, Callum had invented several new curse words as he struggled through Brooklyn’s brutal afternoon traffic.
His GPS had screamed at him and he’d screamed right back at it as he kept checking the time flashing urgently at him from the dashboard of his rented Honda Civic. He’d been in the middle of making his fifth illegal U-turn when the auction began.
He’d released a string of ‘fucks’, ‘Godfuckingdamnits’ and ‘son of a bitch’s tits’ as he stomped his foot on the accelerator. Christ, in case he saw red and blue lights flash behind him, he hoped he had diplomatic immunity. He screeched into the tiny parking lot next to the storage facility, leaving the keys in the ignition before sprinting back to grab them and slam the door shut.
Not exactly how he’d pictured this while on the plane ride over from Scotland, but when the fuck had anything ever gone as he’d pictured? He’d pictured chasing Molly that evening in the rain, running through the terminal to stop her from boarding her flight, and instead realized there was no way to know which flight she was on.
“Mack, how do they do it in the movies?” he asked as they drove back after wandering the airport lobby for hours.
“I think you’ve answered your own question, Your Grace,” Mack answered with a kind smile back at him in the rearview mirror.
Callum certainly hadn’t pictured a woman spilling her latte on him when he sat down in his airplane seat, nor the hour-long wait to locate his lost luggage, or the goddamn traffic. But maybe, he thought, it was time that he went back to the messier side of life. That was, after all, why he was there.
The moment he first caught sight of her at the auction, it was like hearing thunder after a strike of lightning. He’d known it would happen, but it still didn’t stop him from jumping.
That’s how he’d felt when he first laid eyes on her blonde curls shining in the bright afternoon sun. He’d expected her to be there. And yet, the sight of her skin in her white tank top and cut-off jeans splattered with paint still made his palms sweat and his heart race and his hair dampen at the nape of his neck.
He was worried his voice would fail him when he shouted out his bid to win the storage unit. His throat was parched, and it wasn’t due to the long airless flight.
Every head turned right toward him, this newcomer with his strange accent at the back of the auction.
But he only cared about seeing just one face.
Nothing else mattered but the exact manner with which Molly lifted her sunglasses and pushed them back into her curls, the exact color of her surprised eyes, the exact shape of her pretty pink lips as they formed a silent ‘o’.
Callum kept his eyes fixed on her as he assured the auctioneer his bid wasn’t a joke. The auctioneer invited anyone to outbid Callum, but didn’t rustle up a challenger, and Callum was awarded the unit with applause.
Callum stood across the pavement from her as the crowd mingled past, catching glimpses of their gossip about this foreign fool who had just paid a fortune for a junky old storage unit. He remained silent until they were alone, staring at one another under the brutal afternoon heat rising in waves off the concrete.
Drawing up every ounce of courage, he walked toward her.
“I lied,” he said as she blinked up at him. He swallowed and scratched at the back of his neck. “I did overhear your conversation that first day we met, before we went to the school in Kelso.”
She nodded. It was just the tiniest tilt of her chin downward.
“I lied about saying it was improper for the Duke to compete in the Games,” he said. “I felt I wasn’t deserving of the enjoyment Jamie and I used to share after my role in his death. I was afraid everyone would think that, too.”
Pain flashed in Molly’s eyes, but she remained quiet. Listening. Watching.
“I lied when I told you that I’d changed, that I was ready to be myself again.” Callum cleared his throat. “I didn’t know it at the time, but I’m still worried about disappointing the memory of my father, of Jamie. I’m still afraid that I’ll make a reckless decision as the Duke of Roxburghe. The temptation to still act like someone else is still there.”
His confession made her eyes soften. He stepped a little closer and his voice took on a darker edge when he spoke next.
“But I never, ever once lied about the way I feel about you, Molly Lane.” He said it fiercely. “When I said you’re special, it was the truth. When I said I wanted you to stay with me, it was the truth. When I said you are the reason I want to live fully and wildly and deeply, feeling everything, seeing everything, loving…Well, that was the truth.”
A hint of a smile played at her lips. It was her turn to move closer.
“I don’t remember you saying that last one,” she said in a mischievous whisper.
He reached into his back pocket and held out the front page of Kelso’s local paper.
“I’m saying it now.”
It was an article about the unveiling of the Duke of Roxburghe’s official portrait. Molly realized that the picture accompanying it was not of the real Priscilla Rose’s portrait, but of her own, dirtied with streaks of paint.
Her eyes flew through the article that described how it had been painted, how it had gotten dirty, how it had been selected. She kept glancing at Callum, as if unable to believe that this was real. That the words printed in black ink were real. That he’d truly said what he’d said about her in front of his mother, all of his town, all of the nobility of Scotland.
“Back home, I know I messed up, and I know I’m not quite back to being the man I want to be, but I hope that with you, Molly, I can get there. And I--”
“Callum?” she interrupted.
He raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”
She grinned. “Would you kindly shut the fuck up and kiss me already?”
She was already raising herself up, and he immediately lowered himself down and in the middle their lips met and he was no longer in the lot of a storage facility.
