The Accidental Scot (3 page)

Through the next set of doors was a machine shop, the place finally looking more like a manufacturing plant. However, the machines were ancient and antiquated, some held together with bits of wire and duct tape.
Another
Christmas tree, this one decorated with plaid bows, sat proudly in the middle of the room. Two old codgers, the same two from the pub last night, stood by a drill press, a flurry of heated words flying between them. They stopped at once.

The bearded one bobbed. “We'll be getting back to work now, Pippa.” He eyed Max's kilt but didn't act as if it was out of place.

“Aye,” said the other one, nodding at the kilt as well.

“You run a tight ship,” Max muttered, trying not to feel uncomfortable about his attire.

She nodded. “I keep them on task. Taog, I told you to move the CNC machine in here yesterday.” She had the command of a drill sergeant. “Why haven't ye?”

Taog turned red. “The CNC's too pretty to use.”

The bearded one laughed. “And Taog's uglier than his own arse.”

“Murdoch,” Pippa said in warning. “We've discussed this before. No more insulting Taog or cursing on the job. I'll not be having it.”

“Aye, lass,” Murdoch said, rubbing his beard. “About the damned CNC machine. Taog keeps it polished up just fine. Not a speck of dust on it.”

Max was impressed a small operation could afford such an expensive piece of equipment. “Can I take a look at it?”

Pippa turned to him, seeming irritated. “It's at the back of the building. I'll show you.”

She handed him a hard hat and a pair of earplugs. “Ye'll need these.” She donned her own hard hat, making it look at home on her head. A funny thought hit him.
She is the sexiest chief engineer I've ever seen.
She pushed through another set of doors.

Max was glad for the ear protection. Conveyor belts clapped, horns blew, and pneumatic drills hissed. Most people would find it annoying, but a wave of nostalgia washed over him. He missed working for the factory and being close to the end product. Now that he'd been promoted, he was a long way from actually making anything, except maybe a deal.

He scanned the room and once again encountered the bizarre. In one corner sat three pleasure boats on blocks.

Pippa's eyes followed to where he looked. “Winter storage rentals,” she hollered over the noise.

That explains the boats but doesn't explain the farm's worth of Christmas trees scattered throughout the factory floor.

Max focused his energy on the assembly line. He immediately saw ways to streamline their process and make the plant more efficient, just by rearranging things. While she explained the different valves and their applications, he flipped open his notebook and jotted down his recommendations.

“Ye better not be stealing our designs,” she warned.

“Wouldn't dream of it.” When they had a quiet moment, Max would share his ideas with her. “And the subsea shutoff valves? Where are they being made?”

She frowned at him and he knew it was because he'd asked after their Golden Goose. Every oil and gas company in the free world wanted to get a good look at the McDonnell's design. Perhaps others were being invited here as well. The fact that Pippa had let Max in the front door must mean MTech was in the running. Her glare in his direction, though, said she wasn't pleased with him or MTech right now.

She stood tall. “Mock-ups are in my office. Do you want to see the CNC machine or not?” Without giving him a chance to answer, she walked away at a clip.

Sure enough, in the far corner of the factory sat a very large CNC machine.

Max gave an appreciative whistle. “What a beaut.” CNC machines were used to build parts with efficiency
and accuracy in manufacturing. He did his best to ignore what they'd done to the poor thing. The CNC was decorated like a damn Christmas tree as well: Garland was swagged around the circumference and an angel was crowning the top.

“If you don't mind me asking, how did NSV afford this machine?”

She cocked an eyebrow as if she did mind, but then deflated as if to say,
what the hell
. “It's a gift from Corbie Engineering. Right before they went bankrupt.”

Her eyebrows furrowed as if she understood all too well what was at stake. North Sea Valve could very well be the next to go into bankruptcy court.

“There's no need to worry,” he assured her. “I can help.”

Her shoulders went back and she sucked in a breath before shouting over the racket of the machinery. “I'm concerned about MTech's definition of help. I know I called yere company back to the table, Mr. McKinley, but the last time MTech was here, they tried to rob NSV blind.”

This is going to be an uphill battle.

He patted his notebook. “I'm not talking about the MTech proposal. I'm talking about reconfiguring your operations, moving things around. Things you can do right away to save money, and it won't cost you a penny.”

She sized him up but looked too stubborn to acquiesce.

“Can we talk about it in your office where it's quieter?”

She glared at him for a moment before turning on her
heel. “Follow me.” She marched in the opposite direction.

Damn she was prickly. Why did she think the worst of him?

