Charming Scottish Bastard

by Melissa Blue

  She blinked at that. “What?”

  “We’re in Glasgow. There are a few high-end hotel bars that are open twenty-four hours a day. We’ll have a good meal.”

  Tasha had no doubt he’d be a good date. She also had tons of nosy questions about him and especially his past. Picking up her drink, she drained it, and only wished that she’d gone with vodka.

  Finally, she said, “Let me take a rain check.”

  “Fair.” He lifted the top of his laptop. “I can lock up, if you wanted to head out.”

  She scoffed. “I didn’t say we couldn’t flirt. I just don’t have an appetite, and I need a break from liquor, at least one night. My liver demands it.”

  He smiled at her over the top of his computer. “Flirt? We can do better than that.”

  “Like?”

  His fingers tapped against the keyboard, his brows knit as though his full attention was on the task. “When you stop being scared, I’m going to use my mouth instead of my fingers to make you come.”

  Tasha pulled his drink over to her side of the table and took a very long sip to drench the parched desert in her throat. Still, she had to cough. “I see how we can do better.”

  Those wonderful fingers of his continued to pound out an essay to whoever at his job. If not for the smirk, anyone would think he was some innocent man working in the early hours of the morning. She couldn’t let that stand.

  “I won’t say I’m amazeballs in every position.” She let her gaze travel over his torso to his lap. “But me on my knees…”

  He closed his laptop then clasped his hands over the top. “You do not want to play this game, Tasha.”

  Fuck yeah, she did. “I’m not playing.”

  “The first to go speechless wins?”

  “Deal.”

  He leaned forward on his elbows. “Tell me, when you get to your room tonight, what are you going to be thinking about when your fingers slip into your panties?”

  “You,” she said and his eyes widened. “I’m going to be thinking about the heat of your mouth on mine as you dig your dick into me. I know your cock is thick, so hard. I’m going to think about how it’s going to be so hot and slick buried inside me.”

  Tasha was so very thankful her dark skin hid the blush. Her cheeks were on fire from the rush of blood. Just when she thought she had won, Grant uncrossed his arms, placed his hands on his knees and let his hands ride up to mid-thigh.

  “Come sit on my lap and say that.”

  She wanted to. Fuck, she almost needed to just appease her suddenly quivering, tense thighs. “Well, I have to get to bed. Running this pub is an endless to-do list.”

  Neither said it but they both knew he had just won. “More like running scared, lass.”

  “Come sit on my lap and say that.”

  Grant threw his head back and laughed. She rose from the table, so proud her knees didn’t buckle. Keeping her voice even and calm, she said, “Good night, Grant.”

  “Sweet, wet dreams, Tasha.”

  8

  T

  houghts?” Mia pushed as they stood in the back room of the pub.

  Before Tasha sat four brews. One was the vanilla lager, the other the IPA she’d been pushing for the last two weeks, the next had heather as its base, and the last was a subtle blend of hops and citrus flavors.

  That one venue more than a week ago had turned into an invite to a private party and one special offer to be the main attraction at a showcase in a few weeks. It was exciting and stressful, but did she mention exciting?

  “I would bring the vanilla for the conversation piece for the party. It’s either going to make people love or hate it. Either way, they will be talking about it. I would actually hold back on the heather until the showcase. The IPA is your ace in the hole. They’re still popular right now with the masses, although bro dudes shit on it.”

  Mia brightened. “I told Kincaid the same. Glad to know I’m right. Speaking of…” Her friend walked over to one of the shelves and brought a flat brown box over. “Open it.”

  Wary, but unable to fight off the infectious excitement wafting off Mia, Tasha opened the box. “No!”

  “Yes!”

  Tasha pulled out a roll of stickers that bore her design. “He loved it?”

  “He called it posh and unnecessarily traditional and complained everyone would think he’s ‘one those kinds of Scots.’ Then he didn’t stop staring at it for like an hour.”

  “That’s good?”

