Chapter 1

Willow

Iwasn't doing it just for the wine.

Okay, so maybe that played a small part in my decision to accept an internship at a Milan fashion house, but only, like, ten percent. Fifteen, tops. The rest was rooted firmly in my need to get away from a failed business venture that doubled as a bad breakup.

If you're going to fail, you might as well do it catastrophically. At least you'll be the best at something.

I laughed, amazed that my innate optimism could somehow turn even my most recent dumpster fire of a life into a positive thing. But maybe it was. If my boyfriend hadn't stolen all the money I'd invested in our fashion line—along with the heart of the very first employee we'd hired—well, I wouldn't be able to take this internship in Milan, would I? Instead, I'd still be stuck in a closet of a studio, desperately working on designs, sucking down instant ramen from the bodega next to the artist warehouse in Brooklyn, and dreaming of being able to afford a one-bedroom apartment someday.

Moving to Brooklyn from the Midwest had been like jumping into an icy lake in the dead of winter where at first, you're so shocked it hurts, and then you're so busy frantically kicking your legs to survive that you just grow numb to it all. I was in the numb stage—perhaps too numb—after my boyfriend had charmingly talked me out of all my savings and taken off with our new seamstress.

Now, as I stared at the snow gusting across the frozen tundra of my father's backyard in Minnesota, I dreamed of warm Italian nights, good food, and learning at the helm of a larger fashion house. Maybe I just needed to set aside the dream of starting my own line for a while, get more experience, and see where it took me. It was standard operating procedure for me, really, to dive in headfirst, which was also what had landed me in my most recent pickle. Ah, well. Live and learn.

Some would say I needed to learn faster.

"Hey, Threads. You doing okay?"

I turned to see my father hovering in the living room doorway, two glasses of red wine in his hands, a concerned look on his face. He'd started calling me Threads when I became obsessed with fashion after we'd gone on a trip to Chicago and a woman dressed in high, high heels, a leopard-print dress, and screaming red lipstick had enraptured seven-year-old me. Upon return, I'd thrown myself into playing dress up with a vengeance, demanding trips to the store for more material, and had become the clothing designer for my dolls.

My father says my mother would have been proud.

It's hard to know, really, as she died four years after I was born. It had been just my dad, and my older brother, Miles, and me for years now, a small team unit. Miles fancied himself the captain of our team, and if I didn't love him so much, his overbearing nature would be enough for me to hem all his pants too short.

"Actually, I am." I beamed at him and accepted the glass he offered me, leaning up to kiss his cheek. He smelled like Old Spice and cedar, likely having come in from his workshop where he built custom cabinetry, and the scent was as familiar to me as the feel of a sewing machine under my hands. "I just got a new opportunity, and I think I'm going to take it."

"New opportunity?" I glanced up to see my brother, my complete opposite, standing in the doorway. Tall, wickedly handsome, and dressed in what I referred to as Minnesota chic—Carhartt chinos, a flannel, and a Twins baseball cap—Miles was confident in a way that I aspired to be some day. He'd always been so certain of his path in life, and doors had just opened for him. Whereas for me, even though I knew what I wanted to do, it seemed like I had to lose my life savings, slam into a few walls, fall into the bushes, climb a hedge, trip on a boobytrap, and tumble down a hill before I made any headway in life.

Which was fine. It was totally fine.

"Yes." I beamed. We settled into the living room, Miles stretching out in a lounge chair, feet crossed, fingers steepled at his chest as he regarded me. My dad sat with me on the couch, curiosity in his warm brown eyes.

"Tell us, Threads. You look excited."

"I just got accepted for an internship at Dolce and Gabbana in Milan!" I squealed, doing a little happy dance in my seat.

"Italy?"

"Internship?"

They both spoke at once, and I sipped my wine, anticipating their reactions. Dad would be upset that I was leaving again. Miles was going to lose his mind when he heard it was an unpaid internship. There was a meager stipend for living expenses, but based on apartment prices in Milan, I knew it would be much like trying to find a place to live in New York.

"Is this paid?" Miles asked, his eyes narrowing, confirming my suspicions.

"There's a living stipend," I assured him quickly, taking a gulp of my wine.

"A stipend? What about an actual wage?" Miles shifted, leaning forward into his interrogation position.

"Yes, well, that's the goal, isn't it? You have to work up to that."

"Willow, what are you even doing? You just lost everything that you've worked for. Now you're going to run off to Italy with no money and no promise of an actual job? This is idiotic, even for you."

I flinched, stung by his words.

"That's enough, Miles. Let's just talk this through, and we'll figure something out. Your sister has every right to chase her dream," my father said, always the voice of reason, and I calmed down.

"For how long though? The fashion industry is notoriously difficult, and she's too nice. New York already chewed her up and spat her out, so what do you think Milan's going to do? There's a language barrier, she has no money, and we don't know anyone there who can help her."

"Come with me then," I purred at him, and Miles rolled his eyes in response.

"Unlike you, I have gainful employment. Here. Where you should stay as well and start looking into other career options. Maybe you can go into something fashion adjacent, I don't know…merchandising or marketing and branding. Something like that. This is getting ridiculous, Willow. How often do we have to bail you out?"

"Excuse me? There's only been like?—"

"Three times now," Miles said.

"Oh, come on, you can hardly call the first two instances bailing me out. This was the worst of them, wasn't it?" I rolled my eyes. Annoyance bloomed. Miles dearly loved holding up my failures for me as reminders that I should be heading in the direction he wanted, which appeared to be firmly settled into Minnesota forever, where he could ensure my safety.