For his whole life he'd assumed, by the easy trust others placed in him, that his honesty shone through. But to come to Scotland and be treated like a common thief felt . . . foreign.

He wasn't a shyster. He was a stand-up guy. Was it too much to ask for them to put a little faith in him? Were all Scots this distrustful? All he wanted was to make sure their subsea shutoff valve came to fruition. Preferably with MTech, so he could keep his job. He opened his mouth to try to convince her that his motives were pure. But hell, pleading wouldn't do a damn bit of good. Everyone knew actions spoke louder than words.

He focused his attention on her lovely backside as she paraded away from him, and unabashedly let the spectacle outshine his injured pride. The view also helped him to ignore how the workers were staring at his bare legs.

She opened the office door and went in. He followed and his first thought was—
Hoarders work here.

She glanced around, too. “Organized chaos.”

Bookcases packed with technical tomes filled the small room. Piles of manila folders sat on the desk and floor. Stray valves here and there acted as paperweights. In the middle of the desk was that damn camera of hers from earlier.

She flipped over what looked like a stack of photos before removing her hard hat. Her hair had come undone and a disarray of strawberry blond curls fell around her face. She shook them out as if she didn't know how
distracting it was. From another kitchen chair, she moved a mountain of papers for him to sit.

She waved to the accumulation in the room. “My system is organic. I'm still coming up to speed on the factory.”

He understood digesting a lot of information in a short period of time. Like this project, which he'd had only days to prepare for. “Don't apologize.”

“I wasn't.” She settled herself behind the desk. “Now what ideas do you have for me?” she asked skeptically.

His gaze alighted on the one area of the room that seemed well put together—the wall behind her. Three diplomas hung in perfect order. It was an impressive display—bachelor's, master's, and doctorate in mechanical engineering.

She followed to where his eye had landed. “Da insisted that Taog and Murdoch hang my diplomas.” Interestingly, her cheeks tinged red.

“Don't be embarrassed by your intelligence and accomplishments.”

“Are you always this cheeky with strangers?” She held his stare.

“I'm impressed, is all.”

She shot him a stern frown that spoke volumes . . .
I'm not impressed with you.

He ignored it. “What's that?” Beside the diplomas, a strange plaque hung, near enough for her to easily reach out and touch while seated at her desk.

“A healthy dose of humility” was all she said.

It was an honest-to-goodness cross-wise section of a valve with a hole blown through it. He leaned forward to read the inscription . . .

PROOF THAT THEORY ≠ REALITY AND REALITY CAN BITE YOU IN THE ARSE CONFIRMED BY ALISTAIR MCDONNELL AND HER DESIGN TEAM

“Wrong size valve for that particular high-pressure line,” she admitted candidly. “I keep it close to remind me that if I don't do my job correctly, I could cost someone their life.”

His mouth went dry and he couldn't speak. What could he say? That he understood her? His dad and a multitude of others had died in industrial accidents. Max was in the same business as Pippa was in—preserving lives.

She cleared her throat. “I haven't received anything in writing from MTech yet. Did you bring the proposal with you?”

“No. I understand they'll e-mail it soon. We have time,” he reassured her.

She shook her head as if they didn't.

He'd been given only a few selling points.
Straightforward,
Miranda had said. Max's job was to check out their facility, review the specs on the valve—make sure the valve was viable—and then get NSV to partner with MTech.

He told Pippa what he knew about the deal. “The crux of it is, MTech would supply the research facility for testing the subsea shutoff valve. In return, MTech would receive a small percentage of the profits when the product goes live. Easy.”

“Nothing is ever
easy
, Mr. McKinley. When the contract is ready, the McDonnell and myself will go over it with a fine-tooth comb.”

“I understand.” If he was in their position, he would, too. “We're hoping your father will make a decision by Christmas or by the latest, the New Year.”

“About my father . . .” The phone rang.

She pointed to it. “Do you mind? I'm expecting a call.”

“Not at all.” He turned to his notes.

She listened for a moment, and then her brows crashed together. “Hold on a second.”

She placed her hand over the receiver and spoke to Max. “We're going to have to cut this short, Mr. McKinley.” As an afterthought she added, “Come to dinner tonight, six o'clock. It's time you met the McDonnell. You can share your ideas with both of us then. We're the house nearest the postbox—red roof, green door. Can you find your way out?”

“Sure.” He shut his notebook and headed for the door. On the other side, he found Taog standing by the CNC machine, sizing it up.

“Do you need any help?” Max asked.