  “Extremely good.” Mia clapped her hands together. “Now, help me put these on half a million bottles for our showcase in two weeks.”

  “Ugh. I think there’s some accounting I can do.”

  Mia pushed her with her shoulder. “Run then. I’ll just imagine all the things you must be doing with Grant.”

  “Given the way Kincaid kisses you every night at closing, I think your imagination will be racier than the truth.” Tasha waved her hand. “Why are you okay with this, anyway? Won’t whatever I do with him be a complication for you?”

  Mia put a hand on her hip. “Will Kincaid get all grumbly, you mean? Sure, but he’s still pissed about the whole Davina thing, and he finds all his siblings loveable and insufferable. Grant could be flirting with a shop girl down the street, and Kincaid would have the same gruff reaction.”

  A knot loosened. The last thing she wanted was to be the cause of a rift between her friend and her fiancé. “I know they love each other, but their relationship is so confusing.”

  Her friend patted her arm. “It’s complicated, that’s for sure. They kind of co-parented their siblings. Kincaid was sending a portion of his check home to Grant to help take care of bills. Grant was there being mom, dad, and big brother. It’s kind of why I forgive him being overprotective of Kincaid when we first met.” She was quiet, thoughtful for a second then she gasped. “OMG. Wait. I almost forgot to tell you.”

  Her head was spinning with just that information. “What did you forget?”

  “So, you know their parents traveled a lot and left them behind?”

  “I remember you told me that, vaguely.”

  “Well, one time they took a visit in America. Mom came back pregnant.”

  “They had five kids. I assume that happened at least five times.”

  Mia snorted. “You’re going to be so mad that you decided to get all sarcastic with me.”

  Tasha smiled. “Nope. Will never regret a moment of sarcasm.”

  “Anyway, turns out that mom had stepped out on dad.”

  “Oh. Okay. I do regret the sarcasm.”

  Mia closed her eyes and shook head. “No. No. Not yet.”

  “Tell me.”

  “They were in New Orleans for two months and for those two months, I guess Mama Cameron really, really fell in love with seasoning.”

  It took Tasha a moment to parse through that. “So…they have a biracial sibling? Which one?”

  “The baby sister, Isla. That’s not even a drop in the bucket, because Elliot is…wild. So I said all this to say, their family is dramatic and loveable. There is nothing you can do that can shake their bedrock. Worry less about me. Have fun. This is your first big trip. Fuck up. Or…you know, just fuck.”

  “Says the woman who didn’t have sex with her fiancé until the Scotsman put on a kilt.”

  “Who could blame me?” Mia didn’t just laugh, her friend cackled. “Come on. Let’s work until Kincaid and Grant get here. Then I’ll act like the smitten woman I am and you’ll…bend a lot, just because you know you’ll make Grant dizzy.”

  Tasha batted Mia away. “These bottles are not going to sticker themselves.”

  She wished she could say that her friend’s words went in one ear and out the other, but hours passed without either man. Hours where her stomach buzzed with nervousness and anticipation. The late-night contest the day before played in her mind, and so did the night before that.

  And she wan
ted…

  She wanted Grant dizzy.

  9

  G

  rant gritted his teeth as Tasha leaned forward to push the tray of pints forward. “Table 6,” she said, with innocence and focus.

  He could almost believe it if he couldn’t see the color of her bra—fire-fucking-engine red. The smirk that crept out when he finally fixed his gaze back on hers after a peek only proved she was fucking with him.

  Many things could be said, would be said, once he and Tasha had a moment alone. All he could think was he, Grant Alexander Cameron, was felled by a low-cut dress.

  Who wore one in the middle of a Scottish fall? Without tights? Her vulnerable bits had to have icicles as she trudged her way from her B&B. Aye, she wore sturdy boots for the ugly weather, but after an hour of seeing down her dress, that’s all he could picture her in. He could practically feel the thick soles digging into the meat just below his arse with her thighs wrapped tight around his hips.

