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Shopping for a Turkey features Scottish football player Hamish McCormick and Amy Jacoby as they navigate unusual cultural norms around American Thanksgiving, new traditions, and the undeniable attraction between these two characters who have been featured as minor players in Julia Kent’s New York Times bestselling Shopping series.

 

 

CHAPTER ONE

I’m sorry, Hamish, but the contract’s broken with Towelz2Teamz. No photo shoot, no ad campaign, no media appearances.”

My agent’s voice has a cringing tone, as if he thinks I’ll blow.

Might as well prove him right.

“WHAT? Why?” I scream into the useless glass screen of my mobile. I’m in a hotel room on the thirty-third floor in New York City after a three-day modeling shoot for a new kind of kinesiology tape, and check out is in forty minutes.

“Turns out the chief financial officer was embezzling from the company. Hid all the money in cryptocurrency. The Feds are sorting it out and T2T has decided to end all contracts.”

“Yer kidding!”

“Nope. I never kid about money. You know that. You get to keep the kill fee, though.”

“Kill fee?”

“They have to pay you if they cancel the contract.”

“I get paid not to work?”

Jody chuckles softly. “Basically.” His low voice drops a bit, as if I’m supposed to know this already.

“Then sign me up fer hundreds of these contracts and let ’em cancel!”

“It doesn’t work that way.”

“Dinna tell me it doesn’t. They’re canceling and I’m being paid.”

“It’s not the full amount of the contract.”

“How much is it?”

He quotes a pathetic figure. Still, it’s a figure I’ve done nothing to earn.

“That’s bloody awful! And I’m stuck now.”

“Stuck?”

“I’m here in New York. There’s some stupid American holiday coming up. I’m in the airline app on ma phone and there’s nothing. Nae seats on flights home.”

“No seats at all, or no cheap seats? I do not understand your obsession with flying coach. For a guy your size, it’s like human origami.”

“If it’s ma own money, I fly economy. And I even looked at business class. Three thousand dollars fer a seat! And that’s just New York to London! If I’m spending three thousand on a seat, it better be a good shag and cook me breakfast in the mornin’.”

“It’s Thanksgiving weekend. Today is Tuesday. Everyone flies the Wednesday before. Good luck finding a seat in coach.”

“I’m giving thanks to nae one fer this, Jody. Get me home.”

“I can’t. Book first class.”

“The damn towel company should arrange fer ma ticket home to Scotland.”

“They aren’t required to.”

“Damn it, Jody! I told ye–”

“Cool your jets, Hamish.”

“I have nae jets! That’s the problem! Get me on a jet across the pond to where I belong!”

“It’s an expression. Means calm down.”

“Why the hell would I be calm right now when I just got screwed?”

“Before you blow a gasket, I also have good news. There’s another contract.”

“Well, why in bloody hell didn’t ye lead wi’ that? Ye start with the good to soften the blow from the bad.”

“It’s not the greatest offer. I knew if I started with it, you’d reject it.”

“But now that I have nae options, ye think I’m desperate enough to say yes to anything?”

Silence. I get nothing but silence from Jody.

My long sigh betrays me. “Jesus, ye know me well.”

“Right. It’s in Boston.”

“Nooooooo! Why is all the work up there?”

“What’s wrong with Boston? I thought you had relatives there.”

“I do. They’re all a bit crazy, though. Rich buggers, the lot of them. The minute ma uncle James learns I’m in town, he’ll be using me as his wingman.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“The guy’s older than Solomon and thinks he’s ma age.”

“Well, that’s the thing–the contract is because of James McCormick.”

“What?”

“He reached out. Said his company is looking for a spokesman for some of their properties. Boston is such a sports town.”

“Boston has nowt to do with football!”

Did ye know ye can hear a man choke on his coffee through a phone? Either that, or Jody swallowed his tie.

“Have you heard of a little football team called the Patriots, Hamish? Six-time Super Bowl champions?”

“That’s nae football. That’s a bunch of overpaid men in tights chasing a coohide turd.”

“Stephon Gilmore earned $13 million last year, plus bonuses, for chasing a turd in tights.”

“I’ll be damned. Maybe I’m playing the wrong kind of football. But mine isna misnamed.”

“Soccer, Hamish. It’s called soccer here.”

I make a sound.

It’s not a polite one.

“I know damned well what it’s called, but that doesna make it right. Just because ma gran called Da her baby doesna make him wee again.”

“The negative attitude doesn’t sell product, Hamish.”

“I’m never selling American football, Jody.”

“I’m not talking about endorsements. You’re the product you’re selling. Don’t forget that.”

