Hanna Martine - Long Shot

This book never would have been born if it weren’t for the extraordinary plotting power of Erin Knightley, Heather Snow, and Eliza Evans. What a magical plotting session that was!

Additional heartfelt thanks to my beta readers, Lynne Hartzer, Clara Kensie, and Erica O’Rourke, who helped me with the fine-tuning.

A hearty chuckle to Chuck Wendig, who likely thought he’d never be thanked in a romance novel, for the awesomely bad joke Leith tells in chapter twenty-two.

I did a large amount of research using the websites of the North American Scottish Games Athletics (www.nasgaweb .com) and Scottish Heavy Athletics (www.scottishheavyath-letics.com). They are terrific sources of information, particularly the NASGA web forums.

Thanks to my agent, Roberta Brown, who didn’t blink when I told her I wanted to write contemporary romance with kilts, and to my editor, Cindy Hwang, who took yet another chance on me.

Jen Haverhurst swerved onto the gravel shoulder of Route 6 and braked the rental car with a jolt. Just out the passenger window, on the other side of a fence that didn’t quite look sturdy enough to contain them, Loughlin’s Highland cattle swung their giant horns and orange, hairy heads toward her. It seemed as though they remembered her and weren’t exactly happy she’d returned.

She’d had the whole drive up to New Hampshire from New York City to come to grips with the fact she was going back to Gleann, but it didn’t really hit her until the last stretch of empty rural route spun her around the mountains, spit her into the familiar green valley, and she came face to face with those damned beasts.

Beyond their gently rolling field, across a cracked, weed-filled parking lot, rose the sparkling silver and vacant Hemmertex headquarters, which had just started construction her last summer in Gleann and now stood like a scar among the trees.

Directly ahead, tucked into the last bend in the road before the town proper, sat a familiar, tilted produce stand.

That’s where Leith had parked his dad’s boat of a 1969 Cadillac convertible that summer night ten years ago. The moon had been a sliver, the stars each their own atmosphere. And Leith had given her the first orgasm that wasn’t from her own hand.

Jen punched up the weak air conditioner on that hot early-June day and whipped out her phone, pressing the single button to connect her to her office. She needed a dose of her real world. Fast.

Her assistant picked up. “Gretchen, it’s me.”

“Oh, good. You’re alive. Didn’t get eaten by a bear or anything?”

“No bear. A cow, maybe.” One of the Highland cattle had wandered closer to the fence and eyed her, warning her off its turf. “But yeah, I’m here.”

And here she was. Back in Gleann, New Hampshire, after all this time.

Jen stuck the Bluetooth earpiece into place and slowly pulled back onto Route 6, following its curve down the hill and into town. “What’d I miss today?”

Gretchen started talking, but Jen inadvertently drifted off, her mind following the narrow, meandering town streets she’d gotten to know so well after spending nearly every summer here growing up. Though it was clear Hemmertex had been gone for a while, no one had replaced the sign welcoming people into the small downtown: Gleann, a wee bit of Scotland in America. Home to Hemmertex Corporation . Sad.

Once upon a time, the Scottish immigrants who’d settled the valley knew how to pronounce Gleann with a proper brogue, but the name had since been American-bastardized to “Gleen.” As an eight-year-old new to town, Jen had needed a good month to get used to it.

She instinctively knew the way to the Thistle, the Tudor-style B&B once owned by Aunt Bev. Jen parked in front of it, under the low, heavy branches of a tree, but couldn’t bring herself to get out of the car.

Down the block, past the playground, she glimpsed the stumpy Stone Pub with its gorgeous thatched roof, its faded sign still swinging out over the sidewalk. She and Leith had waited tables there during her last summer here. He’d purposely brushed up against her one shift, sparking a quick transition from old friends to sneaky, desperate teenaged lovers.

Gretchen let out a singsong whistle. “Yoo-hoo. Jen.”

Jen shook her head. “Sorry. What was that?”

“I asked if I can switch a few things around for the Umberto Rollins cocktail party. The table pattern doesn’t quite work, I don’t think. And I question some of the menu choices for the type of attendee.”

Work snapped Jen away from the past and back into the present. “No, no. Don’t change a thing. Everything is all taken care of. This is the same annual party they throw for their employees, and I had to make do with a drastically reduced budget this year. They’ve approved everything. All you have to do is see it through and take care of hiccups.”

“All right. If you say so.” But Jen could hear the reluctance in her assistant’s voice.

“Gretchen, I’m serious. They’re very particular and traditional. They trust me, they trust Bauer Events. Just follow my directions for Rollins and then we’ll tackle the Fashion Week party when I’m back in the office in two weeks.”

“I thought it was three.”

“Nah.” She peered out the side window, at the ivy creeping up the side of the B&B she’d once considered home. “This should be a piece of cake. In and out.”

“Tim is okay with you taking vacation now?”

“Vacation time is stacked up and Rollins is set. It’s all good.”

At least that’s what her boss, Tim Bauer, had told her two days ago when she’d proposed her last-minute leave. She’d worked her ass off for him for six years, almost single-handedly tripled his client list, and snagged a prestigious fashion house account.

He’d strongly hinted that he was considering her for a partnership in his company. As her mentor he’d given her opportunities she’d always dreamed of having. There was a chance he’d even send her to London to be a part of his branch over there, and if that’s what it took to get to the top, she would volunteer to swim across the Atlantic.

She deserved a partnership. She needed it.

Once it was hers, she could finally kill the heel-biting fear of mediocrity that had chased her all the way from Iowa.

“I still can’t believe you left the city to go watch guys in skirts throw heavy stuff around.”

Jen suppressed a laugh. “They’re called the Highland Games. Gleann needs them.”

And Gleann, her life’s savior, needed Jen .

Someone, a familiar shape, moved behind the curtain in the front room of the B&B. “Listen,” Jen told Gretchen, “I gotta go, but call me if you need me. For anything. I’ll check in from time to time.”

“You’re on vacation.”

“Oh, honey. In this business, you’re never really on vacation. Nor do I ever want to be.”

She disconnected and stared out at the hushed, empty streets of Gleann. Reaching over to the passenger seat, she lugged her giant purse across the center console. It hit the car horn hard, sending a loud and nasal blast echoing up and down the curving streets. In New York, a single horn meant nothing. Here, it was a day’s excitement.

So much for a quiet arrival.

The front door to the Thistle flew open and Aimee Haverhurst bounded out, her hair, as dark as Jen’s but much longer, streaming behind her. Jen stepped out of the car, hoisted her bag higher onto her shoulder, and headed for the taller and eleven-month-older sister she hadn’t seen in three years.