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Shopping for a Highlander (Shopping for a Highlander Book 2)

Available January 11, 2022

Chapter One

Amy

I am standing here in my black cap and gown, wearing my master’s hood, as I graduate with my MBA from UMass Amherst’s Isenberg School of Management, photographers snapping pictures like crazy, and Hamish McCormick’s tongue is in my mouth.

I realize this is a problem half the women on the planet would love to have. He’s a world-famous Scottish soccer–sorry, football to everyone except Americans–player, and my sister is married to his cousin, the billionaire.

Given the fact that Hamish is kissing me in front of my date, though, it’s a little awkward.

“Ahem,” said date says, scratching his temple, adjusting his glasses, and using polite, understated throat techniques to get Hamish off me. Subtlety doesn’t work on Hamish, though. This kiss is anything but subtle. Pretty sure you’d need a crowbar to pry him off me.

Or me off him. The distinction between who is kissing whom was lost long ago.

I see my date, Davis, out of the corner of my eye, and I’m about to shove this two-hundred-pound sack of hard muscle and overconfident heat off of me and slap him, but sweet merciful deity, I swear Hamish’s lips have some kind of magic potion on them that renders me spellbound.

No kiss has ever tasted like this.

Except the last kiss from him.

Six months ago, under the mistletoe at my family’s Thanksgiving celebration. Right before news broke about Hamish screwing his team owner’s daughter, when their sex tape was leaked to the media.

Yeah. That kiss. That kiss tasted like this.

As I try to pull away, Hamish moves along with me, his hands flattening against my shoulder blades, his tongue soft and discreet, caressing me like I’m naked in bed and we have an acre of mattress to explore.

He can round my Cape of Good Hope anytime. He can be the Ponce de León to my virgin territory.

“Hamish!” My mother’s shrill voice cuts through this tormenting fantasy-come-to-life. “How wonderful of you to stop by for Amy’s graduation ceremony!” She’s grinning up at him, arms wide in anticipation of a hug.

Then she looks at my date. “Oh, hi, Davis. I didn’t know you’d be here?” The uptick in her voice, turning it into a question, shows that even my mother, who is the embodiment of the word awkward, realizes this is a social mess.

Air. Suddenly, I can breathe again. There is entirely too much air in the world, and I’m sucking all of it in at the same time. A single breath becomes the atmosphere.

“Marie! How’s yer leg?” Hamish says, giving Mom a big hug, one she enjoys as her eyes close and she squeezes him with genuine affection. Mom’s proud of me, for sure, but it’s the human connection at big events that she really enjoys.

She makes a fist and knocks lightly on her thigh. Mom is perfectly coiffed, her hair recently dyed and cut in a stylish fashion, her blonde a little blonder, her new mink eyelash extensions shaving years off her life. Thick eyeliner that was in style maybe five years ago dominates her eyes, and she’s gone with peach tones for the day, a gauzy, lightweight shirt over cream pants and sensible flat shoes – very unlike her – are a testimony to her injury.

Mom’s had to learn to sacrifice fashion for function, and she doesn’t like it.

“Good as new! I hate to hug and run, but Jason’s waiting for me in the car. He’ll be so sad to have missed you.” Mom gives me a quick embrace. “See you at the party?” she asks me.

“It’s my party, Mom!”

“Of course.” And she skitters off, though her gait is a little off.

“So good to see ye again, Amy. Ma congratulations.” Hamish is staring down at me, ginger hair clipped short on the sides and back but longer across his forehead. It hangs in waves so insolent, they deserve a spanking.

Why am I thinking about spankings?

“Amy.” Davis is using his serious voice, the one he uses when he thinks I’m being ridiculous. We’ve only been dating for three weeks, and he already has a Ridiculous Voice.

You know what Davis doesn’t have?

Magic-potion lips.

“Yes? Oh! Right. Davis, this is Hamish. Hamish, meet Davis.”

Hamish reaches for Davis’s hand and wrings it like he’s working out a muscle spasm in the poor guy’s forearm. I didn’t know a shoulder joint could turn in so many directions.

