Her Hot Highland Doc. Annie O'Neil

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      She shook her head again and grinned. This whole palaver would be a great story to tell when—Well... She was bound to make friends at some juncture. This was her new beginning, and if Mr. Cranky Pants’ sole remit was to be eye candy...so be it.

      She waved off Ailsa’s offer to help, took a hold of the muddy handlebars, and smiled through the spray of mud and scum coming off the spokes as she walked. She was already going to have to change clothes—might as well complete the Ugly Duckling thing she had going on.

      “I am so sorry. Brodie’s not normally so rude,” Ailsa apologized.

      “Who is he?”

      “Don’t you know?” Ailsa’s eyes widened in dismay.

      A nervous jag shot through Kali’s belly as she shook her head. Then the full wattage of realization hit.

      “If I were to guess we were going to see him again at the clinic, would I be right?”

      “You’d be right if you guessed you would see his name beside the clinic door, inside the waiting room and on the main examination room.”

      “He’s Dr. McClellan?”

      Terrific! In a really awkward how-on-earth-is-this-going-to-work? sort of way.

      Kali tried her best to keep her face neutral.

      “You’ll hear a lot of folk refer to him as Young Dr. McClellan. The practice was originally his father’s, but sadly he passed on just recently.” Her lips tightened fractionally. She looked at the expanse of road, as if searching for a bit more of an explanation, then returned her gaze to Kali with an apologetic smile. “I’m afraid Brodie’s not exactly the roll-out-the-red-carpet type.”

      Kali couldn’t help but smile at the massive understatement.

      “More the practical type, eh? Well, that’s no bad thing.” Kali was set on finding “the bright side.” Just like the counselor at the shelter had advised her.

      She could hear the woman’s words as clearly as if she’d heard them a moment ago. “It will be difficult, living without any contact with your family. But, on the bright side, your life can be whatever you’d like it to be now.”

      The words had pinged up in neon in her mental cinema. It was a near replica of the final words her mother had said to her before she’d fled the family home in the middle of the night, five long years ago. Taking a positive perspective had always got her through her darkest days and today would be no different.

      “There’s only a wee bit to go.” Ailsa tipped her head in the direction of an emerging roofline. “Let’s get you inside and see if we can’t find some dry clothes for you and a hot cup of tea.”

      Tea!

      Bright side.

      * * *

      Brodie had half a mind to drive straight past the clinic and up into the mountains to try to hunt down his brother. Burn off some energy Callum-style on a mountain bike. He was overdue a catch-up since he’d returned. And it wasn’t as if he’d be seeing any patients today anyway.

      She would.

      The new girl.

      He tipped his head back and forth. Better get his facts straight.

      The new woman.

      From the looks of Dr. O’Shea, she was no born-and-bred Scottish lassie, that was for sure. Ebony black hair. Long. Really long. His fingers involuntarily twitched at the teasing notion of running them through the long, silken swathe. He curled them into a fist and shot his fingers out wide, as if to flick off the pleasurable sensation.

      There was more than a hint of South Asia about her. Maybe... Her eyes were a startling light green, and with a surname like O’Shea it was unlikely both of her parents had been Indian born and bred. He snorted. Here he was, angry at the world for making assumptions about him, and he was doing the same thing for poor ol’ Kali O’Shea.

      When he’d received the email stating a Dr. O’Shea was on her way up he had fully been expecting a red-headed, freckle-faced upstart. Instead she was strikingly beautiful, if not a little wind tousled, like a porcelain doll. With the first light-up-a-room smile he’d seen since he didn’t know how long. Not to mention kitted out in entirely inappropriate clothing, riding a ridiculous bicycle on the rough lane and about to begin to do a job he could ruddy well do on his own, thank you very much.

      He slowed the car and tugged the steering wheel around in an arc. He’d park behind the building. Leave Kali and Ailsa guessing for a minute. Or ten, given the strength of the gusts they were battling. Why did people insist on riding bicycles in this sort of weather? Ridiculous.

      He took his bad mood out on the gear lever, yanking the vehicle into Park and climbing out of the high cab all in one movement.

      When his feet landed solidly on the ground it was all too easy to hear his father’s voice sounding through his conscience.

      You just left her? You left the poor wee thing there on the side of the road, splattered in mud, bicycle covered in muck, and didn’t lend a hand? Oh, son... That’s not what we islanders are about.

      We islanders... Ha! That’d be about right.

      And of course his father, the most stalwart of moral compasses, was right. It wasn’t what Dunreganers were about.

      He scrubbed at his hair—a shocker of a reminder that he was long due for a trip to the barber’s. He tipped his head up to the stormy skies and barked out a laugh. At least he was free to run his hand through his hair now. And scrub the sleep out of his eyes. Rest his fingers on his lips when in thought...

      Not that he’d done much of that lately. A moment’s reflection churned up too many images. Things he could never un-see. So it was little wonder his hair was too long, his house was a mess and his life was a shambles ever since he’d returned from Africa. The only thing he was sure of was his status on the island. He’d shot straight up to number one scourge faster than a granny would offer her little ’uns some shortbread.

      He slammed his car door shut and dug into his pocket for the practice keys, a fresh wash of rain announcing itself to the already-blustery morning. The one Ailsa and Dr. O’Shea were still battling against.

      Fine. All right. He’d been a class-A jerk.

      To put it mildly.

      He’d put the kettle on. A peace offering to his replacement. Temporary replacement, if he could ever convince the islanders that he wasn’t contagious. Never had been.

      Trust the people who’d known him from the first day he’d taken a breath on this bleak pile of rocks and earth not to believe in the medical clearance he’d received. A clearance he’d received just in time to be at his father’s bedside, where they’d been able to make their peace. That was where the first hit of reality had been drilled home. And then there had been the funeral. It was hard to shake off those memories just a fortnight on.

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