“I thought I was selling ma football skills.”

We both laugh heartily at that.

“Speaking of your skills, there’s a nude photo shoot coming up for Peak Performance Magazine. You ready?”

“If by ready, ye mean have I plucked all the mutant escape hairs off ma body and done a bowel cleanse formulated with more precision than a chemical engineer uses at a pharmaceutical plant, then na.”

“No?”

“The shoot’s in two weeks. I’ll do a shred and cleanse before then.”

“Right. Makes sense. You’ll stuff yourself silly at Thanksgiving, anyhow.”

“Why?”

“Why?”

“Is there an echo, Jody?”

“People eat until they can’t fit in their pants, Hamish.”

“And then what? A post-prandial orgy?”

He sighs. “You really know nothing about our Thanksgiving?”

“Battle of Culloden.”

“Huh?”

“What do ye know about the Battle of Culloden?”

“Uh, nothing.”

“There ye go. Don’t be smug with me for no’ knowing about some day when ye all worship turkeys.”

“That’s not what Thanksgiving is about.”

“What, then?”

“It’s celebrating the settlement of the English colonies in America. We eat turkey, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, sweet potatoes, squash–”

“Ye go into the woods and find a big bird and kill it?”

“We buy them at the grocery store.”

“That’s no’ as exciting.”

He laughs. “Nothing’s ever exciting enough for you, Hamish. You’re an adrenaline junkie.”

“That’s just another term for footballer.”

“Absolutely.” A buzz in the background makes it clear he has a text on his other phone. Jody carries three. I half expect two are for wives he’s hiding from each other, and the third is for work. “Gotta go.”

“Right.” I sigh. “Nae way home?”

“Charter a jet.”

“Canna afford it.”

“Then take the Boston contract.”

“Fine. But James McCormick uses me as eye candy.”

Another silence ensues.

“Eye candy?”

“Aye.”

“Eye or aye?”

“Yer saying the same word, Jody.”

“E-Y-E or A-Y-E candy?”

“E-Y-E. The other doesna make sense.”

“Neither one makes sense. How does he use you as eye candy?” He begins to choke. “Is it–are you and he..?”

“DEAR GOD, nae!” I thunder out. “He’s ma uncle! And he’s ancient!”

“Right. Of course.”

“Besides, he’s no’ ma type.”

“You have a type when it comes to men?”

“Ha. Na. I like women. James is fine for an uncle, but he’s a bit of a priggish braggart.”

“Then how is he using you as eye candy? I thought you said he turned you into his wingman.”

“Same thing. He brings me around fer attention. I do draw a crowd, ye know.”

“You sure do, and I hope that continues forever. Your looks are moving the money needle in the right direction.”

“But it all starts with ma footwork.”

He coughs discreetly. “Of course.”

“I think James brings me places so he gets attention.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Nae one likes to be used.”

“Use him back. Take the contract.”

A flash of Amy Jacoby, that sweet young firebrand who’s the sister of my cousin’s wife, makes Boston more appealing.

“Fine. I’ll sign. Canna be worse than anythin’ else I’ve done.”

“I forgot to mention the hot dog costume.” His voice makes it clear he’s joking, but for the right price, I’ll wear damn near anything.

“A sexy dog? I’m no’ into fetish work, Jody. Ye know, even I have a line.”

Jody’s heavy sigh comes through loud and clear. “Good luck getting back to Scotland, Hamish. I’ll let McCormick’s people know it’s a go.”

The call ends and I go back to the airline app, running a frustrated hand through my damp hair. Fresh out of the shower, I was packing up when Jody called. Now I have to check out, find something to do and a way to get to Boston, and be in limbo while Jody talks to James’ people.

My stomach growls.

And I need lunch, too.

What I need more is a personal assistant.

Auburn hair a few shades darker than mine, attached to a snappy mouth and a fine, lush body, comes to mind.

I wonder what she’s doing now?

It’s the call no one ever wants to receive.

You know the one.

Where your father tells you your mother broke her leg while they were having wild sex?

Right. That one.

I’m at the gym, thirty minutes into a stair machine that’s destroying my glutes, and it feels so good. Burning off nervous energy from turning in huge projects for my MBA has become a ritual.

Group projects are the worst. Half the people don’t listen, everyone wants to be a visionary but not an implementor, and the posturing for status makes my teeth ache.

Cursed by an intuitive sense for optimization, I am usually left being visionary, implementor, and coffee deliverer.

And I can’t help myself.