“Murdoch is retrieving the front loader.” Taog walked to the corner and looked at it from that side. “Just trying to figure at what angle to go about it.”

“I'll give you a hand.” Max was pleased to set his notebook aside and get his hands dirty.

They spent the rest of the morning maneuvering the CNC into the machine shop, while Max took the opportunity to learn more about their processes and
procedures. The fact that he was accruing brownie points with the natives wasn't lost on him.

When the machine had been situated in its new home, Taog and Murdoch offered to buy Max a drink that night at the pub. Max accepted, wondering if Pippa would be behind the bar again. In the lobby, he grabbed his damp suit hanging by the door and headed out. That's when he remembered his dinner date at the house with the red roof and the green door.

Ugh, their house sounded like Christmas. Max wasn't sure he could stand any more decorated trees and holiday cheer.

*   *   *

Pippa stared at the camera, feeling letdown and desperate. The bachelor auction was their only hope. She'd hit another brick wall with the National Health Service.

Were they sure there was no money in the budget for her father to see the specialist sooner?
They were sure.

If her father relocated to her apartment in Edinburgh, could he at least get his initial workup?
No.

If she promised to give blood once a week for the rest of her life would the NHS rethink their position?
No.

She'd been lucky the NHS had even called her back, but her last hope of their help had been dashed. The Strapping Lads in Plaid auction had better be enough. Because if not, it felt like her da was a goner.

A
s Max exited the factory, the wind kicked up and with it, his kilt. He would literally freeze his ass off if he didn't get warmer clothing, especially if he was forced to wear one of these skirts again. The boots Pippa had given him, however, were a vast improvement over his dress shoes. If he caught her in a good mood, he'd ask if he could hang on to them for the duration of his stay. He got in his car and headed back to the village. Snowdrifts had partially hidden the road but he made it safely to the town's parking lot.

Outside his home-away-from-home, he glanced down the boardwalk and noticed an old woman wrestling a long piece of garland in the gale-force wind. His empty stomach urged him to take the last few steps into the pub where a bowl of potato soup was waiting for him. Despite his fluttering kilt and his growling stomach, his Southern boy upbringing had him bracing into the wind to assist the old woman.

“Hey there,” he hollered over the crashing waves and the roar of the wind. “Can I give you a hand?”

At first, he thought she wouldn't answer. She eyed his kilt and raised an eyebrow, then finally spoke. “It's you. Ye might as well help. Ye're dressed for it.” The woman was as old as the ocean. Every line on her face was a testament to her time living here on the dangerous edge
of Scotland. But he could tell she was as strong as an ox. Between the two of them, they positioned the garland securely to the building next to the patchwork sign that read Q
UILTING
C
ENTRAL
.

“Would you like to come in for some lunch?” She frowned at her own offer as if she had no choice in it. She opened the door to the large building and the most delicious smell of beef stew drifted out.

His mouth watered and he smiled. “That would be great.”

She ushered him in with a scowl. “After you eat, I expect ye to get that old Douglas fir positioned in the tree stand in the back corner.” She pointed out the spot with a gnarled hand.

“You sure know how to bribe a guy. The stew smells wonderful.” He would remain upbeat and friendly, no matter how much the townsfolk disliked him. Besides, he could put up with a little attitude in exchange for food.

She waddled over to the kitchen area. “Go sit yereself by the fire. I'll bring ye a bowl.”

He walked farther into the large open room with I-beam supports strategically placed to hold up the roof. All the women who worked there stopped simultaneously and stared at him. And his kilt. The old woman shooed them back to arranging chairs and tables.

The smell of sizing and fabric reached his nose, too, reminding him of his mom's sewing room. On one side of the huge room, rows of sewing machines were positioned with ironing boards nearby. Not too far away, mats and rotary cutters waited. One wall had been dedicated to bolts of fabrics, another for design. Toward the back, three longarm quilting machines sat quiet.

The old woman returned with a bowl and spoon, laying it on the coffee table in front of where he stood.

“Thanks.” He smiled at her and the surroundings. “My mom and my sister, Bitsy, would love it here. They're both quilters, too.”

The old woman bobbed her head. “It's an honest way to spend yere days.”

“Yes, it is.” He thought about all the work his mom had put into the Texas Star quilt draped across his bed in his apartment. “By the way, I'm Max McKinley.” He held out his hand to her.

“We know who you are.” She crossed her arms over her large chest.

He read the subtext well enough.
Gandiegow doesn't warm to strangers easily.

