Cathryn Parry - The Sweetest Hours

“I hear you.” He slugged back the whisky shot. It burned his throat like comfortable fire. “That’s good stuff,” he muttered, smacking his lips.

“Damn straight it is. I’m bringing up a little girl who’s fifty percent Scottish-American. My husband has three Scottish-American grandparents, and one Scottish grandmother, actually born in the old country. I figure that makes me Scottish by injection, and I plan to act accordingly.”

He nearly choked.

“So, you’ll play along with Kristin and me?”

Mutely, he nodded.

Thankfully, she pivoted on her clogs and stalked back to her instrument of his doom—a silver range with six gas burners, four of them currently going full throttle, shooting up vicious blue flames. He wiped his mouth and ventured out of her kitchen and into the lion’s den.

With foreboding, he glanced into the dining room, where a crowd of men stood, drinking lager from brown longneck bottles. Unless they all ganged up on him, he figured he could handle each of them, alone, judging by height and weight. One of the men looked as though he might be bigger than Malcolm, but Malcolm couldn’t be sure because the man, unfortunately, sat in a wheelchair and had a glum expression on his face.

Kristin was nowhere to be seen.

Malcolm raked a hand through his hair. She would be back soon, with the little girl in tow, he assumed, and introductions would commence. He could behave seriously and in a low-key manner, the same as he’d been doing all day.

Or...there was still time to confess to her. Pull Kristin aside and tell her his real name. His true purpose. Let her in on his thoughts about what her CEO had asked him to do. Maybe some steps she could take for herself to mitigate the fallout before anyone else knew...

It was insanity to consider it.

He’d planned to never see this woman again after tonight. She was not part of upper management at Aura Botanicals, nor was there any reason for her to learn of his past. If he came clean now...

Then that would break his agreement with Jay Astley to remain anonymous. Malcolm would be jeopardizing the new product branding plans. He would also be jeopardizing his own company and the people in it.

It was too risky.

He had to continue the charade. One last night of being George Smith before the security name was retired for good. Kristin would never find out who he really was.

The only difficult part would be the guilt.

No. Guilt he could handle. The worst part would be resigning himself to remaining aloof for the next few hours. Like it or not, he saw all the ways that she was like him, with her heavy flashlight and her love and loyalty to her family and her employer. She had an innate capability for taking care of herself and others. And, she was fun. The lady was quietly compatible to him in a way that he hadn’t known in years, in a way that pulled him in and attracted him.

It was downright dangerous, and he could be in trouble here unless he was careful.

Plus, he would eat no more than one bite of haggis—he didn’t care what her dynamo of a sister-in-law threatened him with.

And, he would never let on to any of them that he knew what Burns Night was. He was simply an observer, killing time. His mouth shut. A ghost who would fade from memory once his driver arrived and he left this small Vermont town forever.

The brother in the wheelchair rolled over to him at the same time that Kristin came hurrying back into the room.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her face flushed and her smile trembling in an “I apologize!” grimace. “My niece wanted help with her part in the festivities. I didn’t mean to desert you.”

She turned to the largest of the men, the one in the wheelchair. “George, this is my brother Stevie. Stevie, this is George. He’s a work colleague, and he’s stranded in town until his ride gets here.”

“My sympathies,” Stevie said, holding out his hand.

“Good to meet you,” Malcolm answered, and shook the man’s hand, nearly getting his fingers crushed in the process.

“This—” Kristin continued, with unmistakable worry in her voice “—is my mom. Mom, this is George.”

“Er...hello,” Malcolm said.

Mom speared him up and down with her sharp eyes that didn’t appear to miss much. Clearly, an appraisal was in process.

Frowning, Mom asked him, “George? George what?”

“Smith,” Kristin replied.

“And what does he do at Aura Botanicals?” Mom demanded.

“Marketing,” Malcolm said without hesitation. The crowd was moving toward the dining table, so he followed along, praying the line of questioning would soon stop.

“And where did he go to school to prepare for the job?” Mom demanded of Kristin.

“Er, Dartmouth.” Malcolm decided to answer her directly. “And later, Harvard Business School.”

Mom whirled to stare at him. Her eyebrows shot up. In a heartbeat, her expression changed. “That’s the Ivy League!”

He knew that. Kristin sighed and leaned over to murmur into his ear: “I went to a local college and my grades weren’t stellar. No one around here lets me forget that.”

“Engineering is difficult,” Malcolm remarked. “I imagine that business studies are much easier.”

“You’re being nice to me. I appreciate it.” She pulled out a chair and indicated that he sit.

He did so, and she joined him to his left. Her face seemed frozen in a mask of what appeared to be both trepidation and hopeful excitement. The dining table was large, and there were a variety of chairs jammed around it, due to the crowd the sister-in-law chef had invited. He wasn’t sure who everyone was, and he was glad Kristin hadn’t made the big deal of introducing him to everyone. He was just waiting for his ride. That was all.

He leaned back in his seat, cushioned and lined with fabric, while hers was an aluminum folding chair. Despite them each sitting on different kinds of chairs, he and Kristin were at the same height, so his thigh brushed against her thigh. His elbow rubbed her elbow.

She drew back, smiling sheepishly at him. “This is worse than airplane seating.”

He stared, then realized she was talking about coach class in commercial airliners. He didn’t know much about that.

The little rug rat climbed into the chair on the other side of him, his right side—his eating side—which was a relief because she was miniature size, and it was unlikely they would bash elbows during the course of the meal.

He smiled tentatively at the little girl. She grinned back, her freckles even more impressive at this close angle, and she cupped a hand, whispering into his ear, “Watch me, I’m going to dance later.”

“You’re...?”

“George,” Kristin’s mother said, simpering from across the table, “I apologize for our boardinghouse arrangement. We are not usually so uncivilized.”

“Yes, we are,” an older man contradicted her from the opposite side. He stood and leaned across the table to shake Malcolm’s hand. “I’m Rich, Kristin’s dad.”

“Better than being poor,” quipped the brother in the wheelchair as he maneuvered himself beside the dad.

“They’re terrible,” the mother said, fussing with the silverware that the sister-in-law had set out. “Pay no attention to them. We’re usually not so disorganized, either.”

“Sure we are,” a tall man chimed in.

“I should probably explain who everybody is,” Kristin murmured to Malcolm. Discreetly, she inclined her head. “That is my dad, Rich, and mom, Evelyn—both of whom you’ve already met. Dad works at the county Chamber of Commerce and Mom serves part-time in the town offices and the rest of the time in the café, helping Stephanie.” She gestured across the table, still speaking in a low tone. “PJ, my oldest brother, is married to Stephanie. This is, of course, their house. Then there’s Stevie.” She tilted her chin toward the man in the wheelchair. “He’s renting a basement room, for now, while he rehabs from his motorcycle accident.” A cloud crossed her face.