But Davis gamely tries to match Hamish’s strength, despite being eight inches shorter, a good forty pounds lighter, and viscerally not wanting to be touched by the man I’ve complained about during our entire friendship–and now romantic relationship.

“Hi,” he says, eyes going narrow. “The Hamish?”

I get a saucy look and a half grin from the man who just imprinted his taste on me. “Aye.”

“What are you doing here?” I ask. A tingle of annoyance starts in my toes and creeps up, like it has no intention of stopping until it gets to the crown of my head. “I’m–I’m graduating. This is my ceremony. Of all the places in the world where you could turn up, why here? Why now?”

“And why kiss her like that?” Davis’s words hold a challenge in them, his thick, dark beard hiding how clenched his jaw is. Horn-rimmed glasses encircle dark brown eyes that crowd each other slightly. He’s wearing a graduation gown, like me, with dark, shined dress shoes, men’s wingtips that signal he’s serious about his business career.

I’m stuck in four-inch heels because Mom insisted.

“Ach. The kiss? That was just a bet.”

“A what?” I gasp.

A short, compact man with the busy air of an overgrown hummingbird appears behind Hamish. Short might be an unfair description, because he’s taller than me and about Davis’s height, but compared to Hamish, every man is short.

“Saw it,” he says, clapping Hamish on the back. His accent is English, but I can’t place it. “Jesus, Hamish, you really can find someone to kiss whenever and wherever you want.” He slips Hamish something, hand to hand. “You win.”

“You arrogant piece of work,” I say, moving closer to Hamish, truly ready to slap him. “You bet on me?”

“Ye made it easy.”

“I am not easy!” Out of the corner of my eye, I see Shannon approaching, her face changing to confusion as she spots Hamish. It’s impossible to miss him, a redhead standing a good four inches above most people in the crowd.

Big and burly, with a model’s good looks and a professional athlete’s body, he’s becoming the face of more and more sports-related products. In America, nothing makes you more famous than hawking a consumer product.

The more popular, of course, the better.

The fact that he’s a fairly obscure Scottish Premier League player–obscure in the U.S., that is–doesn’t seem to matter. He’s hot and swoony, an attractive human commodity to promote other commodities.

“Never said ye were. Just that ye made it easy, pet.”

“Don’t call me that!” I shout.

Shannon catches up to us, moving next to me just as my date does the same.

Davis reaches for my arm, hand on my elbow, leaning in. He whispers, “Don’t make a scene.”

Something in Hamish’s expression hardens and I realize, with a sinking feeling, that I noticed the microscopic shift because I track him.

“I’m not making a scene.” I point to Hamish. “He started it.”

A lascivious grin from Hamish turns into something deeper as Shannon frowns.

My sister and I are nothing alike. We got different genetic code from our parents that makes me have Mom’s blue eyes and Dad’s thick auburn hair, while Shannon has light brown hair and Dad’s brown eyes. Shes full-figured, and carries herself with a feminine sweetness people mistake for naivete or weakness.

Unlike me, Shannon has no ambition. I don’t say that as an insult. Happy in life, she’s all about her close circle of family and friends. I don’t mean that she isn’t a hard worker–she is–or that she doesn’t have good ideas–she does.

It’s drive that Shannon lacks.

Marrying Declan McCormick, son of the self-made billionaire James McCormick–founder of Anterdec, one of the biggest corporations in Boston–was Shannon’s smartest move in life.

Of course, love had everything to do with it.

Now she’s vice president of Grind It Fresh!, the regional chain of coffee shops that Declan bought for her as a wedding gift (hello? billionaire husband…), but she’s slowly reducing her hours at work because she wants to be at home with my niece.

And soon, I suspect, more kids.

Shannon’s here to support me on my big day graduating with my MBA, a day that celebrates hard work and determination, but she’s also here to be my friend.

Something just set her off. And it takes a lot to piss off Shannon.

“Davis,” she says through gritted teeth, “what did you just say to Amy?” Her happy energy shifted to seething contempt so quickly, I do a double take to make sure I haven’t confused her with our other sister, Carol, who hasn’t earned a bachelor’s degree on paper but has a life experience Ph.D. in Righteous Fury.

