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

Driverless, the car slammed into a concrete wall that protected a housing development next to the busy freeway. My dad died with his foot on the brake. That probably saved me. We'll never know for certain.

  All that was sure was that I was barely scratched. The paramedics found me quivering in the back seat calling for Mommy and Daddy. And not understanding why they didn't respond and comfort me. I had been, apparently, a pampered and doted-on child.

  I don't remember anything about the accident. I blacked out every memory of it. And I don't ever want to remember it, either. Some pain is best forgotten.

  Aunt Beth, my mom's older sister—artsy, quirky, and single—arrived at the hospital to find me clutching a teddy bear a kind policeman had given me. There was no one else to take me. It was either Beth or foster care. Beth didn't hesitate. She took me home and raised me.

  It wasn't until I graduated from college that I realized what it had cost her and how much of a shock it must have been to take in a traumatized child. She was thirty-one. With an active life. And suddenly thrust into motherhood. I must have crimped her style. But she never let on. Never married. Just raised me with as much love as a person can give.

  I owed her everything. And then some. And loved her like the single mom she'd been to me. It confused people when I called her Mom and then introduced her as my aunt. She was both to me—mother and aunt. Mother and father. Mother and grandmother. All the family I had.

  At night, she used to tell me bedtime stories that I thought she made up. It wasn't until I was older that I realized the stories were real. That they were the stories of my parents. She was trying to keep them, or maybe make them, alive for me. She wanted me to have something of them, to remember them in some way.

  One of my favorites was about how my parents met. I've always been a sucker for a good romance. Beth told me she'd heard the story of their romance from both of them separately. It was equally good from Mom or Dad's point of view. She told me both, of course. Beth is a born oral storyteller.

  Dad had stepped off the footpath into Avebury Circle to get a closer look at the stones, taken one look at Mom, with her long, flowing hair, and realized she was the woman for him. Trying to show off, he had hit on my mom with a line that could only be uttered in three Neolithic structures in the world.

  "You know this circle is really a henge?" he'd said to Mom, bypassing the likely volunteer guide of the day. "It should be called Avebury Henge rather than the more common Avebury Circle or Ring. With the right name, it could be as popular as Stonehenge."

  Mom had stared back at him, trying not to laugh. "What the hell is a henge, anyway?" she'd said in her American accent.

  Dad found her accent enchanting. And, I imagine, quite hot.

  "You'd have to ask an archeologist," he said. "No one else knows."

  "You're not an archeologist, then, I take it?"

  Dad laughed. "Definitely not."

  Mom relaxed, seeming to like that.

  "But I do know there are only three henges in the world."

  "Is that right?" she said, flirting with her eyes and smile. Beth had been in awe of the way Mom could flirt with a look. "You mean there are only three stone henges. There could have been thousands of henges made of other things like straw or sticks. Henges that didn't stand the test of time. Straw and sticks don't make for robust structures."

  "Straw henge? Twig henge?" Dad laughed.

  Mom nodded. "Though I'm guessing there was no brick henge or concrete henge. Those should have stood the test of time."

  Dad had to concede the point. And also that he was already falling in love with her. Bloody hell, he loved women with a sense of humor. He also believed in his gut reaction and following his heart. He knew, just knew, this love would stand the test of time.

  "I'm glad whoever named this place decided not to call it a henge," Mom said wistfully. "Smart person. If they had, it might have been overrun, like Stonehenge. Closed off to the public. We wouldn't be able to walk up to these stones and admire them close up."

  Her gaze flicked to him. "Standing along a rope in a crowd, I would never have met you in the shade of this ancient stone. There's something romantic about henges, don't you think? Something that hints of destiny."

  Dad had later told Beth that there may very well have been a certain romance and mystique surrounding henges. And, of course, he'd agreed with Mom without hesitation about destiny. But Mom had been bloody sexy in her incredibly short cutoffs and tight tank top. The chemistry between them was palpable. It was the real thing that he'd found enthralling. He would have said anything to keep her from slipping away. He had to get to know her better. Naturally, Beth omitted the more salacious parts of the story until I was older.

