Some Like It Scot (Crescent Cove Book 1)

by Marlie May

  “When I got up this morning, I realized I had nothing to eat except cat food.”

  “You don’t have to eat cat food, do you?” How broke was he? A surge of sympathy shot through me.

  “Not yet, but my cat sure loves it.” His eyes sparkled.

  I sniffed, and my gaze drifted down to his cart. Whoa. Talk about carnivore-ing up.

  “Are you actually buying all that?” I gestured to the hamburger, steak, pork chops, bacon, and chicken. The only competition was cheese, chips, and cookies.

  “What else is there to eat?”

  “Corner Mart calzones?”

  He chuckled, and I pinched my lips to keep from joining in. Laughter would only encourage him.

  But when he acted like this, Dag hacked his way through another hole in my Rapunzel tower. If he kept at it, I’d be tempted to let down my hair.

  Wait, wait, wait. That thought was totally wrong. My no-dating tower was sturdy and tall. Had been since me and Ted split. I had no intention of letting down anything for Dag to latch on to.

  “Where are your vegetables? Fruit?” I asked. “Stuff that’s good for you.”

  He frowned as if I spoke of a new, exotic food group. “I, uh, haven’t picked them up. Yet.”

  Leaning my hip against my cart, I chuckled. “Sure.”

  “Hey. You need to go easy on me. Give me the benefit of the doubt here.”

  His tone implied the benefit of the doubt about everything, but I chose to focus on the here and now. I had a feeling Dag was one of those guys who’d move in and mooch off me if I gave him a hint of interest.

  “That crap will go straight to your waist,” I said.

  Dag patted his flat belly, and his lips curled up on one side. “You suggesting I’m getting fat?”

  As my gaze slid down his front, pausing on the hint of tight abs underneath his shirt, my face overheated. Nowhere near fat. “That’s beside the point.”

  His attention zoned in on my purchases. “Well, well, well. What do we have here?” He snatched my peach rings out from underneath the paper towels.

  Drat. He’d found my secret indulgence. I jumped to grab them, but he held them above his head.

  “You know these things will go straight to your waist,” he said, high-pitched and snooty.

  “Give them to me. They’re for…Paisley.”

  “Why not be honest with me, sweetheart. You like junk food as much as I do.”

  “Do not.”

  “These say you do.”

  “Give ‘em back.”

  “Only after you admit they’re for you.”

  I wouldn’t. He couldn’t make me.

  Ugh. I was pouting like a toddler. Which made me laugh. “Okay. You win.” I held up my palm like a good girl scout. “Peach rings are my sole weakness.”

  He leaned near, his closeness making me shiver. “I have a feeling you have other weaknesses.”

  Sighing, my eyes slid closed. Maybe he’d kiss me again. I didn’t want him to, did I?

  His chuckle told me he knew exactly what he did to me. “All yours.” He tossed my sweets back inside my cart. “Let’s go to the Emporium for coffee after we’re done shopping.”

  After we’re done shopping? “I have too much going on today.”

  “Work calling your name?”

  “That, among other things.”

  He fished around among my groceries again, emerging with three oranges.

  I reached for them, but he evaded my touch. “What are you—”

  He started juggling my fruit. Tried to anyway. One orange clunked into a box of pasta, nearly setting off a pasta-domino cascade. Another smacked off his shoulder. The third flew over his head and landed on the floor. He scooped them up and held them against his chest, a big grin on his face. “I used to perform with the circus.”

  “Before you became a handyman?” Snatching the oranges from him, I shook my head. “You may be handy in a variety of ways, but you shouldn’t quit your day job.”

  “Maybe handling fruit’s not my thing.”

  I lifted my chin, determined to ignore him, but my ears burned at his husky innuendo. “You’re crushing them, and I wasn’t planning on making juice today.”

  “Say the word, and I’ll come by your place any time to juice all your oranges.”

  Why did his comment make my body tingle? He couldn’t mean anything by it. He was just being cheeky.

  “Could someone please help me?” the elderly lady called from down the aisle. She looked our way and then stood on tiptoes, straining to reach something on a top shelf.

