Some Like it Plaid

by Angela Quarles

  Connall shook his head, unsure of the man’s meaning, his druid’s magic failing him for the first time.

  “Well, knock it off, all right?” The man stepped away, muttering under his breath, only the words “cold” and “brings out the weirdos” reaching Connall.

  As he departed, a young lad approached at an alarming speed on a flat, wheeled board. Connall grabbed his upper arm before he could dash past.

  “Hey, watch it,” the lad barked, his eyes flashing in annoyance. But as he took in Connall towering above him, his eyes widened, and he yanked two white things from his ears. “Keep your hands to yourself.”

  “Where can I procure a wife?” Pride be gone—surely a man his age would know.

  The lad stepped on the edge of the board, snapping it up into his palm. “I don’t know, dude, try Craigslist.” He shook his head, hopped back onto the wheeled board, and rolled away, dodging between the strolling people.

  Connall didn’t know who or where Craig was, but if he had a list of available wives, he would find him. He gazed around at the bizarre people and behavior.

  Aye, the sooner the better.

  Chapter Two

  As night descended, Connall worked his way back to the only haven he’d seen since appearing in this land—the stretch of shorn grass and hill he’d tumbled down. He’d not dared stray too far in his search for a wife.

  His inquiries as to where he could procure this Craig’s list of wives had proven baffling, the words peppering the answers not finding a meaning in his head.

  He’d try again in the morn. Meanwhile, he needed a place to lay his head. Knee-high platforms dotted the area, and on them stretched various sleeping forms. While these were indeed an improvement upon his own pallet, he had to question the wisdom of sleeping with no shelter overhead. Did it not rain in this land?

  Or perhaps these were set out for travelers, so they wouldn’t have to sleep on the ground. With that thought easing him, he approached one of the few empty beds and put his hand to his kilt.

  He grunted. This was not enough to wrap around himself. Hand still poised at the leather binding it to his waist, he studied the other sleepers. All kept themselves clothed.

  He curled his lip. So be it.

  He tucked an arm under his head and settled in. The constant noise, however, kept him from closing his eyes. How could these people sleep with this continuous din?

  A tinkling sound grew louder, separating itself from the rest, and he angled his chin to see what new strangeness approached. A man aged at least one-hundred winters hobbled toward him, two animals trotting beside him. Though of a different form, not only to each other, but to any that he’d ever seen, the general lines told him these were some manner of dog.

  “It’s not safe to sleep here, young man.” The older man motioned to the left. “Come, come, follow me. There’s an extra bed at my shelter.”

  Connall studied the newcomer, struck by a sense of familiarity, despite his age.

  “Mungan?”

  Even as he said the name, he knew it wasn’t their spellcaster. The nose, while similar, was longer. The jaw less square.

  The man placed his hand to his heart and tipped forward slightly. “Norton, Emperor of the United States and Protector of Mexico.”

  Emperor? He knew leaders of some distant lands held such a title, and he was humbled to have come across this land’s ruler so soon. Mungan’s magic had come through for him.

  The magic will provide equivalents for you.

  And while relief flooded him, it was laced with a feeling of averting a danger he hadn’t fully realized he’d faced—for Mungan to provide such magic meant he’d have been out of his depth otherwise.

  What did this cost you, hearth brother?

  …

  One week later

  “Come on, just a little farther,” Ashley Miller murmured as the F-line streetcar slowed its approach to the stop at 5th and Powell.

  Close enough. But before she took the leap, she surveyed the faces waiting at the stop or strolling by. None were the two hired goons searching for her. Goons—such an outdated and melodramatic term, but that was her life right now, wasn’t it? When she first learned last month that in addition to being saddled with her ex-husband’s debts, a bookie was also tracking her down to make her pay another one, she wanted to divorce his ass all over again and then drop-kick him from the Golden Gate Bridge.

  It was why she preferred taking the streetcar with the tourists instead of BART, despite the higher price tag—it gave her the freedom to get off quicker than a bus, and no one would expect a resident to use one daily.

