Dirty Sexy Scot: Under the Kilt, #7

By Melissa Blue

A fangirl's heart is so fickle.

Mia Jones, the ultimate pop culture fangirl, is no exception. For a year she's lived out of a suitcase as a travel podcaster, visiting one tourist trap and fan convention after another. Still healing from her last heartbreak, she's not ready to slow down and really take in the view...until Kincaid Cameron. A Scottish veteran with a panty-melting smile and dark gaze becomes the best view she's had in a while.

A veteran's heart is so ready for a home.

The list of things Kincaid didn't want to do after leaving the service could kill a rain forest if he wrote them down...until Mia. She surprises him when nothing else does. She's dead sexy and appears as adventuress as her travels. As a former SBS member, he knows all too well how the truth can hide underneath the surface. He suspects he could easily become a casualty, another man forgotten as her next destination tempts her away.

Their heated affair begins with seemingly innocent emails, and when being pen pals isn't enough they test their attraction with a face-to-face encounter. Will they survive it, especially when Mia is intent on protecting her heart at all costs?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Melissa Blue
• Release date: Feb 27, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386439516

Melissa Blue

Melissa Blue’s writing career started on a typewriter one month after her son was born. This would have been an idyllic situation for a writer if it had been 1985, not 2004. She penned that first contemporary romance, upgraded to a computer and hasn’t looked back since. Outside of writing, Blue works as a mail clerk for the federal government, has a paralegal certificate (that she has more use for as a dust pan) and is a mother of two rambunctious children. She lives in California where the wine is good and, despite popular belief, is not always sunny.

Book preview

1

Y ou could look less disgruntled, Kincaid Cameron yelled at his brother over the noise of the crowd in the hallway .

Where's the liquor in this hotel? Grant asked. If I have to spend the next few hours at this convention looking like an arse, I'm going to need it.

Kincaid did his best not to laugh as Grant glared at him. His brother was around the same height—a little over six feet tall, and had a similar build with thick shoulders, solid legs and no barrel gut...yet. Whisky and women were his brother's kryptonite. Both would catch up to him eventually, but not today.

And that was absolutely perfect. Kincaid had needed a Sherlock to his Watson. Of course, he'd brought both costumes to cosplay in. He had them ready to go the moment he knew his brother would drag him along to a wedding in California the same weekend of the FanTV convention.

Emphasis on drag along.

It was only fair for Kincaid to use sibling guilt to get Grant into donning a deer hunting cap, a waistcoat, and long jacket. Served his brother right for hovering.

Kincaid tsked as people moved around them in an upriver and downriver flow inside the biggest hallway. Every other inch was covered in posters, merch, and directions to the last events for the next two days. None of that was as appealing as fucking with his brother.

You're supposed to talk like a Londoner, Kincaid said. Get the cosplay right or do it not at all.

My brother is a twat, his brother said in his flat brogue.

It had been a long time since Grant had sounded like the Glaswegian he was that Kincaid could only grin. Close enough.

The scowl dropped when his brother laughed. Why are we still here? I thought the bouncer job was over.

An old friend from the Special Boating Service had reached out knowing Kincaid would be in California for a few weeks attending a wedding with Grant. He had nothing but free time on his hands to play security guard. Sticking around to get autographs, take pictures and soak up the scenery is a perk.

A perk is a limousine filled with women and champagne. Getting to drive a Bugatti that's on loan to any visiting CEOs. This is a hotel filled with people who probably don't get out much. I'd swear on a Bible it smells like puberty.

Kincaid refused to acknowledge the last part. You're stereotyping nerds, and you just want to whinge. Carry on until you run out of hot air. If that's even possible.

And when was the last time you got out of the flat? Grant returned the favor of ignoring the sharpest barbs for something more savage. Me dragging you somewhere doesn't count. That also includes errands or freelance work you pick up every now and then.

Kincaid hadn't left the flat for months then. No coincidence that was the same amount of time since he'd left the military. Civilian life wasn't what he'd remembered. It had to be more than working, paying bills, and watching his brother usher women into the flat like it had a revolving door. So far, that's all his life was. Sad day when he longed to hide in freezing lochs with a gun.

He waved his hand like he could brush away Grant's words. "I've met some celebrities from my favorite shows. I'm also headed to the convention's bar to flirt with a lass or two. She'll no doubt love the geeky things I do... That is a certifiable perk. Kincaid thought on the latter upside for a moment longer. Plus, nothing is sexier than a woman in glasses."

Just glasses?

Kincaid stared at his brother for a long moment. My brother is a twat.

Grant's face split into a wide grin. Lead the way to bar to find this mythical lass who loves what you do.

Since there was no winning the low-stakes argument, they elbowed and excused themselves into the thickest part of the crowd. There, they were waylaid by people who wanted pictures of gingers, and then the crowd doubled when people realized Sherlock and Watson had accents.

