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    Kiltless In Carolina
    Kiltless In Carolina
    Kiltless In Carolina
    Ebook113 pages1 hour

    Kiltless In Carolina

    By Ashantay Peters

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    About this ebook

    Unable to say no to family, photographer Isla McAllister agrees to attend the Highland Games under one condition—no roughing it. She wants a comfy hotel room where she can escape her family’s matchmaking schemes and avoid her ex-fiancé? Her plans go awry when she discovers her room has been given to a hot highlander with a smile that resurrects forgotten fantasies. Unfortunately, he's a kilt-wearing piper, just like her ex. After a bad breakup, Graeme MacKay plans on getting laid during the Games. He's gone too long with his bagpipes as the only instrument getting any play. His number one criteria for the woman who’ll share his bed—she has to be a non-Scot. But when he clashes with a feisty MacAllister who claims he stole her room, he throws caution to the wind and offers to share his room…and his bed.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherThe Wild Rose Press
    Release dateMar 18, 2016
    ISBN9781509207008
    Kiltless In Carolina
    Author

    Ashantay Peters

    Ashantay Peters lives in the North Carolina mountains, the perfect location to escape reality through reading. She likes to flex her writing muscles penning a variety of genres, which is why she's written paranormal books along with romantic suspense, contemporary romance, and an erotic novella. All her books contain humor because what's life without laughter? She loves to hear from readers and promises not to stalk anyone who contacts her.

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      Book preview

      Kiltless In Carolina - Ashantay Peters

      You

      Kiltless in Carolina

      by

      Ashantay Peters

      This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

      Kiltless In Carolina

      COPYRIGHT © 2016 by Ashantay Peters

      All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

      Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

      Cover Art by Diana Carlile

      The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

      PO Box 708

      Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

      Visit us at www.thewilderroses.com

      Publishing History

      First Scarlet Rose Edition, 2016

      Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-0700-8

      Published in the United States of America

      Dedication

      To Judy Jarvie for her help with all things Scottish, and for daring me to write outside my comfort zone. Thanks!

      Chapter One

      We’re not asking much. One extended weekend spent with your family. You’ve made the two-hour drive from Charlotte to the Highland Games before.

      Isla McAllister eyed her mother. You know I’m not into the Scottish scene. She held up her hand. No, wait. I don’t need the heritage lecture again. Just, please, no. She’d had her ancestry force-fed since birth almost thirty years ago, with tartan ribbons threaded through her crib. Even her stuffed toys had worn plaid.

      Perhaps you were too young to appreciate those trips to Gran’s old home.

      You mean the ones featuring gray skies, cold rain and no Nessie sightings? Zip, though Isla had taken multiple boat tours with a bag of breadcrumbs clutched in her small hand. She should have used raw fish for bait instead, or shortbread. Could be Nessie had an unfulfilled sweet tooth.

      Her mother’s lips thinned. Next her eyes would narrow. Isla recognized the signs and braced herself for the familiar words her snarky side wished to accompany with lush harp strings.

      My mother wants you with us. This may be the last year she’s able to attend the Southern U.S. Highland Games. Gran’s heart attack—

      Was ten years ago. She’s healthier than any of us. Given her dad’s affection for imported Scottish sausages and Robert the Bruce ale, she worried more about his longevity than Gran’s. Her nickname isn’t Selkie for nothing, Isla said. She outswam the high school varsity team’s captain last month.

      Still, her mother had a point. This year she’d give in and attend the Games—after token resistance, of course. Letting her mother win too soon would suck later.

      We just want this weekend to be our special family gathering. Who knows what could happen or how long we’ll have each other. She cast a glance from the corner of her eye. I mean, you’ll be married someday soon, with your own bonny wee bairns.

      Her face brightened. Besides, you wouldn’t want to miss the new Bachelor’s Sporran Event this year.

      Sheesh. How had she forgotten? Her maternal parent lived to match her only child with a nice Scottish boy. Preferably a clean cut one who’d just arrived from up a tree on the Isle of Skye. No way. Not after her engagement to Scottie the Ginger-haired Bastard went the way of salmon hurrying back downstream after laying their eggs. Did salmon make a round trip? She had no idea.

