Almost Jamie (The Jet City Kilt Series) (Volume 1) Read online

  Almost Jamie

  A Jet City Novel

  Gina Robinson

  Copyright © 2017 by Gina Robinson

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Gina Robinson

  http://www.ginarobinson.com

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Cover Design: Jeff Robinson

  Cover Photography: Jeff Robinson 2017

  Almost Jamie/Gina Robinson. — 1st ed.

  A kilt meets dress modern love story

  If you like good guy geek heroes who look hot in kilts, strong, intelligent heroines, and poignant romance, then you’ll love Almost Jamie, the first book in Gina Robinson’s light, fun contemporary romance Jet City Kilt Series.

  Half American, half English physician Blair Edwards has always wanted her Jamie, the Sinclair, the dashing Highland laird of the wildly popular TV series, Jamie. Unfortunately, it's so hard to find a man like him in the modern world. When the stars of Jamie come to Seattle's Jet City Comicon, Blair dresses up as Jamie's Elinor in a vibrant red gown, hoping to get a seat in their popular presentation and a good view of the handsome, charming star of the show. She doesn't expect to be called on to use her medical skills to treat an injured cosplayer who looks almost like…Jamie. And sets her wounded heart racing.

  Cosplayer, geek, app designer, and cyber security expert Austin MacDougall has been styled by his matchmaker to look like the actor who plays Jamie. He's been trying to win the prize for best amateur cosplayer for years. Against the advice of his friends, he goes to Jet City Comicon in a kilt as Jamie, the striking redheaded Highlander. When he's injured during a mock battle with a vicious cosplaying orc, his friends get him help from a beautiful doctor in a stunning red dress.

  Has Austin met his Elinor? The adventure is just beginning…

  Contents

  GinaRobinson.com

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Also by Gina Robinson

  About the Author

  GinaRobinson.com

  Visit ginarobinson.com to sign up for my newsletter. You’ll get exclusive access to new release notifications, series announcements, and more!

  The Jet City Kilt Series

  Almost Jamie

  Almost Elinor

  Simply Blair

  Simply Austin

  The Billionaire Matchmaker Series

  Part 1—Lazer Focused

  Part 2—Harte Strings

  Part 3—Pair Us

  Part 4—Dating Lazer

  Part 5—Match Point

  The Billionaire Duke Series

  Part 1—The Billionaire Duke

  Part 2—The Duchess Contest

  Part 3—The Temporary Duchess

  Part 4—The American Heir

  The Switched at Marriage Series

  Part 1—A Wedding to Remember

  Part 2—The Virgin Billionaire

  Part 3—To Have and To Hold

  Part 4—From This Day Forward

  Part 5—For Richer, For Richest

  Part 6—In Sickness and In Wealth

  Part 7—To Love and To Cherish

  The Billionaire’s Christmas Vows

  Gina Robinson’s Contemporary New Adult Romance Series

  The Rushed Series

  These standalone romances can be read in any order. But it’s more fun to read them all!

  Book 1—Rushed, Zach and Alexis’ story

  Book 2—Crushed, Dakota and Morgan’s story

  Book 3—Hushed, Seth and Maddie’s story

  The Reckless Series

  Ellie and Logan’s love story begins one hot August night. This series should be read in order.

  Book 1—Reckless Longing

  Book 2—Reckless Secrets

  Book 3—Reckless Together

  Chapter 1

  Avebury Circle, England

  March

  Blair Edwards

  Avebury Circle. A place that was a true enigma. Both pastoral and cozy, sitting on the edge of a quintessential English village. An old manor house, turned museum, nearby. The circles, all three of them, looked like they could have once been part of a farmer's pasture. And maybe they had been, for all I knew. Sheep still grazed there.

  I had a ticket to the two museums on site, but hadn't yet wandered into them. Surely they contained information about the circles' history. I didn't know why I'd bought a ticket to the museums in the first place. I had no intention of using it.

  It was the woman in the quaint teashop with the thatched roof who insisted. I hadn't had the stamina to resist her suggestion and disappoint her. The town, and the shop, were desperately in need of tourists this time of year. She was so eager to please and be helpful. And so obviously proud of her town's main attractions.

  "You won't want to miss the museums." She nodded and pulled up a chair next to me where I sat at a tiny table by the window. It had an extraordinary view of the village and countryside.

  I'd stopped by for a bite of breakfast before exploring.

  She wiped her hands on her apron as she sat. "Not after you drove all the way from London," she said. "They're part of the experience. They tell the story."

  I'd been enjoying the time alone with my scone and my thoughts. Although the thoughts weren't nearly as pleasant and comforting as the freshly brewed tea I was sipping.