Eventually they made it to the outer ring of people surrounding the bar. Most of the waitstaff were in some form of cosplay. From wall to wall there were Deans, Sams, Selenes, Marty McFlys, Sailor Moons and Harrys—Dresden and Potter. Because Kincaid knew his brother, he turned to take in the horror on Grant's face.

His brother said, You're paying.

Assumed as much, Kincaid said. Find us a seat. I'll get us a bottle. It'll be faster that way.

Grant pulled off his hat and tried to fight against the tide of the crowd. Kincaid kept his eye on Grant. His brother's haircut was short enough to expose the cowlick that circled the crown of his head. Kincaid didn't break his gaze until Grant's head dipped down, likely meaning he'd found them a seat.

Kincaid forced his way to the bar's countertop, avoiding foam arms and flyaway wig hairs. Still, the wait to be acknowledged took forever. He didn't mind it. Tossing down drinks was better than heading back to the hotel room to spend half the night listening to his brother on the phone brokering deals or takeovers or whatever Grant did for money.

Two women stood behind the bar. One was clearly a bartender. She wore an apron around her waist and sported a black shirt with the hotel's name across her chest. Barely five-six, black and stacked, not even the frown tugging her brows into a vee could distract from her soft, pretty features.

Yet it was the woman at her side that drew all of Kincaid’s focus. Her wool coat had a black and gray cross-hatch pattern and red thread woven through the button holes. The half erect collar had a grayish blue scarf dangling from both sides. Even without the deerstalker hat, he’d recognize the cosplay. She wore it well.

Then again, her brown skin, her wide brown eyes, bow-shaped mouth, and the fact she looked like mischief in a five-four package could have made him biased.

He was sure of it when he heard her say, I’m not asking you to break into the hotel room. Just keep watch in case Hank comes back.

The bartender cut some limes then sighed. I have to work for another four hours. I cannot be your lookout. Do you see this crowd? I probably won’t be able to take a break.

Luke went on break.

Luke left me to deal with this crowd by myself.

Mini-Sherlock shrugged. Okay. Fine. He's a dick, but, Tasha, who helped you spray paint your ex’s car? Then gave you an alibi when he pointed the cops in your direction?

We were twenty-two and stupid. She slapped the knife down onto the cutting board. And the hotel has cameras.

That told Kincaid all he needed to know about their friendship. He leaned in.

Dammit, Mini-Sherlock muttered. I had hoped you’d be my Watson.

I can be. In four hours.

The longer I wait, the more he'll have time to fuck with my clothes. I wouldn't put it past him to throw my stuff out into the hallway. Our argument was pretty epic.

Oh, you mean the moment he found out you’re just a rolling stone?

That moment. Exactly. Right after I asked him to stop cleaning his toe nails on the bed. I need you, Tasha. She pressed her hands together and made a pretty-please face.

The bartender crumbled like a soda can under a foot. If I get a free moment, but I’m not promising anything. The bar has been snowed since this event started a few days ago.

Thank you. I’ll owe you one.

Tasha finished garnishing the drink and turned her gaze to him. Her smile was warm and friendly. What can I get you today?

I’ll need a bucket of ice, two cups and a bottle of your decent whiskey.

Mini-Sherlock’s eyes widened. Watson!

He couldn’t help it, he laughed at her unfiltered enthusiasm. My dear Boswell.

You stole my line, she said with a laugh then added, And God, your accent is delicious. I can’t even be mad it’s not accurate.

This is the one I was born with.

Really?

Aye.

The bartender rolled her eyes. I’ll get you your order while you flirt.

Were they flirting? He hadn’t done it in a while. The way his senses buzzed made it a likely option. I came along with my brother who—his accent is a bit more posh, seeing as he works in London and has to put on airs. Would you like to drink with us?

She worried her bottom lip and he wanted the opportunity to do the same. Mini-Sherlock finally said, I don’t know if that’s a good idea. What if he’s dressed as Moriarty? A fangirl’s heart is so fickle.

I’m willing to test it.

She laughed, and dear God... Her mouth looked like an invitation to lose himself in. She glowed. Aye. He was flirting.

All right, she said. I can’t stay for long. I have to talk Tasha—my very best of friends... Mini-Sherlock said that bit loud enough Tasha snorted as she brought him the bottle.

Mini added, She's also my very loveable and helpful neighbor.

Into doing something for you, he finished.

How do you know?

He considered if he should confess to eavesdropping but decided against it. How thick you're laying it on.

She laughed again. True.

She grabbed the glasses and he took the bucket and bottle when Tasha handed it to him. Kincaid led the way to his brother. Grant's mobile commanded his brother's attention. The thing never left the man's hand, probably not even when he needed to piss.

But his brother had some good sense. He glanced up, saw her, and his brows went up, followed by a slow smile.

She chuckled. Things aren’t looking good for you, Watson.

Sherlocks flirting with each other is meta at worst, Kincaid threw back. Narcissistic at best.

But the conversation we’d have. I'd finally have an equal.

Full disclosure then. I dragged him here with emotional blackmail. I don’t think he’s even seen a single episode of any Sherlock.