  When would one of her shit ton of job applications come through? But wouldn’t they just trace her to wherever she landed?

  She shouldered her messenger bag and hopped off the side just as her phone dinged with a text. She pulled it up.

  Sweet. An Etsy sale. She shoved her way through the just-got-off-work crowd, angling toward the three-story former warehouse turned hipster mish-mash of upscale condos, shared office space, and the section within she was temporarily calling home—a podshare.

  “Jesus, I hope not for much longer,” she muttered.

  With rent so high in San Francisco, this was all she could afford, but it was clean and safe, so she put up with it. God, she just wanted to lie down and sleep for like…five days? Was that too much to ask?

  This morning her software engineering team had grated and frayed her last nerve, second-guessing everything and acting as if this wasn’t their zillionth test run on the code. “One more week. And then I can sleep.”

  Aaaand, she was talking to herself. Yep. She needed some friggin’ rest.

  She pushed against the glass door and stepped into the warm tones of the podshare, an artsy combo of paint, exposed wood and brick, and slate chalkboards adorned with colorful, inspirational quotes.

  “Cards Against Humanity Game Night Tonight. Sign up here,” declared one. “Why do you love podshare living?” asked another, with scribbles below in various handwriting. And because the place was run like a well-oiled machine, the Christmas decorations had been taken down while she’d been at work and replaced with a space to write New Year’s resolutions.

  Writing Get out of this podshare and dodge the bookies probably wouldn’t go over well.

  She walked past them, pulled open her locker, and shoved her messenger bag onto the top shelf. She removed her fishing tackle box full of beads and other crafting supplies—she’d better fill the order now while she was still mostly awake rather than wait until she got off her bistro shift later. Because when that shift ended? Her only plan was to crawl into bed to grab the five hours of sleep she’d have before heading into work in the morning.

  She lugged the box to her designated section of the podshare, climbed the wooden steps between two sets of bunk beds, and then crawled into hers on the right. She’d tried to make it homey, with butterfly LED lights strung across the peach-colored wall and clippings from travel magazines of places she longed to someday visit, but it was still a bed in a room full of beds. Really, it was nothing more than an upscale youth hostel, but everyone else here thought it was the dawn of a new era of living, some even choosing to telecommute from the open, shared offices in the back.

  Nothing like the Victorian-era home she’d lived in less than six months ago. But she wouldn’t dwell on what used to be. This was her reality now. Her nightmare. She needed to keep her head down, work hard, and just get through it. And avoid those bookies like her life depended on it—because it did.

  She checked the time on her phone and retrieved the Etsy order. One custom dragonfly necklace, coming right up. She fished out the ordered item, enclosed it into a box, and addressed it. Since she had a few more minutes before she needed to change for the bistro, she tabbed over to Craigslist. Perhaps her notice of handcrafted items from a local arti
san had caught someone’s attention.

  “Coming to game night tonight?” a voice called from below. Ashley peered over her railing at the perky brunette, the social coordinator for the podshare.

  “Sorry.” Not sorry. “Gotta work tonight.” Like I do every night.

  She glanced back at her Craigslist post. Nothing. She sighed, about to scroll away, but a new local ad’s headline made her stop.

  Scottish Lass Wanted.

  Scottish Lass? Who talked like that anymore? And what did he want her for? Various plots from all the Scottish historical romances she’d inhaled in her minimal free time spun together, creating intriguing possibilities. Intriguing, fictional possibilities.

  But she clicked.

  The ancient land of Scotland beckons for the brave lass who answers this advertisement. Scotland—where the men are real men, able to swing an axe one-handed and would never be caught wearing tight breeches. Where the men are tall and broad of shoulder and know how to please a woman. Enjoy the most enchanting, majestic spot in all of Scotland in exchange for washing and cooking duties as well as willingness and ability to increase my herd. Interested parties reply for further information.