We’re standing in a cluster–Shannon, Davis, me, Hamish, and Hamish’s friend, who has his hands on his hips and fidgets like a little kid stuck in a dentist’s waiting room.

Hamish watches Shannon with glee.

“Aye, Davis. What did ye just say to Amy?” he inserts.

“I told her not to make a scene,” Davis says confidently, looking around. “You, of all people, should understand,” he adds with a quiet grin to my sister, expecting an ally.

“Me? I should understand?” she says back with a deadly, flat expression. Whoa. Declan’s taught her a few tricks.

“You’re experienced in business. You’re a McCormick. Making scenes leaves the impression that one is unstable.” Davis is so matter-of-fact, he might as well be reciting a passage from a management textbook.

One of Hamish’s eyebrows flies up, tongue rolling under his lower lip.

“Who would think that, Davis?” Shannon asks with a head tilt he erroneously takes for agreement.

And suddenly, I get it.

Internal groaning commences.

Davis looks nothing like my sister’s ex-fiancé, Steve Raleigh. Speaks nothing like him. Is the polar opposite of Steve in so many ways–politics, food choices, movie selections, life goals.

But he’s tone policing me. Telling me not to stand up for myself. And in that sense, he’s no different.

Which makes this whole mess worse than I thought.

Because now I have to thank Hamish for kissing me.

 

Hamish

I’d have kissed her without Harry’s stupid bet, but it sweetened the pot.

Amy’s mouth was more than sweet enough.

Was it brash? Aye. Should I have done it? Naw, but she kissed me right back, so fiercely and with an enthusiastic all-in that made it clear I wasn’t breaking any of her boundaries. So I did it.

And her twee boyfriend didn’t like it.

I’ve nothing against the man. Or, at least, I didn’t, until he made that comment.

What’s so wrong with making a scene? Scenes are just the result of being yourself. If other people watch, then that’s on them.

Davis hasn’t answered Shannon’s question.

“And what’s wrong with being seen as unstable?” I ask, unable to help myself. “Is there a medal ye earn at the end o’ yer life for being stable? Sounds boring, Davis.”

He snorts and shakes his head but says nothing.

Which means he’s either a coward or a prig.

Or both.

Shannon gives Amy a sad smile and says, “Code Raleigh.” I’ve no idea what that means, but it can’t be good, given the way Amy’s face falls.

Tension affects people in different ways. You see it after losing a match, the changing room a sweaty, oily soup of disappointment and blame. But some people can’t handle direct confrontation. They live on the margins, passive-aggressive and snide, unable to say what they mean and mean what they say.

I’m not one of those people.

“I think,” I say, loud on purpose, turning a few heads, “that we’re here to celebrate Amy’s great accomplishment. I never finished university, ye know.”

Something gleams in Davis’s narrowed eyes. Amy edges an inch or two away from him, the movement subtle. Shannon takes a deep breath and searches the crowd, likely trying to find my cousin, her husband.

The billionaire.

“Went for a year, but football was ma future,” I continue, Davis’s look turning to barely-concealed scorn.

Ah! No. Open scorn now.

“The best future!” Harry calls out with a clap. I’d damn near forgotten he was with me.

“Why are you here, Hamish?” Amy asks softly, looking up at me with doe eyes. Vulnerable and quieter, she’s more grounded now. Less angry.

Searching for answers.

“It’s a long, funny story, but it boils down to girls and football.”

Her face sours. “Of course it does. Everything with you boils down to girls and football.”

Harry barks out a laugh and gives me a hearty clap on the back.

“No’ this time,” I say with a wink. “This is literally girls and football.” I let out a sigh. “Fine. Girls and soccer. There’s a big clinic at Amherst College here in town, and I’ve been coaching the nine-year-olds, along wi’ promoting the program.”

“That almost sounds altruistic.”

“Those little lassies are vicious. I’ve nae skin left on ma shins.” I shake a leg for good measure, and she bursts out laughing.