You wound me. She looked back at Grant and shook her head. Such potential. I guess I’m stuck with you, Watson.

But who is Sherlock without a Watson?

Oh, my. She pressed a hand to her stomach, titled her head and smiled. Did you feel that? The fandom waking up to debate you in spirit?

I’ll take a rain check on my rhetorical question. Kincaid closed the rest of the space between him and the small table his brother had found. Grant this is...

Mia, she provided.

"I met Mia at the bar."

She put the glasses down to offer her hand to his brother. It’s very nice to meet you.

Grant bent his head to place a kiss on her knuckles and then stood. Ditto, but bad news. Work emergency. I have to go.

Kincaid scoffed. I’m surprised you’ve managed to stay this long.

No. I have to head back to London tonight on a red eye.

Now that did surprise Kincaid. Anything you need me to do?

I’ve squared up the payment on our room, but I need a favor. Or rather, a favor has been asked of me.

His brother didn't ask for straightforward favors. There was always some kind of catch. Kincaid narrowed his eyes. Right, is all he said in reply.

Grant shrugged. Hey, you asked.

Fuck. He rolled his shoulders and braced himself. Tell me before I say no.

Marcus’s family is staying on for a few weeks, except their uncle Douglass. He needs to get back to run his pub the Drunken Barrel. Can you check in on him when you get back?

From the little he knew of the man, back meant Scotland and not the London flat Kincaid shared with his brother. That’s another day from now.

And that’s about as long as they trust him to be alone. Just make sure he’s taking his meds. If anything needs fixing, deal with that, too. It’ll only be a week. You can stay in Callan’s cabin if you need the space or take the couch at Douglass’s.

The set up sounded fine and good, but something about it nagged at him. He rolled back his memory of the wedding party. If the man Kincaid recalled was Douglass, everyone had called him the Baird. The man didn't look a day over fifty, was fit, quick to drink and had spent equal time at the wet bar and on the dance floor.

But Kincaid knew looks could be deceiving. If the family believed the man shouldn't be alone, then he shouldn't. That still didn't tackle the niggle in his gut. Why would they ask you? No offense.

None taken. I'm in no way a caregiver. They were desperate. I’d be the closest.

Whoever had asked likely didn’t know how much his brother worked or they did and didn’t care.

Then why me? Kincaid asked.

You have first -aid training.

He tilted his head and tried to read Grant’s expression. His brother worried, more so than his other siblings. Civilian life left Kincaid restless, and maybe it showed more than he’d realized.

Being alone in the loft probably wasn’t a sound idea but he didn’t know what to do next since money wasn't a problem. A woman hadn’t come along to convince him to settle down, and for the first time in a long time, he was open to the idea. Kincaid was adrift, but what would Grant get out of Kincaid babysitting? He didn’t know, but his brother had asked. That was enough for him to agree.

I’ll check on the Baird, Kincaid said. For only a week. I’m not a babysitter.

I’ll owe you one. Grant tracked his gaze back to Mia. Don’t let him behave.

Her brows went up. What is that word? I don’t think I know it.

Grant gave her a lopsided smile. Looks like I'm leaving you in good hands.

Aye, right, Kincaid said. Call me when you touch down.

He settled into the seat and watched his brother’s retreating back with a frown.

Mia plopped down next him, close enough he could catch the scent of citrus and laundry soap. She also wore that well. This close he could also take in the details. She’d worn her natural hair, the curls parted on the side brushed her shoulders. She’d forgone the gloves that were a staple to the cosplay, but kept the dark loafers, slacks and pristine white shirt. She filled the last out, and he could pick out the black demi-cup line of her bra. The low hum of attraction became a distraction.

It struck Kincaid then, Mia was the first woman he’d picked up since base bunnies had stopped being his steady diet of sexual encounters. Kincaid and Mia had no understanding beyond her sitting with him for a drink. If she stayed long enough to finish a full glass. His night wasn’t destined to end between her legs.

Kincaid poked around the uncertainty of the moment, of her, and he was curious to see what happened next. He was sure Mia would be anything but dull.

She leaned toward him, her scent curling around any common sense he had left lying around. What I can guess is that you’re a good guy.

He shifted, resting his arm over the back of the seat. What makes you say that?

'Don’t let him behave’ is the biggest clue. The other is the way you don’t ever slouch. You walk with purpose, and I’ve seen you scan the room at least three times.

He covered the surprise with a blank expression. And what does all that mean?

What branch of military?

Look at that. She was a mini-Sherlock. I was a member of the Special Boating Service.

She scrunched up her nose. The British equivalent to a Navy SEAL?

Kincaid scoffed. The SBS teaches SEALs what they know. So, lass, we’re not their equals, we’re better.

She reached for the bottle. Oh, I have a feeling you know how to misbehave all on your own.

Can you keep up? he asked.

He took in her full-throated laugh and let it tempt him to smile.

I guess, she murmured, we’ll just have to see.

2

Mia Jones pushed down the guilt and brightened her smile at Kincaid. They