      She leveled a look at her parent. "If I go, I won’t camp out with you guys. Gran’s snoring raises the roof after a few tots of fine auld malt whiskee frum hooome. She rubbed her ears in remembrance. Plus, no way I’ll shower with cold water or depend upon electric and water hook-ups available to a select few. Using portable latrines is bad enough. Camping out in the North Carolina mountains? No way. Not even in summer.

      Oh, for goodness sake. I can’t believe you’re our child. Her shoulders slumped. I don’t know where we went wrong. Celtic dance classes, harp instruction, and remember your lovely spinning wheel? Dad treasures the vest you knit him with your homespun wool.

      Before their big relocation to the States, her maternal grandparents had lived in Edinburgh, not the countryside, but the facts hadn’t dimmed her mother’s rapturous support of all things rural Scot. The vest was moth-eaten, lumpy, and had shrunk two sizes. Unless the sausages and ale were at fault?

      Pulling herself back on track, she focused on striking a bargain. Deal breaker, Mom. Nearby hotel or nothing.

      Then it’s a good thing I’ve made a reservation. Her mom tucked her tongue in her cheek. She stopped smiling and followed with, The best room I could get is ten miles away. Lucky I called at the beginning of last year’s Games right after they’d had a cancellation.

      Checkmate. Ah, the final nail in her coffin of defiance. Her mother had held an ace up her tartan for over a year. Time to raise the blue and white flag of the Homeland. Her tripe was cooked.

      She’d lost round one, but with her own lodging, would have a bit of control. Even if her family butted in before the Opening Ceremony and Parade of Tartans began. If lucky she’d meet a sexy, dark-haired man to help keep her bed warm.

      Luck, hell. She’d make something happen.

      ****

      I need your help, Graeme.

      So what else was new? Graeme MacKay raised his gaze to his brother, Liam, standing in the kitchen doorway. Well, come in, then. What’s got your shorts in a twist this time?

      No need to jump on me. This problem is not my fault.

      This time. So what’s wrong and why do you need Big Bro’s help?

      It’s the Highland Games.

      Of course it was. The one place Graeme avoided and with good reason. His former fiancée danced there every year. Graeme knew it’d be impossible to avoid Caitriona. Vibrant auburn hair, a dancer’s body, grace and strength, and a personality more fitly named Caillic—hag in Gaelic. He shuddered. There had to be a portrait like Dorian Gray’s hidden somewhere in her apartment.

      Sorry. I’m busy that weekend.

      Graeme. I haven’t given you the dates.

      You know I’m done with playing the traditional stuff. Can’t remember the musician’s cues. Fusion music is my gig.

      I didn’t say I wanted you to pipe. Liam snorted. You want to avoid a certain woman who shall remain unnamed.

      Yes, Cait did hold a rather strong resemblance to Voldemort.

      My request comes from Kenzie. He leaned against the doorframe. She, ah, has a cousin who doesn’t want to sit alone while we, you know, hang out. We need your help."

      He meant entertain the cousin while they screwed like bunnies on an experimental love drug in the pup tent. No, he wouldn’t want to watch, either. Some kink was fine, but he’d rather participate. Not with another woman who thought the sun rose and set on Scotland’s shores, though. Nope. Done. Not cutting into that haggis pouch.

      He bunched his dark wavy hair into a ponytail, securing it with a thin leather band. No. He squinted, pretending he didn’t notice Liam’s hangdog look. His sibling often faked woebegone; his having perfected said expression by age four.

      "If I do this, he said, ignoring his brother’s flash of hope, it’ll cost you. Dearly."

      Little brother swallowed, his Adam’s apple wobbling quicker than a fast time change. Liam straightened. Cleared his throat. Okay. What are your terms?

      Two, no three things. He settled back, determined to lull his brother into complacency by starting low. "You pay all my expenses, and I mean all of them. Spending money up front, and I don’t eat cheap."

      You don’t drink cheap, either.

      Thanks for the reminder. Include a bottle of seventeen-year-old Balvenie.

      Liam nodded but kept his worried appearance. Graeme relished his

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