  “Be right back.” Dag strode down the aisle and spoke to the woman, who beamed up at him through her glasses. She smoothed her flowery dress across her hips and pointed, and Dag grabbed a jar from the top shelf and set it inside her cart. He started to turn, but she pulled him around to face her and spoke again. Nodding, he retrieved cans of something else from another high shelf.

  If she kept him on this tight a rein, I’d get my shopping done and be out of the store before he noticed.

  The woman’s smile grew, and she fluttered her eyelashes. Dag swept his arm out, bowing deeply. Just call him a Duke of the Regency court, paying homage to the queen.

  The old lady giggled.

  Dag may be handy with a hammer, but I’d discovered his true skill: flirtation.

  Of course, my brain swept me to the Regency era, sucking me away from the supermarket.

  We stood…in a garden. A lovely, flowery garden. I wore my best day dress, a gauzy thing that was both practical and pretty, and high-waisted, with a wide, satin band that tied at my back in a bow. I wore no corset because…ugh.

  Dag stood before me, dressed in immaculate, dark linen trousers, his broad chest filling out an overcoat made from deep burgundy cloth. And, underneath the formal coat, he wore a ruffly white shirt, unbuttoned to reveal his tanned skin. With a soft smile, he took my hand and bowed low. He…

  The elderly lady giggled, dragging me back to the present.

  Staring at them, I had an urge to stride down the aisle and stake out territory, which was totally stupid. I didn’t want Dag. Not that much, anyway. And the woman had to be eighty-years-old. This wasn’t a competition.

  As if he could read my mind, Dag turned and winked at me.

  My body blazed. Yeah, I was in trouble. Flustered, I tossed a jar of sauce into my cart, along with some curly noodles. I’d cook the pasta and mix everything together in a casserole dish. Bake it. That was how cooks made American chop suey, right?

  Tomatoes were vegetables and everyone said it was important to get eight to ten a day.

  “I’m out of here.” I urged my cart past Dag, aiming for the registers.

  “Lark, wait,” Dag said. “I want to talk about this coming week. See if we could—”

  “One moment, young man.” The woman snagged the back of his tee, stopping him in his tracks. “I have more need of your skills.”

  I snickered.

  The situation was too cute. The lady was too cute. Dag was too cute.

  And Dag was learning the hazards of being a nice guy.

  Dag

  I was about to be buried in tomatoes. And onions. And cilantro. Sort of.

  “Why are we doing this again?” I stared into the back of the pick-up truck loaded with boxes of salsa and hot sauce ingredients.

  “It’s Sunday. And you need a work-out.” Roan chuckled.

  “So, I spend more time at my desk than at the gym. Sue me.”

  “You know I shop local,” Roan said, rolling his eyes. “This stuff needs to be hauled inside, and you’re the best man to do it.” He slapped my back.

  I grinned. Tried to, anyway. There were a lot of boxes. “The sooner we get it done, the sooner we can sit back and relax, right?”

  “After we drop them inside,” Roan said. “We have to haul them into the kitchen.” Where his crew ran huge food processors that chopped the vegetables. Not today, though, since everyone was off.

&nb
sp; No use grumbling about the work. I had come out here to help my friend. No, I loved helping my friend. I’d do anything to make his business successful.

  Best of all, doing jobs like this gave me time to think, and I needed to figure out what I was going to do about Lark.

  My book, that is. Not Lark. I wasn’t thinking about her.

  Leaning forward, I slid a box out to the end of the tailgate, then lifted it. Hefting boxes of vegetables wasn’t exactly a work-out, but it would do for today.

  Roan had propped the back door open with a sliver of wood. I carried the box inside, dropped it on the concrete floor, then returned to retrieve another from the tuck.

  In no time, we’d unloaded the boxes, then shut the door and carried everything into the refrigerated storage room beside the kitchen.

  “Time to chill.” As Roan brushed off his hands, we walked to the main office of Spicy Concoctions, the business Roan had started a few years ago. Fresh out of college, he bought a pizza place on Main Street, built it into a thriving restaurant, then used his profits to open a company that specialized in salsas and hot sauces—using his grandmother’s recipes.