“That’s because you’re shite at football, Hamish,” Harry adds, laughing with such pleasure that even Shannon and Amy join in. Harry’s naught but a bundle of overagitated nerves, but he’s got a goalie’s mindset: Throw yourself in front of whatever obstacle life sends and head butt it right back.

A tight smile, the kind a baby makes when filling a nappy, crosses Davis’s face. “We can’t all be English Premier League soccer players, Hamish.”

Harry makes a very dangerous sound, and I can tell he’s about to correct Davis. The poor bastard doesn’t know the difference between English and Scottish Premier.

Or he does, and he’s doing this to needle me.

See, that’s where Davis and I are different. Because tossing out an insult like that doesn’t do a damn thing to me.

But it reveals everything about him.

“Well,” I say, splaying my hand over my heart, “we can’t all be MBA-toting executives like ye Davis. And congratulations to ye, indeed. Ye and Amy are classmates, aye?”

“We are.”

“And ye have a big job lined up?”

“Yes. Unlike Amy, I’ve secured employment.”

Something pops in Amy’s jaw. I believe her trigeminal nerve is trying to unwind itself, leap onto Davis, and strangle him.

“I’m in the middle of third interviews with Maartensi, Davis. You know that,” she corrects him.

That name sounds vaguely familiar, but I can’t quite place it.

“I do,” he says in a patronizing tone, turning to Shannon. “I tried for a spot at your company, but HR said you’re not hiring. Expansion hit a roadblock?”

“Hmmm,” she says deftly. “HR said that? Funny. We just brought on an assistant marketing director and someone in finance, both with new MBAs.” She gives him back a tight smile filled with more contempt than I knew Shannon had in her. “Sorry.”

A shadow falls over Davis’s eyes. “It’s fine. Every company makes mistakes.” He lets out a little laugh, as if she’s in on his little joke-that’s-not-a-joke.

“If I had an MBA,” I chime in, “I’d work in sports management and financing. That’s where all the money is these days.”

“Entertainment?” he scoffs. “No. No one with any real smarts would ever go into entertainment to make big money in business. Crypto and international banking, that’s where it’s at.”

Amy stiffens. “You know I’m interviewing with Maartensi in entertainment.”

“And you know I think you’re making a mistake.” The guy won’t shut up, but he also looks pained, as if he doesn’t want to argue with her but he can’t help himself. “But if it’s a mistake, at least you’re in with a great company and can transfer to something better in a year.”

“If yer so hot for crypto and international banking, Davis,” I ask, “why did ye apply to work at Grind It Fresh!?”

Davis’s phone buzzes. He looks at the screen, ignoring my question. “My parents are wondering where I am,” he says to Amy. “I’ll catch you later.”

“Mmm,” she says as he gives her hand a light squeeze, then rushes off. Her eyes follow him, her expression somewhere between a wince and a reckoning.

“Mmm,” Shannon says, one corner of her mouth tight.

“You’re right,” Amy says with mild horror. “I can’t believe I didn’t notice it before.”

“They’re subtle, these guys. Frog in a pot. Steve was like that.”

“Frog in a what?” I ask, moving closer to them as Harry wanders off toward the toilets.

Shannon tilts her head, looking like a brown-haired, brown-eyed version of Amy for a moment. Amy looks just like her dad, but Shannon’s a blend of both parents.

“You know the old adage?” she asks. “How a frog would never jump into a pot of boiling water, but put it in a pot of cold water and slowly turn up the temperature…”

“Aye. Yer saying Davis is like that wi’ Amy? Only the water is his need to tell her what to do?”

“Yes.”

“And how would ye know this, Shannon?”

“Because my fiancé before I met Declan was a controlling, arrogant, manipulative jerk.”

“Let me guess–with an MBA?”

“Bingo.”

“Glad ye found ma cousin, then. He might be a bit closed off, but he’s no arsehole.”

“A ringing endorsement,” I hear from behind us as Declan, holding his daughter, wee Ellie, on one hip, finds our little group. “What the hell are you doing here, Hamish?”

“Teaching a girl’s football clinic in town. Marie found out and texted me. Asked me to stop by.”

