Wicked Sexy (Men of Discovery Island 1)

Success breeds success. Zoey grinned as she backed out of her parking space. Or in this case, Afghan puppies.

* * *

CAMERON MACNEIL CAREFULLY packed a bottle of MacNeil’s Highland Oatmeal Stout in bubble wrap. Standing next to him—and not helping—was his annoyed cousin Angus.

“I don’t see why you want to bring in an investor,” Angus said. “And judging by your caginess, he’s no MacNeil.”

“Do you know a MacNeil with the kind of money we need who we haven’t already hit up?”

Instead of answering, because the answer was “no,” Angus chugged the rest of the bottle of stout he’d nabbed. Highland Stout was not a chugging type of beer, but the nuances of hops and yeast escaped Angus. The alcohol content did not.

“Easy,” Cam warned. “We don’t have a lot of that batch left.”

“Make more.” Gus reached for another bottle, but Cam grabbed his wrist and guided it to the Highland Spring Bock they were about to release.

“The stout is a seasonal. Try this one.”

“Dishwater,” Gus grumbled and went for the high alcohol Pumpkin Porter they’d experimented with last fall. Cam let him have it. He didn’t like the way the porter tasted, although a lot of folks did. There seemed to be some unwritten rule now that all brewers had to come out with a pumpkin beer in the fall. Personally, Cam didn’t think the mixture did the beer or the pumpkins any favors. And don’t get him started on raspberries. Their Highland Heather Honey beer had promise, but so far, he wasn’t satisfied with the recipes they’d developed. But he would find the right one eventually. At least the failures weren’t wasted, he thought with a glance at Angus.

“That’s what I’m talking about,” Gus said after a deep swallow. “Och, laddie, ye just gotta have faith in y’self.”

Cam shook his head at the accent. Cam’s problem wasn’t a lack of faith; it was a lack of help at the brewery. He considered a moment and then packed a bottle of the Pumpkin Porter to take to Seattle.

“What?” Gus tilted the bottle to his mouth.

“The accent. It wasn’t that strong when you lived in Scotland.”

“Lassies luuuuuv m’ accent. It’s part of the package.” He burped.

“Is that part of the package?”

Gus waved it off. “It shows I’m a man who enjoys life.”

“Or at least beer.”

Gus turned the bottle until the label faced Cam. “Yeah, and whose mug is that on the label, I want to know?”

A swath of the MacNeil tartan ran across a corner of the label behind a smiling, red-bearded man with a receding hairline—Gus. Although in current versions of the label, his hairline had been considerably filled in, thanks to the miracle of digital photo enhancement. “We don’t want the lads to be associating drinking beer with losing their hair,” Gus had explained virtuously.

Cam nodded to the label. “Are women really and truly impressed by that?”

“A man capable of fully appreciating a good brew is a man capable of fully appreciating a good woman.”

“And that line actually works for you?” Cam decided to add another bottle of the Pumpkin Porter to the wooden sample crate. Gus actually did know his beers. He was the front man for MacNeil’s Highland Beer. Cam was the everything-else man.

Gus patted his belly. “You’ll never get a hit if you don’t swing your bat, if ye get what I’m sayin’.”

Cam gave an unwilling laugh. “I do, but I wish I didn’t.”

“Yer just jealous because the ad folks didn’t pick yer pretty face for the label.”

“I don’t want to be on a beer label.”

“Och, surprised ya, though, di’n’t it? That they picked me over you.”

“Not really.”

“Oh, come on, Cam. Give a guy a break,” Gus said, dropping the accent. All but the part that was real, anyway. “When I’m hanging around you, I need some kind of an edge. Women won’t notice me otherwise.” He took another sip of beer.

Cam glanced down to where Gus’s huge belly draped over his kilt. His cousin must have put on thirty pounds since they started brewing beer commercially a couple of years ago. Aesthetics aside, it was also a health issue. And Gus believing his beard disguised his double chin wasn’t good, either.

“What are you staring at?” Gus spread his arms wide. “The kilt?”

Actually the stomach, but now wasn’t the moment to get into it. “That’s not a kilt.”