  Oh man. Scotland. The rolling green hills and craggy mountains and misty lochs she’d drooled over in travel magazines filled her mind.

  But…dishes.

  Her gaze went straight to the striking photo on the wall of a slate-gray loch in Scotland, green mountains rising on either side, their tips kissed by misty clouds. And not a soul in sight.

  God, she was exhausted from not only paying off debts that weren’t even friggin’ hers to begin with, but also tired of always looking over her shoulder this past month. Tired of wriggling and jostling against all the people in her city.

  She really, really wanted to answer this ad. But she wasn’t a Scottish lass.

  Though…didn’t her mom say that great-granddad was from the Highlands? Did that count?

  But…dishes. And her bills. Ugh. Her asshole of an ex-husband’s bills. But worse than that, she could picture how her parents would react if she gave up, crawled back home, and asked for help. They’d pat her on the head, go, “my dear, you couldn’t expect to handle that on your own.” She would always be the spoiled baby of the family, no matter what she did.

  That settled it. If this position in Scotland came with a nice salary, then she was all over it—any opportunity to pay off her inherited debt and avoid living down to her parents’ expectations would be worth the trouble. And really, how bad could it be?

  Because yes, dishes. But also…Scotland.

  God, this line was scary long. Ashley leaned to the side and stretched up onto her toes—wow, there had to be at least twenty-five women in front of her. She glanced over her shoulder at the exit just as the door opened and three more women stepped through to file into line, their hair perfectly curled and lip gloss expertly applied.

  Ashley rubbed her dry, bare, unglossy lips together and straightened her shoulders. What the hell was she doing here?

  But all through her shift at the bistro last night she couldn’t stop thinking about that ad. Her aching feet as she trod the same path between tables to bring yet another couple their dinner only emphasized that washing dishes in Scotland had to be better than this.

  It would also get her far away from the men looking for money she didn’t owe and didn’t have. This job would be the last place the bookies would expect her, a tech nerd, to go—it was probably at some remote castle with no Starbucks in sight.

  And if it didn’t pay, maybe she would go anyway. Screw him. She refused to feel guilty. She’d married that jerk right out of college, partly because she wanted to prove to her family that she was mature.

  Mature…right. That blew up in my face.

  Ashley pulled out her phone and used the time in line to fill out targets in the work app for her team, hoping that would give her a head start on the afternoon in case this ran much longer and turned out to be nothing.

  Sooner than she expected, a man with a Scottish brogue called out, “Next. Lass, ye ready? Are ye done staring at your wee palm?” Deep, rich tones rumbled in the air, buffeting against her as if corporeal and sending a wash of awareness across her skin.

  Startled, she glanced up. And nearly dropped her phone. Because, good Lord, this should be illegal. A whole snack of Scottish virility sat in an office chair, staring at her expectantly. Even though he was sitting, she could tell he was tall, his shoulders filling out the black Henley to perfection. Most guys with long hair couldn’t really pull off the right look, but the full-bodied waves would make Instagram star Brock O’Hurn weep. Black, with a small braid down each side. Blue ink peeked from his neckline in a swirling Celtic pattern.

  He uncrossed his arms and sat forward, eyebrow cocked on his angular face, highlighting his deep green eyes shot through with gray smoke.

  Wow, she hadn’t yet said a word. “Um, hi. I’m Ashley. Nice to…uh, meet you.” She stepped closer and stuck out her hand, shaking a little from nerves. Why? He was just a guy. A hot one, yeah, but still just a guy.

  “Aye, the customary handshake. I’m Connall from the land of Scotland,” he pronounced with care.

  She glanced at his green-and-blue kilt. Maybe it was that swath of fabric revving her up. Strong calves lined with muscle ended in wool socks and black combat boots. When his warm, rough palm slid against hers, her breath caught. His gaze darted to hers, his eyes filled with curiosity as well as surprise. She yanked her hand away.

