Chapter 11

Ramsay

"Imagine how much we could make with this!"

Willow's words had sent me back to a happier time in my life.

Andrew and I had been in our grandfather's workshop after he'd passed away, going through boxes. Having found some unusual patterns for kilts, he'd brandished the sheets of paper in front of my face.

"Make those?"

"Yeah, mate. Why not? These would sell like crazy." Andrew's eyes had lit, the promise of fast money exciting him.

"These are custom patterns. It would take time. You'd have to build your clientele." At least that's what my grandfather had always told me. He'd built a careful and loyal clientele, having taken his time and care with each kilt, and it had provided him with steady work through his life.

"But we could make them faster. The two of us. Hire a few people. Just think, we'd make a killing."

Andrew had danced around the workshop, revved like he'd always get with a new idea, enthusiasm lighting him up. He'd always been this way, ever since he was a small child, chasing after the next big thing that excited him and then abandoning it the minute it no longer held interest. His childhood had been littered with half-completed projects, puzzles left unfinished, and failed school projects.

We'd been in our early twenties when our grandfather had died, and Andrew, having burned his way through several trade jobs, had seized the opportunity to design kilts. It was hard to ignore his enthusiasm, and even though I had my misgivings, I'd also been excited about continuing our family tradition.

Maybe this would be the idea that stuck, I'd thought, finally something that would save Andrew from an endless loop of failed projects.

We'd even gone so far as to ask our father for an investment in our company.

What a stupid, stupid kid I'd been.

Within months, Andrew had stolen the money my father had invested in us, taken our family's designs, and had outsourced the patterns overseas to create fast, cheap, and trendy kilts that would make my grandfather turn over in his grave. Synthetic fabrics, cheap fastenings, and pleather sporrans sold for bottom dollar in brightly lit tourist shops.

Andrew had never looked back.

Fifty thousand dollars. A huge chunk of our parents' retirement fund that they had generously agreed to lend us for startup. Gone. He'd stolen from our family, from his own brother, and had cut me out. Now he made money hand over fist on crappy fake products, in poorly run shops with high employee turnover and questionable business practices.

He hadn't come home to check in on our father after he'd had a stroke.

Andrew cared about Andrew. And I'd learned a hard lesson about trusting anyone with my future.

Did it make me a difficult business owner? Likely so. But Ramsay Kilts was run with honor and for that, I could be proud. Trusting others to share in my success? That was the biggest hurdle I'd ever faced. Because if my own brother could betray me, there was nothing stopping anyone else from doing so. I'd grown my company painstakingly slowly, only allowing others in after rigorous training and tests, and while it likely had stunted growth, now Ramsay Kilts was one of the top kiltmaking businesses in Scotland.

I'd paid my father back, even though he'd insisted that wasn't my responsibility to do so.

I'd considered it fair. Why should his retirement plans be thwarted because of one greedy, disloyal son? Being back in Loren Brae had unearthed many of those childhood memories for me, memories that I'd long buried, and they'd surface at inopportune times, reminding me that I'd never have the relationship with my brother that I'd once had. Or at least thought that I'd had.

Opening the shop here had been a point of pride for me. It paid homage to my grandfather and the little workshop he'd run for ages, and I didn't really need or want it to be busy. It was a space for me to design in peace, creating kilts in a time-honored tradition, and working off a penance owed by my brother.

I wouldn't let him dishonor our name.

Outside the castle, I gulped the cold air, knowing I'd been incredibly rude to Willow. She didn't deserve my behavior, particularly without giving her any explanation, but the slice of pain from my brother's betrayal had sent me scrambling outside lest I do something unheard of like discuss my feelings with her. Willow didn't need to be burdened with my problems.

It also didn't help that being stuck in a storage room with one of the most beautiful women I'd seen in real life was making my thoughts take a decidedly carnal direction.

My brother's betrayal was a sharp reminder that Miles had asked me to look after his sister. Miles was my friend—more of a brother to me now than my own—and lusting after his sister was its own betrayal.

No, that didn't sit well with me in the slightest.

Distance was needed, and frankly, I needed to just be honest with Sophie that I wouldn't be able to work with Willow in my shop. I didn't see any reason that Willow couldn't just go ahead and design for the castle on her own, and I could run my business as I saw fit. There was no reason for me to bring someone into my store, particularly when all I craved was silence. The last few years had been nothing but growth for my business, which had resulted in an endless slew of meetings. Had my father not had a stroke, I'd likely still have found myself driven back to Loren Brae, craving my roots and the quiet of small towns.

I'd just forgotten one thing.

Small towns were anything but quiet. Instead, everyone had promptly inserted themselves in my business, insisting they knew what was best for me, which was how I'd found myself sandwiched with Willow in a storage room where the scent of her perfume had gone straight to my groin and made me wonder what her skin tasted like. I gulped the cold air like it was a fresh pint, knowing that I needed to go back inside and explain myself to Willow.