So here I am, at the gym at one in the afternoon, just after the lunch rush, working out my stress hormones, feeling them leak out of my pores in the form of sweat, when an innocent ring tone upends everything.

“Amy, honey, before you worry, your mother is just fine. We’re at Metro Hospital. She’s being taken into x-ray. They’re pretty sure her leg’s broken,” Dad explains, sounding weirdly contrite.

“Dad? What? What happened? Broken? How?”

Silence. Dead silence. Creeping into my senses, my dad’s hesitation makes my skin prickle.

“We had an unfortunate accident.”

“Car accident?”

“No.”

“You… tripped?”

“No.”

“DAD!!”

“We were in bed.”

“In bed? How did Mom break her leg in bed–ohhhhhhhh.”

“It’s–I don’t want to get into it. But I need your help.”

“Okay.”

“I need you to call Marco Aleandro.”

“The carpenter?”

“Yep.”

“Why?”

“There’s a problem with the ceiling beam in our bedroom.”

“Wait. Whew. So, the beam fell on Mom while you were in bed sleeping?”

“Not quite.”

I don’t like the direction this conversation is taking.

“The beam cracked in half and fell on you two while you were watching television in bed?”

“Um… not quite that, either. And I need you to remove the swing before Marco arrives. The ceiling hook might have caused the problem.”

“Swing? I thought you said you were in your bedroom. What does the swing set in the back yard have to do with this?”

His pause feels like falling over a cliff into a black hole.

There’s nothing you can do about it, it’s endless, and you’ll never be the same again, no matter where you end up.

“Um,” he says, lowering his voice. “It’s actually a sex swing.”

“DAD!”

“The beam might be cracked, which is an expensive repair, and when we heard the creaking sound, your mother panicked and began twisting. Then I lost my footing and Marie pivoted and–” His voice cracks a little. “I didn’t know a penis could bend like that and not snap clean off.”

“ENOUGH!”

“Sorry, honey. But you asked.”

They say couples start to take on each other’s attributes over time. Mom is definitely rubbing off on Dad.

In more ways than one.

Excuse me while I go puke.

“Amy? I’m really sorry.” Dad sounds mortified, his voice hoarse, the ends of words dropping off into sighs. “But before you call Marco, get the swing off the hook and put it in the closet. He’ll let me know how bad the damage is. Plus, he’s a sheetrock guy, and there’s definitely some cracking in the ceiling. How close are you to home?”

“I’m at the gym.” I grab my keys and water bottle off the machine I’m standing on. Thankfully, it’s quiet here, and no one’s super close to me. This is a conversation best kept private.

“At the gym? Good for you. You always were disciplined, kiddo.”

Apparently, I was at the gym. I see how my afternoon is going to go.

Cleaning up my parents’ messes.

“Great! Five minutes away. Could you do this… now?”

“Of course.” I’m already halfway across the cardio floor, headed toward the glass double doors.

“And set up the pull-out couch.”

“Huh?”

“Your mother broke her femur. She won’t be able to use stairs for weeks. We’ll have to create a makeshift bedroom for her in the living room.”

“Poor Mom.”

“Yeah,” Dad says. “And can you let Shannon and Carol know? Just leave out the sex swing part.”

“Oh, I promise. Last thing I want to do is talk about your sex life with my sisters.”

His chuckle makes my stomach hurt.

“No one likes to think about their parents like… that.”

“No one likes to be asked to move their parents’ sex swing off a hook because they broke the house frame, Dad. You owe me for some therapy bills.”

“Add it to our tab. I think we’re up to the year 2076 for your sessions.”

“Fifty-four years isn’t enough.”

A long pause comes next, stretching like emotional taffy, the hesitation clear even though I can’t see Dad.

Then I realize what he’s about to ask.

It’s a big ask.

“Um, any chance you could stay with us at the house?”

“I am staying at the house, Dad.”

“I mean, through the entire long holiday weekend? I know you have your place in Amherst, but I could use the help.”

“It’s okay, Dad. I’m here anyhow. No problem staying until Sunday.”

Mumbling comes through on the phone, then Dad’s rushed voice. “You’re a doll. Gotta go. Thanks for handling this, honey.”

I stare at the phone for a second and then open my texts, creating a new message between Shannon, Carol, and me.

How do you even begin to describe this?

The direct route is best.

Mom broke her leg while she and Dad were having kinky sex. They’re at the hospital, I type and send.

Instantly, three dots appear. And then:

Mum and Da haven’t had sex in years, ye silly fool. Quit joking, Shannon replies.

Or at least, I think it’s Shannon.

What? I type back, staring dumbly at the reply.