  He could ignore the temptation. No. He could survive the torment for a night, but then the Baird showed his face. He shooed her away from behind the counter, leaving Tasha to wait tables along with him. In that dress, so unequipped for fall, baring her thighs and fluttering at the slightest turn. No matter what order he delivered or glasses he picked up his eyes drew to the rustle of her skirt.

  What made it worse—no, better—were the moments Tasha caught him watching. Her smile started in the corners of her mouth and unfurled over her face until her eyes crinkled. Even her shoulders, her chin lifted with the knowing grin.

  He might have done something entirely daft after three hours of that smile, but a big, rough hand closed on his nape.

  His brother leaned into him, his voice a gravely threat. “We need to talk.”

  Kincaid didn’t lessen his grip by the time they were alone in the back hallway. Grant could believe his brother had killed men with his bare hands from the way his jaw clenched. With a push, Kincaid put distance between them.

  Grant faced his brother. “Aye?”

  “Cheeky bastard. You know why we’re back here. What’s going on with you and Tasha?”

  “Not enough.”

  His brother scrubbed a hand over his face. “She’s Mia’s friend…” He huffed out his frustration. “A bloody good manager.”

  Grant knew what his brother was getting at but he was a cheeky bastard. “You’re welcome?”

  “With the showcase—”

  “Two weeks away,” Grant finished. “Whatever is going on between Tasha and I won’t stand in the way of the brewery.”

  “Like with Davina?”

  That hit landed. Grant pursed his lips then blew out a breath. “Different circumstances.”

  “Bollocks.”

  “Do you have any complaints about the lass? Is she late for work? Is her accounting off? Has she not wooed the Baird in a night?” He paused then ventured to say, “Isn’t your lass more…relaxed?”

  “Are you trying to take credit?”

  “I did hire her, and your life is better because of that decision.”

  His brother brows furrowed. Brimstone would follow.

  Grant reached forward to pick invisible lint from Kincaid’s shoulder then patted him. “Aye, right.”

  Kincaid scrubbed a hand down his face. The laugh started low, more of a huff then he shook his head, lines bracketing his mouth. “Ma and Da could have stopped at me. They could have, but no.” His brother rapped him on the forehead with the heel of his palm. “Don’t fuck this up. Mia looks sweet but she’ll rip out your throat. And Tasha…I like her. And she’s…” His brother frowned. “She gives off this…aura that she’s strong as fuck and she is, but I don’t know. It feels like armor. All your soft bits are under armor. So don’t fuck it up.”

  His brother knocked him on his forehead again with the heel of his hand then left. Grant took a step to follow and stopped.

  What was he doing with Tasha? He knew what he physically wanted to do. His mind offered up so many positions they could run through before succumbing to exhaustion. But they hadn’t been solely focused on sex. Bugger it all.

  This is why he hated conversations with his brother sometimes. Everything had weight and was dire. To be fair, his brother had to place the world on his shoulders at a young age. Their parents were not reliable. Family changed people at their very core. His made him a CFO who would actually take leave to help his family. Even when—especially when—he knew emotions were inconvenient as fuck.

  How had family changed Tasha?

  That thought flitted through his head and made it all worse. Was family why she was wary? Were they the reason she’d jump at something impulsive and then spun in indecision? Grant didn’t know, but now he needed to.

  And that led him to think of all the other things he hadn’t bothered to ask about her. Things she hadn’t offered either as though keeping those details to herself would…would act as armor. And that meant Tasha wasn’t running from sex, alone.

  He ran a frustrated hand through his hair. This affair, this need to have her was getting complicated. With that weighing on his mind, he strolled back into the main area of the pub. Tasha chatted with a table of patrons, her empty serving tray tucked at her side. It hit him then—the only times he’d seen her truly carefree were with Mia or with patrons.

  A motion to his left caught Grant’s eye. Baird waved him over.

  “Laddie.” The single word cut through the noise of the pub.

  “Aye?”