  Unlike my parents, unless that old man waiting for the tour guide was my destiny—he definitely looked ancient—I didn't see any potential new love for me here. I wasn't looking for one, anyway. I had a love. In theory, anyway. In reality, I wasn't sure anymore.

  Nigel and I met in college. He was in the States, getting his undergraduate degree. I heard him before I saw him. His British accent turned my head. His confidence and charm captured my heart. Just like Mom and Dad, we had immediate chemistry. I had the fantasy of playing out my parents' love story again. With a happier, or at least longer, ever after. What could be more perfect than the American me falling for a Brit?

  Then I had gone on to med school in the U.S. I was lucky to be accepted right out of college and not have to wait a year to get in like so many of my fellow med students. The price was that the only schools that accepted me were in the U.S.

  Nigel returned to England to his postgrad work. That had always been his plan. He went to Oxford, the top university specializing in his field of interest.

  We'd seen each other only a couple times a year for the past five years. Finances, but mostly time, were the culprits that kept us apart. Med school was grueling. I was sleep deprived most of the time. There were no breaks long enough to get away for more than a few days.

  Now, having completed med school and my residency, I'd come to London to decide between two job offers. The job of my dream at a cutting-edge cancer research hospital in Seattle. Or a lesser appointment in London. The thing was…Nigel.

  Nigel. I'd come to London to reconnect with him, expecting to pick up where we'd left off in college. But things were different now. Distant in a way that was both awkward and frustrating. Neither of us wanted to throw in the towel. But neither of us knew how to break through the damage a long-distance relationship had wreaked. It had been such a slow, gradual erosion, it had escaped our notice.

  In my absence, Nigel had developed an interest in genealogy. He spent countless hours tracing his family tree, traveling around the country to old churches looking for the ancestors hundreds of years back. He'd even found an American connection. He was apparently related to George Washington's family. George, of course, had no biological direct descendants. He'd never had children, though he'd been fond of Martha's.

  None of that really mattered to Nigel. Being related to the United States' first president gave him the cheek to claim he was more American than I was. I wasn't sure that was true. I'd never had much interest in piecing together my family tree.

  My lack of interest irritated Nigel. He'd even gone so far as to take a DNA test to check his genetic ancestry. As well as his connection to America, he apparently had a small percentage of Indian ancestry. Several of his ancestors had served in India for the British Raj.

  Nigel thought he might like to spend a few years living in the States. Which was the carrot I needed to keep me hanging on to our relationship despite growing signs it had run its course. Plus there was no one else who'd ever made me feel the way that he had. Had, I think, being the operative word. We were doing our best to retrieve the magic. The sex was still fantastic and the only thing really holding us together. Trying to find the magic again was what drove me to the stones.

  I didn't need to know about distance ancestors who m
eant nothing to me. But I desperately needed a connection to my parents. And this was the best I could do.

  I wandered blissfully along the footpath alone, collar turned up against a cool March wind, relishing the solitude. And waiting for an answer to echo to me through time. If Mom and Dad were here, what would they advise me to do?

  As a lifelong single and cynic, Beth had never been any good with relationship advice. She'd had her share of boyfriends, but no one who stuck. She said she'd never had a great love. She envied her sister, who'd had Dad, but didn't think a love like that was in the cards for her. And not sure she wanted it if it were.

  She wasn't wild about the thought of giving up even a shred of her independence. Not at her age. She wasn't exactly an old dog. More a middle-aged one. But still, she didn't easily learn new tricks. She said that if she could have a man that she could take out when she wanted the company and put way when she didn't, she might be interested. But if a man like that really existed, he'd be too weak, meek, bland, and uninteresting for her tastes. And a real man was too inconvenient.

  How I'd become a romantic was a mystery to me. It must have been genetic, something I'd inherited from both parents. How else could I explain my fascination and utter fandom for the books about Scottish Highlander and laird Jamie Sinclair, and now the popular TV series made from them called Jamie? I wanted a warrior and hero. I wanted my own Jamie. And increasingly, Nigel didn't seem to be him.