She moved her ham-sized hands to her hips. “Now, I'll feed you because you're hungry and because you're going to help us, but that's all. Best get to eating that stew.” She started to walk away but stopped. “I'm Deydie McCracken,” she added, begrudgingly.

She left him and went to bark at a group of women who were apparently hanging a Christmas quilt all wrong on the far wall. The women spared a glance at him while doing as Deydie bid, seeming to take her gruffness in stride. He decided he would, too.

He made himself comfortable on the oversized sofa and took a bite of stew. It was rich, hearty, and hit the spot.

Deydie hollered to him from across the room. “Hurry up there. We're having a quilting retreat this weekend. The last one before Christmas. We need the lights on
that tree before the needles fall off. And before I grow another year older.”

He grinned at her.

A woman in her mid-thirties made her way over to him. “Hi. I'm Cait Buchanan. Sorry about Deydie. She's my gran . . . and a handful.” Her accent wasn't quite Scottish, more a mixture between a brogue and his own American English.

He put down his spoon and stuck out his hand. “Max McKinley. And don't worry about Deydie. I like her. She reminds me of my own grandmother.”

“Good. Because she seems to have taken to you, too.”

“Really?” That's
taken to
?

“Aye. She's a funny ole bird.” Cait pointed to a young redheaded boy. “Mattie, come here.”

The kid, maybe eight years old or so, dropped his backpack at the door.

Cait smiled as he made his way over and put her hand on his shoulder as he stood near. “Mattie, this is Mr. McKinley. He's come to do some work at the North Sea Valve Company. Say hello to him.”

The kid seemed to regard Max for a long moment, making him wonder if the kid would say anything at all. Finally, he extended his small hand. “Hello.” His voice was quiet.

Max took his hand and shook. “You're a reserved young man.”

Mattie tilted his face up to Cait. For a flash, she looked upset, but she pulled it together and smiled down at him. “Aye. A good trait. Sometimes it's best to think a wee bit before we speak.”

What did I say?
He should've wiped his feet, because apparently he'd stepped in it this time.

But just like that, Cait must've forgiven him—her genuine smile returned. “We're all glad ye're in town. I'll let you get back to your lunch. I only wanted to introduce myself.”

He said good-bye and watched them walk away.

As he took another bite of stew, another young woman, who'd been standing close enough to have heard the exchange, glided over to him. He wasn't sure if she meant to speak to him because she kept her gaze plastered to the ground.

Finally, she glanced up. “That wasn't yere fault.” Her voice was soft, and he could tell she was painfully shy. “Ye couldn't have known about Mattie and the accident.”

He felt like a heel. “Mattie was in an accident?”

“Nay. He witnessed a boatful of men drowning.”

Crap!

The woman hesitated and then continued. “He's had trouble speaking ever since. But he's come a long way.”

“Thanks for filling me in.” He'd have to apologize to Cait and Mattie for any pain he caused. He didn't seem to be making friends fast in Scotland. “I'm Max, by the way.”

“I'm Moira.” She nodded and left him alone.

He ate the rest of his stew without making any more faux pas. The rest of the afternoon flew by as he helped out at Quilting Central. He learned the names of many more of the women and a few of the men who'd been wrangled into lending a hand, too. Everyone was polite, if not warm, and he hoped his efforts would build some
bridges between himself and Gandiegow. As he readied to leave, Amy, who'd told him she ran the General Store, brought him a bundle—a down coat, a god-awful Christmas sweater, thick gloves, and a nice wool plaid scarf.

“It's the McKinley tartan,” Amy explained. “And the sweater, my auntie made.”

He took the provisions from her. “This is so generous of you.”

“Nay. Stop by the store tomorrow to settle up. I'll have your bill ready.” She said it sweetly, but firmly.

He nodded. “Fair enough. I'm grateful all the same.”

He shrugged on the down coat and headed back to the pub. The day had passed quickly and he barely had time to prepare for his dinner at Pippa's. He slipped out of the kilt and into a warm pair of jeans. Feeling a little chilled, he decided to don the ugly sweater with the green and red baubles scattered across the front, complete with sewn-on tinkling bells. When Max got downstairs, Taog and Murdoch were waiting for him.

“Come here, lad.” Taog pounded him on the back. “We owe you that drink. Pippa was quite pleased when she saw the CNC in the machine shop.”

“Sorry, fellows,” Max said. “I can't stay.”

“But you promised,” Taog complained.

“Promised,” Murdoch said in affirmation.

“Yes, but if I show up stinking drunk at the McDonnell's for dinner, what do you think would happen?”