The prank isna even guid, she answers. Try better. Grease a guinea pig and put it under the sink where Mum keeps the cleaning supplies.

Mum? Da? Why is Shannon writing so weirdly?

This isn’t a joke! I type back. Mom broke her leg while she was hanging from a sex swing in their bedroom. I now know way too much about how Dad’s penis bends, too.

Three dots appear. Oh, goody. What’s next?

Now ye’ve gone too far. Da has nae todger and ye know it. Mum keeps it tucked nicely in her sewing box wi’ her escape-the-marriage money.

Shannon must be drunk. That’s literally the only explanation I have for this. Todger? Come on.

Or Declan is punking me. Except he’s not the type. That wouldn’t be an efficient use of his time.

A red wall of pure rage fills me as I pull up the contact info from the text stream and call her. I hate this phone, something Mom got on a mystery shop. The font is huge, and the screen only shows last name, first initial.

The ring stops as the call is picked up, and I shout before she can say a word, “Are you drunk? What are you babbling about? Mom actually broke her femur and you’re going on and on and–”

“Who the hell is this? C’mon, Darren. Ye can do better. Ye got an American girl tucked in that hovel of a bedroom of yers and ye’re using her to prank me? I’ll tell ye what, pet, dinna look under his bed. The socks are balled up fer a reason. They died of sheer exhaustion.”

“SHANNON?”

A pause.

“Ma name is Hamish McCormick. Not Shannon. Are ye with ma brother Darren?”

“This is Amy. How the hell are you on the phone with me, Hamish? How did you get Shannon’s phone?”

“Hello, Amy. What’re ye nattering on about? Ye called me.”

Ding!

I look at the screen. Text from Carol.

I knew it would happen eventually, but I thought it would be Dad who died during kinky stuff. Meet you at the hospital as soon as I can. BTW that’s not Shannon’s number.

“Hamish?” I squeak, cursing this stupid phone. How did I call him?

“Aye. And who’re ye again? Amy? Darren has a new American girlfriend named Amy?”

“I have no idea who Darren is. This is Amy Jacoby. Shannon’s sister. Declan’s sister-in-law.” It seems silly to explain myself to him. We were paired in my sister’s wedding, walked down the aisle together as bridesmaid and groomsman. Before the wedding, Hamish booty-called me at three a.m. to talk about “how to use my hands on you.”

So if I’m overexplaining myself, it’s a purely defensive posture intended to distract him from the fact that I’m the idiot who accidentally called him.

“Aye. I know who ye are. Caller ID, ye know?”

“Then why did you pretend you didn’t know who I was?”

“Because it was more fun that way.”

“That’s rude.”

“In fact, I was just thinking about ye, Amy.”

“Really? It’s not three a.m., Hamish. Your timing’s off.”

Silence, then a burst of deep laughter that makes me hotter than an hour on the stair machine.

“So ye do remember.”

“And why would you be thinking about me right now, Hamish?”

I slide behind the wheel and shove the key in the ignition, but stop myself from turning it. Driving while talking to an egotistical jerk who I’ve just accidentally told a very private detail about our family is only going to get me into an accident. I don’t need to add yet another way that Hamish McCormick infuriates me.

His long pause is driving me nuts.

And then he says, “Oh, nae reason. And now I see it’s fate.”

“Fate?”

“Ye texted me about yer poor Da’s willie. It’s fate that it was me, and nae some stranger that would embarrass him even more.”

“Embarrass him?”

“Nae man wants his daughter running around talking about his todger.”

“I didn’t do this by choice!”

“And I’m sorry about Marie. Broke her leg?” I feel his shudder through the phone. “That’s the kiss of death fer footie players like me.”

“Then don’t have kinky sex and you’ll be just fine.”

“I’d rather give up ma leg than give up the kinky good stuff.”

The leer in his voice isn’t as sickening as it should be. In fact, it’s…

Making me blush.

Hamish McCormick represents everything I cannot stand in a man. He’s full of himself. Cocky. He approaches life with a blithe attitude that takes nothing seriously except pleasure.

What kind of life is that?

“I must say, Amy, that I’m surprised ye still have ma number in yer contacts. That says something, nae?”

Through gritted teeth, I answer, “All it says is that we were in Shannon and Declan’s wedding together and I added it for emergencies.”

“Sure,” he says, drawing the word out. “But the wedding was years ago, and ye kept it?” A suggestive tone in his voice, flirty and light, makes my skin tingle. I don’t want to like him. I truly don’t.

But he has a point. Why didn’t I delete him?

“Amy?”

“What?”

“Yer beamin.”

“Beaming?”