  The scone was delicious and buttery. Full of currants. There was plenty of clotted cream to go with it. And I slathered it generously. The scone reminded me of the little British bakery near my aunt's house back home. My aunt had made an Anglophile out of me out of respect for my late father, who was British. Maybe she felt guilty for raising me American. Or maybe it was just her strong sense of justice and ancestry. Because I was half British, and had dual citizenship, I should be aware of who I was.

  The scone was delightful naked, but covered with clotted cream and jam, it was heaven itself. The proprietor of the shop didn't seem to notice my preference for solitude. Or if she did, she ignored it. But in all likelihood, she simply was too friendly and extroverted for the thought that someone might want to be alone to even cross her mind. Being outgoing was apparently a prerequisite for keeping shop around here.

  The shop was warm, but quiet. I was the only customer for the moment.

  I tried to divert her attention. "Your scones are delicious."

  "Oh, yes." She smiled and pinked with pleasure. "My grandmother's prize-winning scone recipe. It's a winner every time at the local fair and a favorite with the guests." She glanced at my teacup, which was nearly empty.

  "Award-winning. I should think so." I smiled warmly at her.

  "Mmmmm." She nodded and hesitated, still seemingly fixated by my teacup. "Would you mind…?"

  "Yes?" I was curious. She obviously wanted something and was hesitant to ask.

  "Well, you might think it's silly. But would you mind if I read your tea leaves?"

&nbs
p; I couldn't hide my look of surprise. Of all the things I'd expected, reading my leaves wasn't one.

  "I have something of the talent." She laughed, self-consciously.

  Which I found surprisingly charming.

  "But I'm a novice, you see. So. It's a free service in the off-season while I build my skill and practice on the odd weary traveler, like yourself, who wanders into my lair." She grinned.

  "Your lair?" I was delighted with her sense of humor.

  She nodded, eyes sparkling with excitement. "Something to keep me occupied during the slow, grey winter months. I'm trying to build up my skill at it before the main tourist season hits."

  She looked out the small window toward the grassy stone circles beyond. "This is a mystical place. I'm thinking reading tea leaves will go over well. As a side business and something for a bit of fun. For me as well as the customers.

  "The Earl Grey is good for reading. You seem like you enjoyed your first cup. Could I convince you to drink another?"

  I had nothing to lose but a few minutes of my time. And although I didn't believe the leaves left in my cup of tea could tell my future, she was right. The ambience was perfect for it.

  I drank another cup gladly and followed her instructions, thinking of the question that weighed heavily on my mind. When I finished, I turned the cup, with its dregs of tea leaves, upside down on a saucer, turned it three times, and handed it to her.

  She pointed the handle toward me and righted the cup, peering inside it cautiously. "Oh!" She wrinkled her brow.

  "Is something wrong?" I leaned forward for a glimpse inside the cup. Not that it would tell me anything.

  "No." She shook her head, still frowning. "It's just I haven't seen anything quite like this before." She pointed. "See there?"

  I nodded.

  "A few drops of tea remain. They signify tears. One is close to the handle, which means sadness may be coming to you in the very near future. The other droplets"—she pointed—"are in the bottom of the cup. They're in the past. But it's unclear exactly what the sadness was over."

  Of course, I thought, even my tea leaves are muddled and working against me. But the sadness was no mystery.

  "I had a tragic childhood," I said. "My parents died when I was little."

  "I'm sorry," she said. "But that's not the sadness I'm seeing." She paused. "Well, we'll get to that in a moment. There's a journey for you, very soon."

  My trip home. That one was pretty obvious.

  She glanced up from the cup to me. "I see what you're thinking. That's just an educated guess on my part. I'm extrapolating from your American accent. Of course you'll be going home at some point, maybe soon.

  "But this isn't your ordinary journey I'm seeing, which is why I'm confused. It's almost like a journey into the past." She frowned again. "But not." She sighed. "I don't understand it." She shrugged. "It's probably my inexperience showing. If only my granny were here to help me. She could say for sure."

  "We're all beginners at some point," I said, trying to encourage her. "I don't mind. I'm having fun." Why be a downer and a killjoy? "This is fascinating. Go on."

  She nodded, continuing to frown and point, deep in concentration. "This clump?"

  I nodded.

  "See the shape of it? Very clearly a heart. It means there's a romance in your future. Your very near future. And yet…"

  I waited for her to continue.

  "See that line that goes deep into the cup?" She indicated it. "It's connected to another very definite heart for romance. The distance into the cup means it's in the past. All this reference to the past is confusing me, I'm afraid."

  "Okay," I said, not seeing the problem. "Old romance—I have some of those. Who hasn't? New romance." Which, given the state of things with my longtime boyfriend Nigel, wasn't beyond the realm of possibility.

  She glanced from the cup to me with a patient expression. "Except they're connected by a line. I've never seen that before."

  "You mean I'm going to rekindle an old romance?" I couldn't imagine reconnecting with any of my high school boyfriends. In my mind they were still boys. I'd been with Nigel since college. So yes, I pretty much had to go back to high school to find an old boyfriend pre-Nigel.