  I'd driven down from London on a whim just this morning when Nigel had been unexpectedly called by one of the church record keepers he'd been waiting for with exciting news about one of his ancestors. A great find. They had time to see him today, and let him look over their historical records. If not today, then it would possibly months. Maybe up to a year before he'd get the chance again. Something about a restoration project about to begin and having to put the church records in a secure storage vault for the duration of the project.

  The records they had were too old to be scanned or copied. Even though it was one of the few remaining days I had left with him in London before I had to make a decision, he wanted to go to that church. He asked me to come with him, but I had no desire to be stuck among dusty, dry records, an accessory while he researched his family line. I wished him luck with the project and decided to stay in London. I wanted to do some shopping and sightseeing before I went home. And there was still Avebury…

  At the last minute, I decided on Avebury instead of London. I called Nigel to let him know my change of plans, but he hadn't picked up. Those old country churches were notorious for bad cell coverage. And it was quite possible Nigel had turned his phone off so he wouldn't be disturbed. So here I was by myself, munching on a scone as I walked.

  For all their charming appearance, the large stone circles were mysterious and mystical. Who had built them? What did they mean by them?

  I was standing on a precipice with two choices before me—go back to Seattle and a career prospect that was exciting, but risk losing Nigel. Actually, most certainly lose Nigel. Our hold on each other was so tenuous now. Or stay here in a safe—if somewhat tepid and distant—romance, with a job that left me unenthused.

  Neither choice was good or bad. Each choice had upsides and downsides. Risks and possible rewards. I'd come to accept that nothing was all upsides. Life was full of downsides.

  Intrigued by the arrangement of the stones, I went off the footpath and into the grassy circle of them. If I expected to see a ghost, I was disappointed. The sun suddenly broke through the clouds, lighting the circle way too cheerily to entice any spirits from another realm. More like I expected to see a happy bunny bound by.

  I stepped into the shadow of the largest stone and stared up at it. It was magnificent. Ancient. Dark with weathering, black algae, and moss. And stone silent. As I reached out to touch it, I felt a buzzing.

  I froze. Then laughed at myself and my vivid imagination. My phone was buzzing in my pocket. Probably Nigel.

  I grabbed it and looked to see who was calling. Not Nigel. It was my aunt's physician, who'd become a friend to us during Beth's cancer treatment.

  "Blair. I'm glad I reached you." The doctor had her professional tone on. This couldn't be good news.

  I'd used that tone myself. It rarely meant anything positive.

  "You'd better come home," she said. "Beth's had a setback. I'm not sure…" Her voice broke just enough for me to hear the crack in her composure.

  She said something about pneumonia.

  I tried hard to listen, but I barely heard. The buzzing in my ears had turned to ringing. I felt faint with worry and fear.

  The physician in me ran through treatments and success probabilities, cold, hard, and logical. Separating herself from the reality. But Blair, the core of me, was a small girl again, all by herself, needing a champion. Someone to lean on. Needing her Aunty Beth, her rock.

  "We're doing all we can," the doctor said. "She's a fighter, you know that. But she's fragile after the last treatment. Not much in the way of immunity, as you know.

  "I don't want to scare you unnecessarily. Things can turn around quickly. But in case…if things don't go well, she may not have much time. I know how much you mean to each other. She'd never ask, but I know she'd love to have you here beside her. In case the worst should happen—"

  "I'm coming." I raced to the car park without a second thought. "Tell her to hang on. I'm coming straight home."

  I didn't take the time to go back to Nigel's flat for my things. I headed straight to Heathrow, praying I could get on a flight.

  Chapter 2

  Seattle, Washington

  Austin MacDougall

  I'm an app developer. A coder. A software guy. A gamer. A cosplayer. A geek. Up until recently, I was one of those guys women don't notice. Except to avoid. Or make fun of. Send a woman a drink in a bar and she was apt to turn the other way to avoid eye contact. Or I was. That look of excitement that turned to disappointment when she spotted me as the sender had happened one time to many for my male ego to take.