“Pippa would cut yere balls off and feed them to the sharkies.” Murdoch shook his head as though he'd heard accounts of such a tale.

Taog only frowned sympathetically. “Aye. 'Tis a dilemma. Ye best be getting on to supper. And to Pippa.”

Murdoch suddenly looked wise. “Watch yereself with Pippa, Yank.”

Max gave a noncommittal nod, wondering who Murdoch had meant to protect. Pippa or Max?

“Where's the postbox?” Max asked.

Taog sipped his drink. “North of the General Store.”

Max bundled up in his new coat, gloves, and scarf, and set off for Pippa's. It was a cold walk, but he found the house with the red roof and green door easily enough. Given the overkill at the factory, he wasn't surprised to find multicolored lights and decorations overpowering the outside of the cottage from one end to the other.

As he stepped onto the porch, the door swung open and there she stood, wearing a long red sweater with gray leggings underneath. She had just enough cleavage showing to make him want to see more.

“Come, get out of the cold.” She grabbed his arm and pulled him in.

She smelled good. Like gingerbread.

And God help him, he wanted to lean closer and inhale her scent a moment longer. That's when he realized he was in trouble.

*   *   *

Pippa couldn't keep from laughing as the Yank shrugged out of his coat.

“How on Earth did Amy talk ye into buying that atrocity? It's been at the store for ages.” She shook her head. “No self-respecting Scot would be caught dead in such a thing.”

He looked down and flicked one of the puffy baubles. “It's warmer than anything I brought with me.”

It was endearing that he'd wear the ridiculous sweater. Also, she noticed, it didn't take anything away from his broad shoulders and captivating smile. “Christmas must really be your holiday.”

“God, no. Not by a long shot.” A crease formed on his forehead and he crossed his arms. In the process, the bells on his sweater jingled. He rolled his eyes and seemed to struggle with regaining his composure. “Amy mentioned her auntie had made the thing.” He shrugged and the sweater jingled another
tinkle, tinkle
. “I didn't want to hurt her feelings by not wearing it.”

“Very giving. We should call you
Mr. Christmas
.” Pippa waved him farther into the house. Up to this point, she'd done pretty well feigning her indifference, but Max was so genuinely nice that it was getting harder and harder for her not to like him. And so good-looking, too. But how could she be drawn to the man who might rob NSV of her da's patents for the subsea shutoff valve?

Pippa couldn't help but inhale Max as he walked by. No trace of dead fish on this one. Nothing but
clean, attractive man
. It was disarming.

Back in Edinburgh as
Alistair
, she'd made sure from the beginning her colleagues saw her as a serious engineer and just one of the guys. No one could get through her armor. But here in Gandiegow, she was
Pippa
. The fishermen's sons still remembered her at eight when she sobbed at the death of the beached baby whale at their water's edge. To her credit, she'd toughened up. She'd made sure those boys regretted their ruthless taunts. She could swear with the best of them now and knew how to
gut each and every one of them—not with a knife but with her wicked tongue.

Damn Max McKinley.
He made her five-ten frame feel delicate. But she had bigger worries than some fleeting attraction.

She focused at the spot just beyond his shoulder. “Stop for a second. There's something I must tell you before you meet my da.”

The doorbell rang. Impatiently, Pippa turned and answered it.

Freda Douglas stood in the entryway with a sheepish smile on her face, holding one of her pots of soup. Freda was as interesting as the worn wallpaper in the hall, but had been a part of Pippa's life for as long as she could remember.

“'Tis for you and the McDonnell.” Freda started to step in.

Pippa stopped her by taking the soup tureen. “I'd ask you to stay but we're busy right now.” She rolled her eyes in the direction of the Yank behind her.

“Aye. Tell yere da I'll call on him tomorrow.”

“Thanks for the soup.” Pippa closed the door, feeling a smidge bad for the look on Freda's disappointed face, but she had bigger fish to fry right now.

She set the tureen on the foyer table and turned back to Max.

“As I was saying”—she chewed on her lower lip—“there's something you need to know. My father isn't well. He's had an accident.” She wouldn't tell Max everything—there was no need.

His eyebrows cinched in concern. There was also a
hint of
why wasn't I told before
written across his face. “What kind of accident?”

It was none of his damn business. She glowered at him. “Don't say anything to upset my da, do you hear?” She picked up the soup and marched away toward the parlor. She didn't give a crank that she hadn't informed MTech beforehand about the McDonnell, and that she was running NSV now. If they'd known, the vultures would've sent ten executives to pick away at her father's carcass instead of just one.