Amy’s expression makes it clear the puzzle pieces just fell into place and Marie’s due for a tongue-lashing later.

“You coming to Marie and Jason’s house for dinner?” Declan asks. “There’s a party back in Mendon.” He looks at his phone. “About a ninety minute drive.”

“Naw. Have to get back to the camp. But thank ye.” I eye Amy. “Could have been fun.”

Harry returns. “Your family just keeps expanding!” he says as Declan puts Ellie down.

“That’s how family is, right?” I say, ruffling Ellie’s dark hair.

“Hamish,” she says, her little pre-schooler language skills improving, the H at the beginning of my name distinct now. “Wanna race?”

Last Thanksgiving, I was stuck in the States and spent a crazy day with the Jacoby family at their house in Mendon. Racing little Ellie on the sidewalk was one of the highlights.

Chasing a live turkey out of their backyard was not.

“Not now, lass. But soon.”

Harry tugs on my shirt. “Gotta go, Hamish. You tapped me out of my twenty when you kissed her like that, and dinner starts soon at camp.”

Amy’s face hardens at the mention of the bet.

“By the way, Hamish,” she says loudly, clearly not worried about making scenes now. “Thank you for kissing me.”

Shannon and Declan give us quite the look.

“Yer thanking me now? I thought ye were about to slap me.”

I’ll take the expression of gratitude if it comes with another kiss, though. Can’t say it, but I feel it.

“If you hadn’t done that, Davis wouldn’t have gotten jealous, and we wouldn’t have realized he’s a Code Raleigh.”

A furious look fills in Declan’s features. “Steve Raleigh? He’s here? What’s he doing now?”

“No, not Steve,” Shannon assures him. “Amy saw a different side of Davis today.”

“Oh.” Declan shrugs. “Never met him before. He seemed fine. Uptight, but fine. Networked with me.”

Pain fills Amy’s eyes, which she closes slowly, taking a long, deep breath.

“We were friends for a year. Then we were assigned to a team for a group project. The one we turned in right before Thanksgiving. When we came back from break, he hung out with me more. Asked me out a few weeks ago. I’ve been on guard against people using me for my connections to you,” she says looking at Declan. “But I thought Davis wasn’t like that.”

“We always do, don’t we?” Shannon says with great sympathy. “We always think they’re not like that, because we would never pick someone who is like that.”

“And then I did.”

Amy’s words pierce me. Make me not want to be ‘like that.’

Because I’m damn well not.

“Is it too much to ask to find a guy who doesn’t need my star to shine a little less so his can seem brighter?” Amy goes on, gutting me further.

She’s asking Shannon, but she’s also asking the world.

“No,” Declan answers firmly. “It’s not too much to ask. But guys like Davis are everywhere in business.”

“They’re in sports, too,” I add. “I’m no’ one o’ them, but there’s plenty.”

Amy looks up at me, her face serious, studying me.

“You may have earned your nickname, McWhoremick, and be a playboy, and a cocky jerk, but I will give you that, Hamish: You’re not someone who needs to diminish a woman in order to feel better about himself.”

I flatten my hand against my chest. “Did hell freeze over, Amy? Because I believe ye just paid me a compliment. Sort of.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

Harry’s pulling on my shirt. “Now. We’re late.”

Before I can turn to leave, Amy’s at my shoulder, on tiptoes in her heels. She plants a sweet kiss on my cheek, my arm going around her, palm across her shoulders.

“I mean it, Hamish. Thank you.”

“I get a kiss for being a decent guy? How good do I have to be to get a shag?”

Harry’s started walking away but hears it, laughing his arse off.

She pulls back and smacks my chest. “And there you are, back to being the lout. You have to ruin everything.”

“Naw, Amy. No’ everything. But I am who I am and I won’t change for anyone. Remember that. Don’t ye dare let people like Davis make ye feel like ye need to change, either.”

And with that, I join Harry, jogging toward the exit of the stadium, ready for the trip back to Amherst College. I’ll need the miles to burn off the lust she just triggered in me.

Worse? The deeper need.

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