  Roan flicked on lights as we moved through each room, including one with large, stainless steel tanks containing sauces in various stages of production. The back of the building housed his bottling room, where he and his crew filled jars and long-necked bottles with various creations. After, they labeled and packed them in boxes to be shipped throughout Maine and, soon, out of state. I was proud of my friend. He was succeeding with what I’d initially thought like a risky venture.

  Yes, he’d had a setback when his now ex-wife embezzled from him, but he’d moved beyond it and his business was thriving. I was freakin’ proud of my friend.

  Roan and I left the main part of the plant and entered a hall, walking toward his office, our sneakers padding on the carpet.

  “Have a seat,” Roan said, scooping some sandwich wrappers off his desk and tossing them into the trash. He dropped into the big leather office chair, while I took the less fancy one across from him. “Haven’t seen you around here lately, dude. Almost didn’t recognize you.”

  “You just saw me the other day.” When I’d stopped by to work on the trim in the front tasting room. “What do you need help with now? Reworking the countertop?” I’d make sure I came out here soon to help. The pine we’d installed initially wasn’t holding up, and Roan wanted to use granite this time around.

  I’d bummed around on my father’s construction sites before Dad messed things up with Mom—and sporadically after that—and I’d learned enough to consider myself dangerous. While I was no finish carpenter, I could handle a circular saw or fix a motor, if need be. Hence the handyman job Roan had referred to at the bar.

  Roan grinned. “Hey. Ever thought that I might just be missing my best friend?” He typed his passwords into his desktop. “But actually, I’m gonna pay you for the work you did earlier this month.”

  I held up my palms. “Nope.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you know I don’t need it.” I refused to let him give me money. I wanted to do this for free.

  “I can’t keep letting you come out here to work if I don’t pay you.”

  “I’ll take my usual payment.” No way would I let my friend give me money for what I was happy to offer any day of the week.

  Roan sighed and stood. “Okay. Come on, then.” He strode from the office, and we walked farther down the hall to the lounge, where he kept snacks and beverages for the crew. Opening the fridge, Roan jutted his chin toward the bottles inside. “Pick your poison.”

  Hmm. A bunch of soda. Water. And beer. A couple IPA and brown ale, and one lone stout. “The stout.”

  Taking an IPA for himself, Roan filled two glasses until rich foam bubbled along the brim. We sat on the worn leather couch braced against one wall and propped our heels on the coffee table while we enjoyed our beverages.

  “What’s up with you lately?” I asked. “Outside of you trying to wear yourself by working here twenty-four-seven.”

  Roan snorted. “I don’t work that much. Remember, we went out on the town last night.”

  I rolled my eyes. As if the Brew House could be considered a good time. Though, it had been nice meeting Lark.

  “If you’ve got time later next week, I’m having problems with one of my tanks. Maybe you can take a look at it sometime,” he said. “I’ve added three more because I plan to expand into marinades.” The quiet confidence in Roan’s voice told me how excited my friend was about this expansion.

  I was psyched to see his dream coming true. Only a few years ago, the two of us had walked through a run-down warehouse. Roan had talked about fixing the structure, then put in a stainless-steel kitchen. Top-of-the-line bottling equipment. And along the front, a tasting room where people could stop in for tours, followed by a sample of local microbrews washed down with chips dipped in Roan’s special hot sauces and salsas.

  And, man, had Roan done well. He’d not only paid back the initial bank loan—he’d refused to let me give him the money—he’d recently started expanding.

  “I’m impressed,” I said.

  Roan grunted. “Thanks.” He cocked his head. “So, about that payment for your work today as well as earlier this month…”

  I’d hoped he’d forgotten.

  Roan drained the rest of his beer and stood. “Two jars of spicy black bean. And one case of beer or two?”

  I laughed because I was here to replenish my stock. While I refused money for helping him whenever he had the need, I wasn’t averse to taking a few jars of salsa every now and then in exchange for labor. Plus, the random case of beer.