A few years older than me, losing Mom made Miles overly controlling of those he loved, as though if he could keep a constant eye on them then he could ensure their safety. I tried to remember that when he was annoying the shit out of me, like now, but it wasn't always easy. My temper heated.

"Miles, back off. Her Scottish is heating up."

It was rare for me to get well and truly angry, but when I did, look out. My mother was Scottish, and my father always said she and I shared the same temperament. Calm, even keeled, until pushed too far. It was true, too. I could feel the anger boiling.

"Let me read this offer."

Standing up, I grabbed my laptop and opened the email with the offer and handed it to Miles before returning to the couch. I was far too angry to engage verbally right now.

"Are you sure you want to do this, Threads? What opportunities will come from something like this?" My dad reached out and squeezed my arm, concern in his eyes. How can he not know how interning for Dolce and Gabbana could influence my future so positively?

"It's a foot in the door. If I'm lucky, I might be able to work my way up to in-house designer, maybe contributing ideas that get used in collections, that kind of thing. If anything, it will look great on my résumé. It's an internationally successful, upmarket brand, somewhat exclusive, and I might get a recommendation out of it too. It's a step forward, albeit a small one, since I won't be designing my own label, but I guess that's just how the industry works. I think I'll always be fighting for opportunities."

"And is that what you want?"

"I mean…" I tapped my fingernail, painted in Chanel Ballerina, against my wine glass. "I don't think I'm in a position to say no to opportunities."

"One hundred euro a month is hardly a living stipend." Miles handed my closed laptop back to me, and I glared at him.

"I'll get a second job. Like everyone else in the world who has to make ends meet."

"I can help?—"

"No, Dad. No. I can do this. Trust me, it's going to be great." I drained my wine, picked up my laptop, and stood. "Now, I need to research flights and look at housing options. I love you both. Thank you for caring, but this is what I want to do."

With that, I left the living room and climbed the stairs to my childhood bedroom, which my father had left exactly as I loved—colorful, chock-full of art, and stacked with books on fashion. Flopping onto the bed, I stared at the ceiling, my heart hammering in my chest. It wasn't like their concerns were unfounded. It was just that they were people who wanted every T crossed and every I dotted before they took a risk. I was a touch more haphazard with my approach to life.

Opening my laptop, my emails flashed on the screen at the same time my phone rang.

An international number?

"Hello?"

"Hi, I am looking for Willow Barlowe?"

"Yup, that's me." The woman had an American accent, but her number certainly wasn't local. "And who is this?"

"My name is Sophie, and I run MacAlpine Castle in Scotland."

Scotland. A ripple of recognition went through me, as it always did when speaking of my mother's homeland. We'd spent many a summer there, my father leaving us with our mother's family, and it was a country I loved dearly.

"MacAlpine … is that in Loren Brae?"

"It is! That's awesome you know it."

"My mother grew up nearby, so I've visited a few times over the years."

"Did she? Even better."

My email pinged on my open laptop, and I automatically went to silence the sound, but my eyes caught on the subject line. It was a reply to my internship offer.

Except I hadn't replied yet.

Sophie's words faded into the background as I clicked the email open, my stomach plummeting as I read the words.

Thank you for your reply. We've offered the position to the next intern on the list.

Tears flooded my eyes as I saw the reply that my brother must have written, declining the offer on my behalf. What the hell?

"Willow?"

"Oh, shoot. Sorry. The line must have broken up for a moment. Can you repeat that?" Dashing the back of my hand against my cheeks, I slammed the laptop shut, trying to tamp down my fury. I wanted to run downstairs and kick my brother in the crotch for interfering in my life. Again.

"Of course. I'm calling because we have a unique opportunity to offer you at MacAlpine Castle. Our castle is rich in history, and we're working on increasing the tourism to the area. We have a gift shop that really could use some help. Apparel is our largest seller, but frankly, our designs aren't that great. We'd like to offer you an opportunity to come work with our kiltmaker to design an exclusive line of merchandise for our visitors."

"Wait, you're offering me a job?" My brain was sluggish to catch up to her words.

"Absolutely. Full-time, with accommodation at the castle."

"I could live in a castle?" I sucked in a breath, shock propelling me to standing. "In Scotland?"

"Aye, lassie." Sophie's laugh rang through the phone. "Sorry, I tried, but my Scottish accent still isn't great."

"Why me? How did you even find me?"

"Your website! You had some great tartan pieces in your last line, and your background says you have ties to Scotland. If you're interested, I can email you the offer."

"Oh, I'm interested. Very interested."

"Great, I'll ping it over now. Do you want me to stay on the phone while you review it?"

"Please." If this was as good an opportunity as I hoped it might be, I wanted this signed, sealed, and delivered before Miles could get his grubby mitts on it. I scanned the exceedingly generous offer, my mouth dropping open at the salary, and the list of perks that came with it. "How did you end up in Scotland? You sound American."

"Oh, I am." Sophie laughed again. "It's a long story. I'm from California, and while I dearly miss the sunshine, Scotland has my heart now. Basically, I inherited the castle, and now I'm determined to bring tourists back to Loren Brae."

"Sophie, you know what?" Nerves hummed, causing me to pace my room. There was a shiver of recognition—a knowing of sorts—that had come to me at key points in my life. I listened to that instinct now. "I'd love to come work for you. This sounds fantastic."

"It is. Trust me, you won't be disappointed. If you send me the dates you can come, I'll arrange your flights."

"You don't need me to book them?" I asked, incredulousness filling my voice. Sophie laughed again.

"No, Willow. We'll handle that. You're part of the team now."

At that, my heart sighed, happy that I had a place to go. I don't have to give up my dream. I needed to pack. And then, only when I was at the airport, would I tell my brother where I was really going.

Nobody was going to take my chance away from me again.