  My buddies used to rib me that I should lower my standards, as far as women went. Then I might be able to hook one. Or at least hook up. Provided she was blindfolded.

  You know how guys are. We tease each other mercilessly. Women would say cruelly. I can't figure women out. Teasing and insulting is our way of showing affection and friendship to our fellow men.

  Lower my standards? Hell no. I've always known what I wanted in a woman—kindness, wit, charm, intelligence, a sense of humor, inner radiance, and I have to think she's beautiful. I have to be willing to throw myself in front of bus for her. I don't give a fuck, not one, whether any other guy on the planet thinks she's gorgeous. As long as I do. As long as I can see myself with her, and only her, for the rest of my life.

  So far, I haven't found that woman I'd die for. Not one who has shown the slightest sign of reciprocating, anyway.

  I have other things working against me. I'm a nice guy. A considerate guy. Mom taught me manners and raised me to treat women well. If I'm walking in front of woman and we're about to go through a door, I'll hold it open for her and let her walk through first. Hey, I'd do it for a guy who has his hands full, too. It's not a sexist thing.

  I'm no bad boy. I don't have an air of danger about me. Though I can handle a broadsword with the best of them, and have. Maybe that's not saying as much in this modern world as it used to in medieval days. But it's something.

  The one thing I do have in my favor is a suave billionaire buddy who got tired of the guys and me striking out with the ladies. He hired a matchmaker, Ashley Harte, to find us our perfect matches. Even went so far as founding a matchmaking agency with her. And ended up falling for her himself. But that's another story.

  Ashley put the guys—Dylan, Jeremy, and Cameron, who we call Cam—and me on a fitness program with a personal trainer named Stryker, and fixed us up. Stryker nearly killed us with his workouts and fitness sessions. Now we were addicted to them. Once I got a taste o
f being in shape and having a six-pack, I was hooked. I look damn fine in a kilt now.

  Yeah. A kilt.

  No, I'm American. Scottish descent on my dad's side. His dad emigrated from Scotland when he was a young man and hasn't gotten over himself since. That's where my old Scots last name of MacDougall comes from. That Mac of my name has been a pain in the ass since birth. Is that Mc or M-A-C? Is that one L or two on Dougall?

  I also have the curse of red hair. Very few, and very faint, freckles, thank God. The hair on my head is a deep auburn. But, as they say, the carpet matches the drapes, only in a brighter hue. Which tends to surprise women. The few who have seen it.

  The other thing I have going for me since shaping up and growing my hair long, at Ashley's suggestion, is a strong jaw line and a startling resemblance to the fictional Scottish laird, heartthrob, and star of a major cable TV series, Jamie Sinclair—or the Sinclair—of the eponymous show, and book it's based on, Jamie. As played by Scottish actor, and modern-day heartthrob, Connor Reid. Who has no trouble getting into women's panties. When they aren't throwing them at his feet.

  And that explains why I was dressed in a kilt as I headed out for a pre-Comicon evening drink with the boys. Practice. So I didn't embarrass myself by flashing what was beneath my kilt accidentally. Not that I was embarrassed by my package, either. It was a nice, large, long one. But I was raised a gentleman.

  The kilt wasn't my cosplay historical one of the Sinclair. I was saving that for the con. The guys and I had spent too much time on it to chance getting ketchup and beer on it the night before the convention.

  This one I was wearing was a simple, modern black kilt, nothing too fancy. Plenty of pleats in the back to show off my ass. Now I knew how the ladies felt. It was straight in front, no pleats. And it was sewn, no need for pleating yards and yards of it meticulously myself and having to decide whether to do military or regular pleating.

  Black T-shirt. Black leather motorcycle jacket. Black boots. Black kilt socks. I was trying on the role for fun. When Jet City Comicon started, I'd be decked out in the full historical kilt and sword.