“Trust me, I’m not a child you have to sit.” My chest tightened in absolute frustration.

“Well, maybe you’ll learn how to take something seriously for once.” She arched a dark brow.

“Oh, trust me, lass. Considering you just cost me a summer at home in Scotland, I’ll be taking this very seriously. You’ll have one hundred percent of my attention.” I kept my eyes on hers even though I’d noticed the rapid rise and fall of those incredible breasts.

“Well...okay then. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow?” She swallowed. “City Hall, nine am?”

“Monday,” I retorted. “I’ll be far too hungover tomorrow.” I turned and walked out of the courtroom before I said or did anything else that I’d regret.

First off, I was going to have to call my mother, which was easily the worst part of this entire sentence. The woman was going to be sore with me.

But more importantly, this was going to be a damned disaster. I was too attracted to the lass not to say something about it eventually, and I was known for getting exactly what I wanted. And her eyes? Her body language? I’d have bet all of that nine million that she wanted me, too. Problem was that neither of us could stand the other, and it wasn’t like I was a relationship guy, anyway.

This was going to be bad. So, so, so bloody bad.

An entire summer spent with Annabelle Clarke would end in one of two ways—homicide or heartbreak, and honestly, I think I preferred the first.

2

Annabelle

“I thought City Hall would be more…official-looking,” Connell’s voice sounded behind me, and I whirled from my desk, playfully glaring at my assistant for not announcing the Scotsman’s arrival.

“Mr. MacDhuibh is here,” Lacy said, all too late.

“Thank you, Lacy,” I said as she hurried back to her desk and focused intently on her computer screen.

“What do you mean?” I asked Connell, composing myself as I scanned him from head to toe. The man had worn a tight white T-shirt and Reaper athletic pants—he may as well have been a walking ad for wild sex, and that smirk on his face? Sweet mercy, it promised hours of side-splitting laughter after a proper roll in the sheets.

He glanced around the building, his blue eyes trailing over the polished marble floors, the ancient sandstone walls adorned with framed blueprints and city plans from when Sweet Water was just an idea in the founders’ minds. He finished his appraisal by eyeing my assistant’s and my desks behind us, the rich maple wood sitting atop more marble, the room free of office equipment save our computers—we kept the copiers and records and such in a closed room as to not mar the beauty of the old building.

“I expected more people, for one,” he said. “And definitely more officey stuff. Not a museum.”

I bit my bottom lip to keep from chuckling. “Officey?” I asked. “Is that a Scottish term?”

He tilted his head, his eyes now raking the length of my body. It took everything I had not to smooth the pink Chanel skirt and white blouse I’d picked out this morning. His stare was like a sizzling brand as he took in the curves of my hips, the fullness of my bust, and he lingered on the pink lipstick I’d selected to match the skirt.

“It is,” he finally answered. “Now, what duties am I to perform for ye today?”

A warm chill raced down my spine at the way his tongue curled around the words. Damn accent. Why did it make my knees wobble?

I straightened my spine, tearing my eyes off the defined chest I could easily see through his white T-shirt and hustled to the supply closet down the hall from my office. “Here,” I said, shoving a bundle of fabric at him. “You’ll need to put this on first.”

“Why?” He surveyed the brown jumpsuit like it was a rotten piece of fruit.

“Because,” I said. “It marks you for what you are.”

Connell took a step closer to me, and the hallway was suddenly very hot and very crowded. I didn’t lose his gaze, though. Didn’t break. Not for a second. “What am I, Annabelle?”

Heat unfurled in my core at the sound of my name, and I cursed myself for letting the Scotsmen have such an effect on me.

“You,” I said, slightly breathless. Damn him, he smelled carnal—like cedarwood and oakmoss—as if he were some ancient highlander who smelled delicious even drenched in sweat.

“Aye,” Connell said, dragging out the word. “Me…”

“You are a…” my tongue twisted, and I sucked in a sharp breath, waving my hands as I clicked by him. “You are the person who damaged a priceless statue and therefore are under my full control for the next six weeks.”

I stopped in my office, spinning around to face him.

He was smirking again. “Under your full control doesn’t sound that bad.”

Tags: Samantha Whiskey Carolina Reapers Romance
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