He was on the floor in front of a fireplace, tracing the way the flames danced across her stomach.
He was in a forest with his fingers digging into her waist, her hands splayed across his chest.
He was standing behind her as they looked at each other in a mirror.
He was twirling her on a dance floor.
He was leaning with her against the front of his car.
He was in the here and now, his hand on her neck, in her hair, skimming along her cheek. His chest was rising and falling with hers, his sighs were slipping out with hers, his lips were melting against hers.
It wasn’t in the rain of Scotland, but their lips were the same.
Sighing and blushing, Molly pulled away and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. The redness in her cheeks deepened, and he grinned.
“What is it?” he asked.
Squinting against the sun, she said, somewhat shyly, “I was right after all.”
He frowned. “Right about what?”
She reached up to brush her fingers through his hair. “In the sun,” she dreamily explained. “In the sunlight, I swore you’d have red in your hair.”
He smiled. “Jamie’s hair was just about as red as it comes. He always teased me that my hair was the reason I’d never be a proper Duke of Roxburghe.”
She stepped even closer and grinned up at him as her hands snaked around to his ass. “All you needed was a bit of American sun to show you what was there all along.”
He wrapped his arms around the small of her back.
She pinched his ass. “Now, as to being a ‘proper’ Duke of Roxburghe, I’ve heard quite the opposite,” she said.
He pulled her tight to his chest, so he could feel the rapid rise and fall of hers.
“What exactly have you heard, Miss Lane?” he whispered.
“I’ve heard he’s a brave leader,” she whispered back. “He follows his own path, his own heart, his own soul. He can be reckless at times, but always acts out of love for his
people.” She paused, and when she continued her tone was very different, low and dangerous. “I’ve also heard there’s a beast in him. When he lets it loose, he’s quite the passionate lover.”
Callum grinned. “Is that so?”
“Yep. I’ve also heard he likes to fuck in, around, and even on cars.” She looked up at him, her blue eyes dark as she bit her lip. “Do you have a car here, Your Grace?”
Her fingers slipped into his back pocket, and with a victorious grin she found his keys.
“It’s a Civic,” he said, chuckling.
Molly winked. “Spacious.”
She dragged him behind her, and he followed.
He’d always follow.
Epilogue
Molly
“Are you going to tell me what we’re doing down here?” Molly asked.
In the early morning light stretching across the lower castle hallway, Callum winked at her and twisted the key in the lock. He swung the door open, swept his arm across his body, and bowed. She stepped inside the smaller corridor, but then turned back to him with a raised eyebrow.
“I remember this hallway.” With a quick grin, she glanced around for the exact stone wall he’d pinned her against. “Are we here for a repeat?”
“Later maybe.” He laughed, grabbing her hand and walking with her down the corridor to a door near the end. “But first, I have to show you something.”
She cocked her head, curious what was behind the door, and curious about the eager smile on his face.
“This hall is indeed where we first enjoyed each other’s body…”
“Nice!” She laughed.
“But, it’s also where we store our family heirlooms.” He pointed to doors that lined the hallway. “All the priceless jewels and ancient pieces of history and everything that is most important to me is locked behind these doors. Memories of my grandparents and my father and my brother. My family.”
Molly didn’t miss the emphasis and importance he put upon that last word. She looked up into his eyes, and despite not knowing what they were doing down there, she felt the weight of the moment. His cheeks reddened under her steady gaze, and he fumbled around in his pocket and awkwardly held out for her a small brass key.
Her fingertips brushed against the warmth of his palm as she picked up the key and eyed the brass lock next to her.
“Go on,” he said.
She twisted the key in the lock and hesitated. Looking over her shoulder, she saw Callum nod, fidgeting with his fingers in excitement. Her curiosity growing and growing, Molly turned the handle and pushed open the heavy, ancient door.
The moment she stepped inside, lights flickered on. Frozen where she stood, she placed her hand over her mouth.
Cherry wood shelves lined the spacious storeroom. Each was inlaid with warm lights that cast an inviting glow over every single item from the storage unit in Brooklyn.
Her mother’s art was preserved in magnificent frames, behind shining glass. Her father’s instruments, shined and rejuvenated, sat in expensive stands along the floor. Books, dusted and repaired, were lined up neatly in their protective glass-covered bookshelf. Sculptures rested on marble stands, sheet music was organized in leather-bound sleeves, and all of her mother’s art supplies were cleaned and presented in open shelves and labeled bins.
To see it all like that, instead of shoved into the dingy storage unit, made everything feel closer to her. Her memory suddenly opened up and started playing in her mind like a brilliantly colored movie. The sight of her father playing the cello in the corner and the wiggle of her mother’s tongue from concentration as she sculpted the woman featured in the center of the room. The chance to see her father yet again hold his instruments with joy and hope suddenly didn’t seem quite as impossible as it had in Brooklyn.
It was all part of her new life here in Scotland.
Callum had helped pay off all of their outstanding bills and negotiated the termination of their lease and purchased their flights and made arrangements. Most importantly, he’d helped her convince her father to come to Scotland and move into the castle with them. He’d helped her pack and made everything easy and stress-free.