"Needing a break? Overwhelmed by fabric choice?" Willow's voice at my back made my shoulders tense and yet, at the same time, I welcomed it. Welcomed her. I liked having her near, even when I wanted to push her away. She was both familiar and exotic, and decidedly her own woman. Her nearness tugged at those gentle memories of childhood, racing through the woods with her brother, picnics on the loch's shores with the whole family. Those youthful memories had taken on a warm fuzzy glow in my mind, but I remembered her laughing. Always laughing. And now I was the one to take that smile from her face.

"Aye, it's enough to make anyone faint," I said.

"Should I fetch the smelling salts?" Willow's voice had taken on a dramatic tone, as though she was soothing someone from Victorian times.

"It might be best to have some on hand. I can barely control myself around such grandeur."

"Same, same. See? I knew we'd get along, Ramsay."

At that, I turned to see Willow grinning at me, looking impossibly ethereal in the grey afternoon light, wind causing her hair to dance around her shoulders. A ripple of awareness worked through me.

"I don't like people in my space, Willow."

I don't trust people in my space, Willow.

I couldn't say what I really meant, because then I'd have to unpack years of family trauma, and that certainly wasn't going to happen, at least not here, in the misting rain outside MacAlpine Castle.

"That's unfortunate, as I've been hired to work in said space."

"Aye."

"Want to talk about it?" Willow asked, all sunshine and rainbows, and I glowered out at the loch. Looking at her made me think about things that would one hundred percent make Miles want to kill me. This wasn't normal, my reaction to her, and it annoyed me even further. It wasn't like I was a monk. I'd been with my fair share of women, even managed a few relationships that ended amicably. I wasn't some teenage lad unable to control his hormones in the presence of a woman. Yet one glance at Willow and my hands itched to touch, to sink into her softness, to wrap myself in her melodic voice.

This was not good.

Abort mission.

Instead, I glanced at her, helpless not to, and shook my head.

"Nope."

"Right, that's an American thing, isn't it? Talking about our feelings."

Feelings? She'd be terrified if she knew the particular feelings I was having about her right now. Namely centered on lifting her on top of one of those steamer trunks and unwrapping her slowly, discovering every inch of her delicious body, while she unraveled under my touch.

"Nowhere did Sophie mention that bringing on an intern required daily emotional discussions."

"Just business for you then, Ramsay?"

"Aye, just business, Willow. It's better that way."

"Is it normal for you to storm out of business meetings with zero explanation then?"

I winced at Willow's cheerful question, annoyed that she was pinning me so neatly into a corner. Despite myself, my lips quirked.

"Absolutely. Isn't it for you?"

"God, no. A woman isn't allowed to storm out of anything unless we want to be labeled dramatic."

I couldn't be certain, but it seemed Willow was poking fun at me.

"An unfair double standard, I'm certain."

"I'd say. For a man—it's a power move. A woman? We're too emotional. It's annoying, really."

"I wasn't pulling a power move on you, Willow. I just had a moment."

"Yet you're refusing to work with me and jeopardizing my new career here in Scotland. So how is that not a power move?"

I pressed my lips together, a trickle of shame working itself through me. I'd been so focused on my own shite, that I hadn't stopped to think about how my actions were potentially jeopardizing Willow's future. In my mind, Sophie would still work with Willow whether I was involved or not. I just hadn't bothered to clarify that point with Sophie. Now I realized that I was doing something that I, personally, hated. Meddling in someone's dreams.

Damn it all to hell and back.

I'd have to follow through on my word, allow Willow to work in my shop, and give her an opportunity to create something beautiful for the castle. It wasn't fair of me to stand in her way, and she'd come here under the promise of being able to apprentice with a kiltmaker steeped in Scotland's history. Taking that away from her simply because I thought she was pretty was decidedly unfair. My attraction to Willow was a me problem, not a her problem.

I'd just have to do better.

Resolving myself to a few nights of cold showers, I decided maybe it was just a newness thing. Once I'd spent more time with Willow, the "shiny new toy" appeal would wear off and she'd go back to being my friend's annoying wee sister. Not that I ever remembered her much being annoying.

Current circumstances notwithstanding, that is.

"I'll see you at ten tomorrow. Don't come before that. I like to have my coffee in peace."

With that, I left, knowing that I didn't have the patience to continue exploring the storeroom with Willow. I needed to recalibrate my idea of a quiet solitary workshop in Loren Brae to one with an employee and regular customers. Which meant I needed a training manual, systems in place, and a somehow magical ability to ignore Willow's obvious charms.

"Looking forward to it, boss."

Boss.

Damn it. Sophie was going to owe me big time.