Anyone but you

He was late. He knew he was. Punctuality had never been one of his strengths, but today he wasn’t particularly worried. Cailean would already be there. His younger brother had seen him through enough rough patches over the years and was now part of his business. Between him—a stickler for rules and regulations—and Lori, Callum’s lifelong friend and administrative assistant, Heather & Thistle Publishing somehow survived its owner.

Lori was secretly the real ruler of the place anyway. She ran the office, kept Callum’s rather chaotic personal life from falling apart, and had long ago stopped pretending either was an easy job.

Today’s first meeting was an interview with a young woman from the States. Abigail Archer. Callum hadn’t even bothered to look at her application. If Cailean had decided she was a good fit, that was enough for him. He would pop in, introduce himself, exchange a few pleasantries, and get on with his day.

A glance at his watch told him he still had time for coffee. Or he would make time. No meeting—not even one he was already late for—was important enough to face without it.

Jeanne’s Coffee and More sat in the heart of Glasgow, conveniently on his way to work. He had been coming here for over a decade, long enough that ordering had become unnecessary. The coffee was excellent, Jeanne knew him better than most, and he liked walking through a door where nothing needed explaining.

Callum’s English was impeccable, but Glasgow had never left his voice. His accent was strong and, when he wanted it to be, almost impossible for anyone outside Scotland to follow. He had discovered years ago that this could be remarkably useful.

“Morning, Callum. The usual?” Jeanne greeted him as he walked through the door, a knowing smile already on her lips.

She’d read the papers. Of course she had.

“Aye, the usual,” he grumbled, refusing to mention them first. Rainwater ran from his coat onto the floor. It had started raining only minutes ago, yet Glasgow had somehow managed to soak him through.

He shook the water from his long reddish-blond hair, sending droplets in every direction.

“Stop yer shaking. Ye’re no a dug!” Jeanne snapped, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Dinnae ye own an umbrella? A rain jacket? Anything?”

Callum gave her a smile and shrugged. He had lived in Scotland long enough to know that blue sky was never a promise.

“Ye’re no normal,” she muttered as she turned to make his coffee. “Good-looking, aye, but there’s something no right up here.” She tapped a finger against her temple.

“Charming.”

“Aye, I try.” She reached for his cup. “Speaking of good-looking, congratulations, Bachelor of the Year. Again. How many years is that now?”

“Ten, I’m afraid.”

Jeanne stopped. “Ten years. Christ, Callum. Dinnae ye think it’s time ye found someone?”

“I’ve found plenty.”

“Ye know fine that’s no what I mean.”

His smile faded. “Then leave it, Jeanne.”

She didn’t.

“Ye cannae punish yerself forever, lad.”

Callum looked down at his coffee. “Maybe I can.”

Jeanne studied him for a moment before her voice softened. “Na bi cho cruaidh ort fhèin.”

He understood every word. He simply didn’t have an answer he wanted to give her.

“Dinnae be so hard on yerself,” she continued. “And dinnae tell me ye’re too old for love when ye’re standing in my shop looking like that. It’s insulting to the rest of us.”

He laughed. “There she is.”

“Aye, there I am. Now have a little faith.” She waved him towards the door. “And get out of my shop before ye flood it, ye manky dug.”

“Charming as ever.” He picked up his coffee. “Till tomorrow, Jeanne.”

“Aye, whatever, Casanova.”

She shooed him out, and Callum went willingly. Jeanne meant well. That was precisely why arguing with her never worked.

He stepped back into the rain and headed towards the office, holding the newspaper above his head in a poor attempt to keep himself dry. He hadn’t slept much. Again. The previous night had left an ache behind his eyes and a heaviness in his limbs. Apparently, age was making sleepless nights less forgiving.

He would read the article later. For now, the paper could make itself useful.

By the time he reached Heather & Thistle, he was dripping wet anyway.

“Morning, Lori. Rise and shine. A bonny fresh day,” he announced, dropping the damp newspaper onto the reception desk.

Lori looked at the clock, then at him. “Ye’re late.”

“I noticed.”

“This is a big day. Abigail Archer is already here for the interview. This lass could do this forsaken place some good.”

“Sorry I’m late, Lori, but Cailean’s here, aye? He kens her application by heart.”