  “The first thing you do after a chinwag with your brother is look for her.” The Baird let that settle between them. “Do we need to talk about the birds and bees?”

  He had suffered through that conversation at eleven with Kincaid. “Absolutely not.”

  “Braw. Now try to drool over her less the rest of the night. It’s getting painful to watch from here.”

  Grant hadn’t cared if his watching her had been obvious. He couldn’t look away if he tried. Maybe he should have. “You called me over here to abuse my ego?”

  “Someone had to. You’re getting too cocky with the lassie, no pun intended.”

  Never in a million years could he imagine his father pulling him aside to have this conversation. Then again, his dad would have to be here. He pushed that away, ignoring the old, dusty pang of hurt. “Believe me, she doesn’t let my head get too big.”

  “That’s why I like her.” The squeeze turned into a death grip and the Baird leaned in. “Don’t fuck it up like you did with Davina.”

  Grant was pretty sure his bones creaked when the Baird finally let him go. Something that vaguely resembled regret speared into him, making his chest tight. The Baird had been there all his adult life, ever since he became friends with Marcus.

  The Baird had been the gregarious uncle of a friend who owned a pub they could lounge at whenever in Glasgow. Yet when Marcus had needed help, advice on love (and refused to ask for it), Grant had gone to him. When his brother had needed something almost like a purpose, he’d turned to the Baird again. The Baird had then entrusted them to carry on his legacy.

  And Grant had done something to hurt the man. He squeezed his nape, not quite meeting the Baird’s eyes. “I—”

  “Don’t bother. I couldn’t talk her into coming back all these months later, so it’s done.”

  With a heaviness he couldn’t shake, Grant went back on the floor and worked. And he tried to ignore Tasha, but the flutter of her skirt kept catching his attention.

  The crate of clean pint glasses softly clattered as Tasha’s steps faltered. Grant had taken a seat at his favorite table. His expression was formidable.

  Usually his brows were knit in concentration, and he looked Grant CFO-relaxed, which she could see as intimidating if he ever ditched the beanie. This dark expression made her think someone had just sent an email confession to losing a few hundred million, and instead of replying, he was booking a flight so he could bite their head
off in person.

  She doubted that was the case despite the fact he never looked excited or happy when he worked on his laptop for CFO stuff. His vibe had been off ever since Kincaid had marched him to the back of the pub for a chat. His mood wasn’t her problem. It wasn’t, but she’d worn a dress. She’d might as well have worn a sign that said, “Fuck me.” He’d taken the bait of easy access with relish and watched her with a heated, hungry gaze.

  But now this…

  She slung the crate under the counter, straightened to frown at him for a second and then turned her attention to the array of alcohol. His mood wasn’t her problem, but she wanted to flirt with a charming, Scottish bastard, not a broody one. She knew just the way to coax him out of his dark mood.

  A few minutes later, she carried the drink over to him. He didn’t stop glaring at his computer screen, so she hopped up on the table, crossed her legs, and waited for his gaze to slide over to her.

  His irises darkened to a money green shade as his head tilted her in direction. “Cinnamon?”

  That reaction wasn’t good enough. She leaned back on one palm. A second passed and his gaze shifted to her bared legs. How was it possible to feel the heat of someone’s stare? How could someone’s stare create a tingle on one’s skin? He was absolutely dangerous, and for once she was running toward the peril.

  His nostrils flared, and less than a second after that, he met her eye. Tasha sipped the drink, mostly to combat the grin that wanted to spread.

  “I’m thinking of calling it the American,” she said. “There’s bourbon, cinnamon and just a hint of sweet apple liqueur.”

  He reached out for the glass. “Call it the Yank.” Grant sniffed then took a tentative sip. He made an eh face. “Reminds me of apple pie.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Apple pie is too sweet. Change it to sour apple, and you might have something. Otherwise, you can mix Irn-Bru and gin and call it the Original Highlander.”

  “Iron Brew?”

  Finally, Grant smiled. “That sounds like you never had it. We need to remedy that.”