Among the Heather (The Highlands, #2) (7)
News had just broken that Byron Hoffman had been arrested for multiple counts of rape. Rumor was that the owner of the estate, Lachlan Adair, was responsible for finding his victims and convincing them to come forward.
“One has nothing to do with the other.” I stuffed my hands into the pockets of my jeans and shrugged with a smirk. “A man died. Turns out I’m the scum you thought I was.”
Her lips parted in surprise. “I never thought you were scum, Mr. Hunter.”
“Don’t worry about it, sweetheart. You think I’m scum, I think you’re an uptight, frigid, elitist snob. That’s life. Now, do you have my room key or not?”
Aria’s eyes flashed, her jaw clenching seconds before she whirled and marched around her desk. She threw open the drawer, snatched up the key card, and strode back to me to slap it in my open palm. Then she crossed her arms over her chest and lifted her chin toward the door in a silent get out. Buried behind the anger, I saw her hurt.
That knot in my gut twisted again.
I opened my mouth to apologize, but the words wouldn’t come. What I said was true. And I didn’t want her fucking sympathy or understanding.
Karma had caught up with me. Maybe I did deserve this.
I was an orphan from Falkirk, a commuter town between Glasgow and Edinburgh, where the socioeconomic divide was vast. I could anglicize my broad Scots accent and mask my origins, but there was no scraping off the poverty or dirt that clung to the soul of that wee foster kid who chased after boys who’d had humanity beaten out of them from the start. They’d done things I was brutally ashamed of. We had.
Maybe dangling this life in front of me was part of Karma’s punishment. It wasn’t just enough to have the past catch up with me. She wanted me to feel the pain of knowing what it was like to come out the other side … only to have a better life ripped away from me.
Aria Howard was the daughter of Hollywood legend Wesley Howard and world-renowned supermodel Chiara Bellucci Howard. She’d met the fucking president of the United States. Lived a privileged life in Malibu. And every inch of her was immaculate. Not a hair out of place. Nails perfectly manicured. Makeup subtle and perfume expensive. Rolex on her wrist, diamonds in her ears. Clean and luxurious all the way to her soul.
She’d never known dirt. Never waded near scum.
She was … Not. For. Me.
I’d known that from the moment we’d met. And I didn’t need the goddamn reminder now.
Without another word, I turned and slammed out of her office.
Two
ARIA
February
From: Ariella Branch <[email protected]>
To: Aria Howard
Hey, honey! How are things? Long time, no speak. I tried reaching out before, but I think my emails must be going into your spam. I was out with Marissa and Ana the other day and we bumped into Allegra. She was kind of weird with me. It hurt my feelings. We used to be so close. What’s with that? Anyway, word on the street is that you’re managing Lachlan Adair’s members-only club in Scotland. That sounds fancy. I’m still the hospitality manager at Curiosity, but I’m so in the mood to get out of LA. How about it? Do you want to hire your old friend? It would be so great to spend time with you in Scotland! My new number is 213-555-3890. Call me, honey. I’m kind of losing patience, lol.
Ariella xoxoxoxo
“What the actual fuck?” I muttered under my breath, indignation heating my skin. “How many times do I need to block your ass?” Along with my anger, I felt a familiar pang of unease. There were very few people in this world I disliked as much as I disliked Caitlyn “Ariella” Branch. I thought fleeing five thousand miles and ignoring all attempts at contact would send a clear and concise message. However, it was like she couldn’t hear it. She was delusional. And was there something a little threatening in her tone here?
I hadn’t seen Caitlyn’s unstable behavior at first. Allegra had. I’d waved off my little sister’s concerns. Until one night my blinders came off, and I realized Allegra was right about my clingy so-called friend.
“Ugh.” I clicked on the email and blocked the new account she was using.
Trying to distract myself from the sudden churning in my gut, I pushed away from my desk. The PA of longtime member Angeline Potter, a British actor who was kind of annoying, had called to inform me that Angeline would arrive in two days’ time for a three-day stay. Grabbing the list of treatments she wanted, I headed out the door to inform Wakefield and Mrs. Hutchinson. I felt like stretching my legs, so I planned on walking the five minutes to the spa building to have the team pencil Angeline in for her massage, hair, nails … the list went on.
As I strode toward the staff quarters intent on finding Mrs. Hutchinson first to discuss Angeline’s room for her stay, I spotted a housekeeper, Sarah McCulloch, coming out of the staff elevator struggling with two champagne buckets filled with empty beer bottles.
Sarah had worked at Ardnoch for seven years and was the granddaughter of local farmer Collum McCulloch. I knew from her payroll information she was thirty-one years old, but if I didn’t know that, I’d think Sarah was only in her early twenties. Yes, she was young looking, but her painful shyness also made her seem younger than her years.
“Let me help.” I hurried over, my heels clacking across the floor.