  Ten minutes later, a twelve-pack of beer sweating on my back seat, I returned home. I made a couple roast beef sandwiches and sat out on my back deck to eat them, my feet propped up on the rail. After, I got the dishwasher going and then strode to my study. It was time—again—to work on my book.

  Duncan and Lenore had just argued about how her brother treated his fiancé, who was also Duncan’s cousin. Since Lenore’s brother was an asshole and the woman in question was determined to join a nunnery, the situation created more conflict for my poor characters. But, like always, I’d channeled their tension into another—steamier—direction.

  Duncan stalked Lenore across the forest floor.

  She inhaled, and her snug bodice rose with the movement, drawing his eye.

  “We cannae keep doing this,” she said. “My father will lock me away if he finds out.”

  Duncan tossed aside his tartan and undid the top button on his starched shirt.

  Lark’s gaze moved down his body, and she let out a throaty laugh. “As I said, I must return to the manor.”

  He undid another button.

  A welcome heat rose in her pretty cheeks. “Dinnae you dare.”

  “Och, I dare, lass.” Duncan undid the final button, letting the shirt fall open. He nudged her against a tree, and her breath came in feverish pants. When he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close, she tipped her head back. Her lips parted.

  His mouth descended to cover hers, his tongue demanding entry. The taste of her set him aflame. Fire rushed through him, stronger than a plunging river after the flood waters let loose.

  Lark ran her hands across his shoulders, down his back. She clung to him, moaning deep in her throat.

  That moan.

  I looked up from my computer, not sure why I’d been pulled from the scene. A sound outside? Not that it mattered. I was making progress. Finally. And I’d written a decent kissing scene. Which in no way resembled the memory of Lark in my arms…

  I skimmed the scene.

  Great. I’d written Lark, not Lenore. It was obvious my head wasn’t where it should be.

  I re-read and edited, ensuring the passage rang true for Lenore and Duncan, NOT Lark and me.

  The crunch of a vehicle pulling into the driveway granted me the break I obviously needed.
Rising, I went outside.

  Mom strolled up the walk. I hadn’t seen her in weeks. Dad, I ran into more often than I liked. Never would suit me just fine.

  “How are you?” She kissed my cheek, and her long, blonde hair, picked up by the breeze, tickled my face. My father loved that she wore her hair down. When I was a kid, I’d thought her waist-length, flowing locks granted her queen of the fairy status.

  My heavy glance took in the truck. “Where’s Dad?”

  “Went out around to your back yard.”

  Awesome. Knowing my father, he’d soon be—

  “Hey, you got a hammer?” Dad yelled.

  Wincing, I raked the back of my neck. “Dad!”

  “You’ve got nails sticking up on your deck. Need to nail ‘em down.” A loud creak told me Dad was opening the door to my shed. “Cool. Decking. I was going to suggest you pick up some boards so I could…” His words trailed off as he disappeared inside.

  If my father had any say, the entire deck would be replaced before sunset. And my crooked fence would stand straighter than a soldier on parade. If I didn’t hold him back, Dad might build a gazebo I didn’t need.

  I hated when Dad worked on my place. It implied I wasn’t willing to do it—which I was. It also implied that I enjoyed having Dad around. Which I didn’t. I started toward my backyard.

  Mom grabbed my shirt. “Leave him be. You know he loves puttering, doing odd things if there’s a need.”

  “I can do it myself.” In fact, I planned to fix the deck once I finished my book.

  “I know you can.” The fine crimp of her lips told me to behave. “But this is what families do for each other.”

  Not ours. My life would run smoother if she’d stop trying to make things good between me and Dad. If we couldn’t make it stick on our own, she couldn’t become the glue.

  “If it bugs you,” she said. “Return the favor by lending him a hand this week on the job. He’s been swamped.”

  While I avoided Dad whenever possible, pleasing my mother took top priority. My sigh eked out. “I’ll text him.”

  “Thank you.” A twinkle lit up her eyes. “So, you must’ve finished your book. We should make plans to go out and celebrate.”