  "You might think," she said. "But that's not the feeling I'm getting or what I'm seeing in your cup." She shook her head. "It makes no sense, I know. But the leaves are saying you're going to have a romance with a man from the past. Not your past, the past."

  "Wow." I laughed. "Are you saying I'm going to have a romance with an octogenarian or something?" I shook my head. I couldn't imagine that, either. Nigel was a bit older than I was. But nothing like decades. I wasn't looking for a great-grandfather figure.

  She shook her head. "No, not that, either."

  I shrugged it off. "What do tea leaves know, anyway? Just my luck that mine are outside of time."

  The woman couldn't be persuaded she was wrong. "It's going to be a powerful romance." She was positive about that. The size of the heart. "And yet—see that knot around the string? It means it's going to be forced."

  I couldn't help laughing again, letting my full skepticism shine through. "A forced romance? In this day and age? I hope not. I'm much too modern for that. And too old and too smart to be a runaway living on the streets forced into prostitution or something."

  She felt so bad about the confusing, and disconcerting, reading that she gave me a couple of scones to take with me. To tide me over while I walked the circles.

  "You won't forget to go to the museums now," she said. "Promise me that." She paused. "And if you wouldn't mind, I'd be interested to know how things turn out for you, how accurate my predictions were. Anything that happens to explain the reading." She handed me her card.

  I took it and slipped it in my pocket, promising both to let her know how life went and to buy a ticket to the museum. If I didn't use the ticket, I wasn't technically breaking my promise.

  The woman who sold me the museum pass glanced around at the weather. "It will be nice for a bit longer. But I'd go out to the circles first, before tackling the museums. To make sure, you know. Not that the weather will be anything an umbrella can't handle. But people like to be dry when they walk, don't they?"

  It was what we called cloudy with sunbreaks where I was from—Seattle. In the Pacific Northwest, we had every kind of description imaginable for shades of rain and degrees of cloudiness. Sun was the beast we craved and had few descriptors for. The weather reminded me of home, which only added to the sense of destiny I was feeling.

  She encouraged me to wait for a volunteer tour guide to take me around the circles. It would only be minutes before one became available and a tour began. Plenty of time.

  There were three circles. Tours were free. They were ever so full of interesting information. Given by locals who loved the circles and were full of all kinds of bits and pieces of trivia and likewise. Tourists loved them. And, of course, with so few visitors coming by this time of year, during the cool, rainy weather, I'd have the guide practically to myself.

  She shot a sidelong glance to the only other tourist in sight, an older man who didn't look completely capable of much rambling along a footpath. It would be almost a private tour. I could ask any question I liked. Satisfy my curiosity. There was plenty of curiosity about things around here. Curious things, anyway.

  I seriously doubted any guide would have the answers to the kinds of questions I had. They were of a more philosophical nature. A do-I-or-don't-I kind of thing that the tea leaves had only confused.

  However, her offer of a tour was still tempting. Under normal circumstances I would have jumped at it. But I passed. Politely. I was sure I would have found the information fascinating. I loved history. And mysteries. Riddles and puzzles of time. Tales of hauntings and disappearances. England was full of them. Ghost stories. I had my own.

  The circle was no stranger to them. It had drawn me here. It was one of the sites I'd insisted I wanted to see during my visit
. To be honest, I had very little desire to see Stonehenge, its much more famous sister site. From what I'd heard from those in the know, and who had definite opinions, Stonehenge was little more than a museum piece out in the open now. Roped off to keep curious hands from touching the stones and wearing them away.

  I wasn't in the mood for a look-don't-touch experience. I wanted the hands-on. I wanted to feel the stones. Live the history. Be part of the experience, not witness it. Get up close. I wanted answers. Direction. A purpose.

  Which was why it was crazy of me to come here. I was a scientist, after all. A physician. I didn't believe in the metaphysical. Though there were times I'd have liked to. I did, however, believe in the power of love.

  This place represented true love, maybe fairytale love, to me. And endless possibilities. Crazy coincidences. Improbable meetings between people who would later claim to be soul mates—my parents. This was where they met years ago. My American mom taking a tour of Europe after college. My British dad simply getting out of London and into the country so he could think. Not so very different from me.

  When he spotted my mom—Mum, as I very vaguely remember him trying to teach me to call her, and laughing when I refused—he immediately fell for her. At least, that's what Aunt Beth, my mom's sister, told me.

  I didn't remember much about my parents. The few memories I had of them were filmy, vague, wisps of things I wasn't sure I was remembering or making up. They were killed in a car accident just before my fifth birthday. A freak accident. Something thrown from an overpass onto their car as they drove on the freeway below. It struck the front of the car where Mom and Dad rode, going through it like a bullet. Or a meteor. It killed them instantly. And missed me completely in the back seat.