And now he’d done this.
It was unimaginable. Too perfect. Too unreal.
She didn’t even try to stop her tears as she stared in awe at the magnificent room.
“I told you I would take care of it.” Callum came around to see her face, a contented smile on his lips.
She pulled her eyes from her parents’ precious things and looked at Callum as if she wasn’t sure he was real. She dropped her hands and shook her head and tried to put into words everything passionately stirring in her chest.
“This must have—How did you even? And the frames and the stands and…I mean you must know how much it means…” She grabbed his hands and squeezed, looking earnestly into his eyes. “Thank you.”
He bent over to kiss her cheek and she felt her fingers quiver around his.
“This is important to you, and so it’s important to me. If it means the world to you, it means the whole goddamn universe to me.”
She laughed as her eyes again roamed the expansive room with all the wonder of a child receiving every present they ever wanted at Christmas. Her life would never be the same. There was a new horizon — and he was standing right beside her.
“Take a look if you want.” He wrapped his arm around her shoulders.
“Show me.”
They were down there for hours. Callum listening attentively as they circled around the room. She’d point to this piece or that and share the story linked with each one. Eventually, she led him toward the door, certain she was starting to bore him, but he guided her to another instrument and then another book and asked what it meant to her.
It was only after she’d said something about each and every piece that he finally nodded, and she suspected it was because he saw the contentment and peace she felt. He took her hand and they walked to the doorway. As Callum moved to turn off the lights, she stopped him.
“Wait,” she said, and tugged him toward a small flute near the back.
She stretched out her arm, hesitated, and then again reached forward and grabbed the flute. Of all the instruments, it had been her father’s favorite, because it had been the first instrument Molly’s mother had given him. It was engraved with a heart surrounding their initials. She stared at the engraving, then looked up to find Callum’s eyes on her, soft and understanding.
“We did it, right?” she said. “We faced our fears and we’ll keep facing them until they’re conquered. Together. I think my father can face his fears, too. And maybe it starts with a flute.”
“No better way to start than with a flute.”
Molly stood on her tiptoes to kiss him. “I might be able to think of a better way to start.”
Callum raised his eyebrow. “What, a bagpipe?”
Molly smiled and smacked his chest. “No, Your Grace, my Callum. A paintbrush.”
Thank you for reading His Royal Hotness
If you enjoyed spending time with these characters, be sure to check out my other books,
including my sports romance series, Going Deep.
Also, be sure to check out my sports romance series, Going Deep.
Here’s a sneak peek of Book 1, Down Deep:
DOWN DEEP Excerpt:
Prologue
Football players possess the ideal combination of strength and endurance.
And the best asses of any other athletes.
At least, that’s what Sheila, Camille Pollert’s best friend, once said. Sheila’s cousin Mindy had thought Sheila was crazy. She’d claimed no one could beat soccer players for sheer sexiness.
But with her gaze focused squarely on #24’s ass, Camille was definitely calling the play in Sheila’s favor.
Of course, since Camille had been in love with the boy currently wearing the #24 jersey since freshman year, she supposed she was a bit biased.
Foot
ball players grunted and tackled each other, and the shrill sound of a whistle filled the air. She quickly took a few photos before wandering around the outskirts of the field. Always looking for the perfect shot, she hardly even noticed the screams and shouts of the students in the bleachers or the off-key blaring of the marching band.
A senior in high school, she had been part of the yearbook staff since ninth grade, but this was her first big assignment. But she wasn’t just taking photos for the yearbook. Some of the photos she was taking for herself, to hide away in her box of photos documenting her crush on the most popular boy in school: Heath Dawson, player #24.
Camille heard one of the coaches yell something at the ref, and the ref warned him to back off. He didn’t. She walked over to the long bench where some of the home team was sitting, all of them watching the ref and coach argue. She took a photo, liking how the shot radiated the edginess that she could feel coming off the team in waves.
Finally, the ref made an offside call against the visiting team and instituted a five-yard penalty. The players on the bench cheered while those on the field began to huddle up for the next play. Camille stayed at the bench, snapping photos.
At one point, Heath jumped into the air to catch the ball. Turning upfield and toward the end zone, he weaved agilely around the cornerback. Out of nowhere, the free safety came in, lowered his shoulder pads, and hit Heath square in the chest, causing the ball to fall.
The defensive cornerback scrambled and fell on the ball, recovering it for the defense.
The angry screech of the whistle sounded.
Camille held her breath as Heath lay on the ground, unmoving, but then finally, he shook himself off and stood. Looking both angry and crestfallen, he jogged back to the sidelines.
She blushed, her heart picking up speed when she realized he was headed right toward her where she stood by the water table. He was still several feet away when he took off his helmet. He shook his head, his sweaty dark locks brushing across his forehead, and he smiled gamely when a teammate slapped him on the shoulder. But his expression grew cloudier when he glanced up into the stands at an older man—Camille had seen them together enough to know it was his father—glowering, yelling something that she couldn’t catch.