  What the hell? She was not here to get involved with some guy, no matter how hot. Or how Scottishly hot. Or hotly Scottish. Oh damn it all. She didn’t have much time to consider this so-very-out-there idea to get away, but it seemed to be the answer to her problems. And for once she was going to succumb to something she longed to do even if it wasn’t the smartest move.

  “I’m here about the job? In Scotland?” She opened the flap in her messenger bag for the item she’d tucked in at the last minute, in case he was wearing a kilt. “And I brought you this. I made it for my Etsy shop, but I thought…” She pulled in a breath, the enticing scent of an unsullied outdoors and freedom making her words stumble, “I thought you’d like it.”

  He gave a low chuckle. “I suppose it is a job at that.”

  His smoky-green gaze locked with hers. God, if all men in Scotland were like this, sign her the eff up. “Um, yeah, so anyway, I made this and I thought you might be able to use it to, er, secure your kilt. A kilt pin. That I made.” Jesus, just shut up.

  But there was depth to those eyes that drew her in and made her feel as if she were free-wheeling downhill, giddy and on the knife-edge of losing control. A depth that said he’d witnessed more of life than usual for his age. A prickle of awareness raced along her skin. What does he like to do in his spare time? What are his pet peeves? And riding this urge to know more about him was a need to shelter him.

  She reached out to the flap of his kilt resting against his solid thigh and lifted the fabric, only a little, to slip the pin through. Her knuckles brushed soft hair and warm skin. A sharp breath sounded by her ear, and his whole body stiffened.

  Abort. Abort! What are you doing?

  “Well now, that’s a lovely gift, it is,” his voice rumbled low. “From a lovely lass.”

  A warmth fizzed low in her belly, and her body flushed hot. What is wrong with you, Ash? You’re not usually so forward.

  And then horror hit her—this was for a friggin’ job. And she went and touched her potential boss’s thigh?

  Holy hell.

  She jerked back, drawing in a quick breath, and ran through possible face-saving apologies.

  I was…er...

  I did that because...er...

  Nothing sounded right.

  His head cocked to the side, his black hair falling with it. “If you’re interested, I
think we should meet again to discuss the matter.”

  “I’m interested.” In the job. The job. Not him.

  Heat flared in his eyes. “Very well. Tomorrow, at the same portion of the day, at the coffee establishment on the corner?”

  Ashley nodded, and before she could embarrass herself further, she stood and turned away. But not before she saw him twirl around in his office chair. She could also swear he said, “I do love how these spin.”

  …

  The squeak of Connall’s chair cut through the chatter of waiting women. Hopefully, it masked the pounding in his chest.

  As his chair finished its delightful spin, Connall motioned to the next woman in line, though his whole being seemed to be centered on Ashley’s retreating form.

  Yes. She’s the one.

  When their gazes had locked, intelligence had shone in her eyes, coupled with a hint of humor. And she possessed birthing hips, couldn’t forget that. He gently touched the silver pin she’d given him. Clever lass, for sure, fashioning such a jewel for his kilt. Cleverness was a trait his village needed in a chief’s wife, for chief he’d most likely be.

  These last two days, interviewing so many women, had been exhausting. Who knew so many were looking for husbands? He was fortunate and overwhelmed by the attention. But until Ashley appeared, none had sparked his interest. Truth be told, the reason he’d taken another spin in the wondrous chair was to break from her pull on him. To test it. That and he felt…delighted, for which only a spin in the chair would suffice to express himself. A lightness suffused him, the likes of which he’d not felt in a long, long time.

  Even now, though she’d departed, the full impact of her gaze on him—those dancing brown eyes—sent his senses reeling. That saddle-brown hair appeared as soft as silk, framing an open and honest face.

  She’s most certainly the one.

  And glad he was of it, too. Mungan had warned him that he needed to be quick. His first full moon had passed mere days after his arrival. He had twenty-eight nights left to accomplish his task, or he risked forgetting his home and family—everyone he knew and loved.