His brother would never be late, particularly not when something important was scheduled.

“Is the coffee machine in the conference room working again?” Callum asked.

Lori looked at the cup already in his hand.

“What?”

She shook her head. “Nah. I’ll have some brought up.”

“Aye, thank ye. Ye ken I cannae function without coffee.”

“Ye cannae function with it either.”

“Dinnae be so harsh, Lori.”

She raised an eyebrow. Lori had known him for over thirty years. Charm was wasted on her.

Then she looked at him properly. “Bad night?”

Callum lowered his gaze and nudged the edge of the carpet with his shoe.

“Cal.” Her voice softened. “I know it doesnae disappear because ten years have passed. But life still has to go on.”

He said nothing.

“I read the article about ye. The hotels, the women, all of it.” She sighed. “Ye can pretend it means nothing, but ye cannae keep doing this forever. It’ll break ye.”

His friends had spent years trying to set him up with women, convinced that the right one would somehow solve something. Callum had stopped arguing with them. He wasn’t looking for a relationship, but he didn’t enjoy being alone either. Casual encounters asked very little of him. For a few hours, he could have someone beside him without either of them pretending it meant more.

“How are the renovations going?” Lori asked, letting the subject go. “Should be finished soon, aye? Sorry I havenae been around much, but ye ken…”

He did. Since Aden had left Lori with two young boys, Callum had given her his house and moved into a hotel. She’d protested for weeks. He’d ignored her.

“Dinnae fash, Lor. If ye need anything else, tell me. Aden’s still a tosspot for leaving ye.”

She dismissed her ex-husband with a flick of her hand. “Nah, forget him. Tell me about the castle.”

“It’s no a castle.”

“It has turrets.”

“One.”

“A turret. On a massive old hunting lodge. Close enough.”

Callum pulled out his phone and found the latest photographs. “Aye, renovations are going well.”

Lori leaned closer. “Oh, Cal. Look at it.”

“Ye like it?”

“Like it? It’s perfect. Look at that carpet. Those are yer clan colours, aye?”

He nodded. “Aye.”

“And the furniture. Christ, there are so many rooms. What are ye even going to do with all that space?” She kept scrolling. “Must have cost a fortune.”

Callum stopped her with his thumb on the screen.

Lori looked up. “Cal…”

“Ye ken I dinnae care about the money.” He locked the phone. “I’d give the bloody place back tomorrow if it meant—”

He stopped.

Lori took his hand. “I know.”

He squeezed hers once. “Good.”

“And I know how much ye’ve done for me and the boys. I did offer to pay ye.”

“Aye, and I told ye I dinnae want yer money.”

“I remember.”

“Good. Saves us having the argument again.”

She smiled. “Go. Ye’ve kept Abigail waiting long enough, and I happen to like her.”

“Ye’ve known her for what? Twenty minutes?”

“Long enough.”

He narrowed his eyes at her.

“Go, Callum.”

He picked up the newspaper and headed for the lift before she decided to escort him there herself. The display climbed floor by floor until the doors opened with a soft bing.

Lissy, the work-experience student, was waiting outside with another coffee.

“Your coffee, sir. Mr Munro, sir…” she stammered.

Callum accepted the cup. “How many times do I have to tell ye? Call me Cal. Or Callum, if ye must. Dinnae make me any older than I already am, aye?”

“Yes, sir. Mr Munro. Of course, Cal, I mean…”

He laughed. “We’ll get there.”

Her cheeks turned pink, so Callum spared her further embarrassment and opened the newspaper as he walked away.

The first headline occupied far too much of the page.

Callum Munro, Scotland’s sexiest and most wanted man. Is his wealth and snobbery just a façade and a charade?

He frowned. “Snobbery?”

Apparently, he had acquired that too.

The second was worse.

Callum Munro: The Era of the Scottish Highlander.

He stared at it. Whoever had written that had clearly never met a Highlander. He was certainly no Mel Gibson in Braveheart.

He was about to fold the paper when another line caught his eye.

Callum Munro, master of clandestine meetings and NDA forms in overrated, sophisticated, elite hotels. The secret of his less-than-consensual carnal knowledge revealed.

His amusement disappeared. He read the line again, folded the newspaper, and dropped it into the nearest bin.

Abigail Archer had already been waiting long enough.