“Ach, what’s the word ye use? Blushing?”

“How would you know?”

“I can feel yer heat through the phone.”

“Shut up!”

His laugh makes heat rise from every pore of my skin. Maybe he did feel it.

“Ye clearly miscalled me. Who’re ye trying to reach?”

I put the phone on speaker, searching contacts.

Aha! I’ve mistyped Shannon McCormick as Hannon, the missing S putting her next to Hamish McCormick. I never should have accepted a free phone from one of my mother’s mystery shops. A simple font problem and bam!–I’m on the phone with a talking testosterone syringe.

I quickly correct my error. Like all humans, I make mistakes.

Unlike most humans, I make them once, learn from them, and never, ever make the same mistake twice.

“I had Shannon in my contacts without the S. You’re next to her, alphabetically,” I explain.

“Ach. Good. Because when I thought it was ma younger brother texting about Da’s todger, I figured he went on a bender.”

“I noticed.”

“But if it’s ye talking about a boaby, that’s an entirely different matter.” Voice dropping low and rich at the end, Hamish’s innuendo ignites parts of me that have been in hiding for years.

Some of them, forever.

I have two options here: stammer or attack. I go for the latter.

“You are nothing but an uncontrolled impulse on two legs,” I snap back. “Do you think about anything other than sex and soccer?”

There’s a brief pause.

“It’s football.”

“No one is that shallow.”

A throaty laugh, rumbling with the lilting tones of his Scottish accent, makes it that much harder to resist him. “If ye mean do I think o’ naught but sex and football, I am justly accused.”

“You are ridiculously infuriating.”

“So much passion in ye fer me, Amy. I like that. I like it verra much.”

I can practically hear him wink.

“There’s more to life than sex and football!”

“Is there? I hadna noticed. Right now, ye’ve an abundance of both.”

“WHAT?”

“Yer parents’ sex life, and me, the footie player.”

“You? There’s no abundance of you in my life!”

“We could change that.”

“Oh, no. No, no, no. I’m not falling for your lines, mister. I know what you are.”

“What am I?”

“Dangerous.” The word’s out of my mouth before I can stop it.

Hamish’s laughter fills my ear as I end the call.

Heart slamming in my chest, I press the phone against my breast.

It rings. I answer.

“I will never, ever, EVER sleep with you, so don’t even try your flirty bullshit on me,” I snap into the phone.

“Uh, sweetie? It’s me,” my dad says meekly.

Oh, hell.

“I–sorry, Dad! I thought you were Hamish.”

“Hamish McCormick?”

“Do we know any other Hamishes?”

“No. But…”

“I don’t want to talk about it. How’s Mom?”

“She has a cast, a lot of pain pills, and she’s muttering something about using cornstarch instead of flour when you make the gravy.”

I inhale sharply. “That’s blasphemy. Are you sure she didn’t have a brain injury when she fell? Mom never uses cornstarch!”

“I know.” He lowers his voice. “I think the accident has altered her somehow.”

“Jason!” I hear through the phone. “Who’s that?”

“It’s Amy,” he answers. A shuffling sound makes it clear I’m being handed off.

“Hi, honey,” Mom says, voice dreamy and a little slurred. “Your dad and I made a boo boo.”

“Right.”

“Can you take care of Chuffy? He needs to pee.”

“Of course.”

“Your dad hurt my chuff when we were playing trapeze, like in The Greatest Showman. You know the really bendy woman in that movie? Turns out I’m not like her.”

“Mom. MOM! I have to go. Love you!”

Pressing End Call never felt so good.

Bzzz

On my way in two minutes! It’s Carol. She started a new group text, this time with Shannon’s actual number.

This sounds bad. Let me guess: sex swing? Shannon texts.

How did you know? I reply. Dad asked me to remove it before anyone sees it.

Carol made a bet with me six years ago that one of them would die via sex swing, she types back.

Who bet on death? I ask, sidetracked.

Carol sends a thumbs-up emoji. You owe me $100, Shannon, she adds.

Nope! They’re alive. We said death, not dismemberment or broken limbs.

Cheapskate. Amy, I’ll clean up the house if you go to the hospital with Shannon and handle the Mom interface.

I pause.

And pause.

And pause for so long, Carol finally texts: Hello?

Still trying to decide which is worse, I finally answer: Sure.

The screen erupts with GIFs I don’t want to even try to describe, but most of them involve sex swings.

Leave it to my sisters to find those.

And every single one of them makes me think of Hamish.

Damn it.

Get your copy to keep reading and look for Shopping for a Highlander, coming in January!