“Donate it.Recycle it.Launch it into the Sound.I don’t care—just get it out.”
“Yes, sir.”She pivots toward the door, then pauses.“Oh, also this.”She holds up a blue satin sash: Sexiest CEO, stitched in silver thread.
Callum’s soul visibly leaves his body.I’m debating whether that sash would clash with his copper hair.
“And that came from…?”
“Seattle Business Monthly,” Alana says.“They’d like to schedule a shoot.”
“Absolutely not.”
“They mentioned the cover...”
“No.”
“And a centerfold.”
“OUT.”
Alana vanishes like a puff of smoke.I clear my throat.“You know, a Business Monthly feature could help the MacTavish deal.”
“Not if it involves posing in a kilt and a sash like I’m Mr.Highland Universe.”
“Fair.”
We return to our laptops, and for a blissful moment, there’s quiet.
Then the door opens again.
This time it’s a delivery guy hauling in what appears to be—a bagpipe?
“Delivery for Mr.Abernathy,” the courier announces.
It’s not just any bagpipe.It’s a custom bagpipe.With Callum’s face printed on it, looking off into the distance like a brooding Scottish god.
“What fresh hell is this?”Callum breathes.
“From the Scottish American Heritage Society,” the courier reads.“They’d like you to perform at their annual gathering.They included instructional videos.”
Callum turns to me.“Sign for it.”
“Why me?”
“Because if I touch it, I accept the invite.”
I sign, and the bagpipe is deposited in the corner like some unholy art piece.
“This is your fault,” he mutters.
“My fault?I didn’t ask someone to immortalize your face on a wind instrument.”
“No, but someone using your login posted that bloody video.”
I choke on my coffee.“I didn’t post the remix!”
“It’s worse than the original.And now there’s TikToks with slow-motion close-ups of my face and Marvin Gaye in the background.”
“I swear, I didn’t authorize that.”
