Cathryn Parry - The Sweetest Hours

He had short hair: dark brown, almost black. He wore a hunter-green collared dress shirt with the sleeves pushed to his elbows, as if settled in to work. He’d tossed a black coat over the desk chair, and by standing on tiptoe and adjusting the angle of her gaze, she could see that he wore a tie.

A tie!

Nobody wore a tie at Aura Botanicals. Even the CEO, Jay Astley, showed up in jeans, T-shirt and Birkenstocks, like the hippie he’d once been—at least until his passion for bees, coupled with his late wife’s passion for making body products from the resulting organic honey, had resulted in Aura Botanicals. “Aura,” derived from his wife’s name, minus the L. God, Kristin missed her.

Now that she thought of it, Laura’s death had marked the start of Andrew’s campaign against her.

Andrew was the one person who made coming in to work upsetting for Kristin. Just last week, a friend of his from one of their suppliers had joined a group of them for lunch. The friend had returned from a cross-country trip, and Kristin had been interested in seeing his photos, imagining herself taking the same drive and living vicariously through him. But Andrew had sneered at her in front of everyone.

“I’m tired of you being distracted and lacking commitment,” he’d said. She’d been mortified. But his lack of faith in her hadn’t stopped there. From her own supervisor, Kristin had learned that Andrew often told his other managers she wasn’t serious enough. “A liability,” he called her.

Sometimes after a rough day of Andrew’s opinions, Kristin went home and cried. She tried her best to prove herself in her job through hard work, but beyond that, what could she do? She stayed at Aura Botanicals because there were so many other reasons why this company was the best place for her, and she knew she shouldn’t let the small “bads” outweigh the more important “goods.”

If she did go inside and confront the stranger in Andrew’s office, she’d need to be careful. Maybe the man was in the office with Andrew’s permission. That was the most likely scenario. So she needed to be circumspect in how she dealt with him. And no curious questions about his accent.

She was standing there, still weighing her options, when the door swung open. The big, dark-haired Scotsman strode out, down the hall away from her to the end of the corridor and into the smallest office, shoved into the corner like an afterthought.

Her office. Her private space.

Shock flooded her. Without thinking, she walked quickly after him.

And then the Scot, who was trespassing in her office, reached over and turned on the portable electric heater. Her heater, that she’d brought from home.

“Hey!” She gasped in protest. “This is my space.”

He swiveled in her desk chair, caught off guard. “Jaysus!” he said, when he saw her standing before him.

She froze, clutching the flashlight and her phone. His brows drew down, and his lips settled into a thin line of disapproval.

She stepped back. With the exception of Andrew, she wasn’t used to anyone being so outwardly angry at her. Aura was peopled mainly by gentle types: laconic Vermonters. Like her goofy supervisor, Dirk, who really should be here at the plant with her instead of moonlighting at his weekend wedding DJ gig.

“Um, that is my desk you are sitting at,” she said to the big Scot.

He gazed up at her. Blinked for a moment. Regarded the flashlight in her hand and made no expression at seeing her clutching it like a weapon. Instead, he remained seated, adopting a poker face. He looked cold and arrogant, which didn’t jibe at all with the pleasant, romantic voice she’d heard him using on the telephone.

“I was directed to sit here.” He said it in a way that let her know not only did he think there was nothing wrong with his barging into her office, but he was also irritated by her presence. His lovely, romantic Scottish accent was gone, replaced with a regular, nonexotic New England voice, much like she heard every day.

She was dying to ask where the Scots’ accent had gone. But she behaved as a professional, only asking businesslike and relevant questions that would not upset Andrew if he found out.

“Who directed you to use this office?” she asked, her palm sweaty on the metal in her fist.

“This is a company office, is it not?” That scowl was still on his face—he was not backing down from her. “And a company desk?”

“Well...yes,” she said.

He stared back harder at her. She felt herself shriveling inside. Was she making yet another mistake? Maybe she’d missed a directive given to everyone in a staff meeting?

No, that was impossible. Placing the flashlight carefully on her bookshelf, she forced herself to smile at him. “For all I know, you could be a corporate spy, sneaking in here to steal trade secrets,” she said in a light voice. “I’m sure many companies are dying for the secret formula for Aura’s bestselling Organic Beeswax and Shea Butter Shampoo.”

He stared at her for another moment longer. Then he leaned back. He didn’t seem so arrogant anymore. “That’s a reasonable concern, actually.”

“I thought so.”

He nodded. “It would alarm me, too, if I worked here.” He made a half smile at her. Though it was creaky and awkward, the gesture did come off as charming. He seemed to be making a conscious effort not to be so personally offensive.

She felt herself relaxing. “Are you here with one of the managers?” She should have checked the cars in the parking lot before she’d strode in without thinking. That would’ve given her more of a clue as to what was going on.

“Yes, of course.” He nodded again. “I was escorted by Andrew Harris.”

She couldn’t be positive, but those r’s in her boss’s name sounded rolled, like a native Scottish speaker would pronounce it.

She peered at him.

His gaze narrowed back.

Maybe if she kept him talking, she could trip him up, and he’d slip into the Scots’ accent again.

“I didn’t know Andrew was here today,” she remarked lightly, strolling over and standing in the blowing force of her electric heater. She pocketed her phone and held her hands palm up to the warm air. “Usually when Andrew works on the weekends, he stops by the plant floor to say hello to everyone.”

“He left early.”

Three carefully spoken words. She waited, but he had no further explanation.

“Where did Andrew go?” she asked patiently, hoping he would slip and roll another r.

Slowly and carefully again, he muttered, “Family emergency.”

“Oh, my gosh!” she exclaimed, turning from the heater. “Did Robin go into labor?”

The stranger seemed to flinch. “Ah, if Robin is his wife, then, yes, it appears so.”

Two rolled r’s! They were very, very slight—but those delicious burrs sent an unmistakable shiver up her spine.

The question was killing her. She couldn’t help asking; she was dying inside.

“So, are you from Scotland, or not?” she blurted point-blank.

He gave her a murderous expression.

And then she realized she was doing it again. Too many questions. Too adventurous for her own good.

* * *

MALCOLM MACDOWALL HAD been assured that the only people present at the Aura Botanicals plant were located on the other side of the building, inside the factory proper, and that these workers would not be interfering with him—certainly not entering the managerial offices where he had only one day to gather the data he needed.

“No,” he snapped at the woman, hoping she’d go away. The worst thing he could let slip was a Scottish accent. If she found out why he was here and who he was affiliated with, it would be disastrous. Letting his guard down and smiling at her had been a mistake.