Getting Hot with the Scot
by Melonie Johnson
Sometimes in Love #1
St. Martin’s Paperbacks | April 30, 2019
Btb Scottish man candy reviews.
Here we go!
For a brief and glorious moment, I thought this was going to be one of my favorite tropes: time travel romance with all of the insanity, misunderstandings and bewilderment that come with them.
Totally worth the (so brief) disappointment to have ended up in the story Melonie Johnson had planned. Five girlfriends plan a five week, five country trip of a lifetime to celebrate five years out of college. (5 Gwcy, if you will. Pronouced ‘gwee-see’.) Do I smell a series coming out of the Gwcy?
Oh, yes. Yes, we do.
Getting Hot With the Scot introduces us to the entire Gwcy Group, and focuses on Cassie – a smart, ambitious pop culture reporter with plans to crack into more sober journalism. Logan fell ‘naked-behind’ first into a career creating prank internet video content. Now that he’s there, he and his sister are determined to channel clicks and views into late-night television success.
Two ambitious media content personalities at cross purposes professionally, yet attracted like the buttered side of toast is to the floor?
Wait, wait. Wait a damned minute, you’re saying to me. You’ve read that trope before. Yes, I know you have. We all have. And we all have for a reason – that trope is delightful. Especially when you have a story that doesn’t lean on the formula so much it snaps the reader’s patience. Melonie Johnson planned for that. And while you’ll recognize it – you really don’t care because the story is just that good.
Also, something that this author should absolutely be recognized for is easy diversity in character. She doesn’t beat you over the head with it. But it’s like actual, real life. People are different, and those diversities are just a normal part of life. A lesbian is in the story, but the story of her character isn’t told through a limited lens of:
‘HELLO – I AM A LESBIAN.
WE HAVE PUT DIVERSITY IN THIS BOOK.’
I did have a difficult time getting through the first few chapters of the book. It felt thick, like there was so much info to absorb, but I wasn’t sure it was all necessary to spill upfront.
I will admit – starting this one was difficult. Birdie and I often joke that we live parallel lives, but it’s really no joke. Both of our husbands have serious health conditions that are exhausting to the point where even our usual emergency life escape hatches of books are too complicated for our fried brains to handle. So, I attribute a big part of my rough start to that.
And I want to know what happens with Bonnie! That mini-story wove slowly, but oh so expertly through the story of Logan and Cassie.
I got Hot With The Scot.
I cannot wait to get my hands on Smitten By The Brit!!
Overall – Five Stars. I want more.
Would you look at that? The man is wearing a kilt.
Note to self: Cassie Crow—be careful what you wish for.
The man groaned again and raised a hand to shield his eyes from the sunlight now cutting across the hidden al- cove.
“Are you all right?”
“I will be fine once ye douse that blasted light.” He squinted up at her.“Be ye a new chambermaid?”
Chambermaid? She eyed the wide sleeves and open neck of the old fashioned piratey shirt he wore. “Not sure what kind of weird-ass stuff you’re into buddy, but I don’t do RPG.”
“Weird . . . ass?” His dark red brows drew together as he shaped his mouth around the letters. “Are pee gee?”
“Role playing games. You know, like cosplay or what- ever.” She pointed at him. “Look, you’re the one wearing that get-up and talking like a reject from Macbeth.”
He narrowed his eyes at her finger. “Be ye a witch?” “What did you call me?”
With another groan, he lurched forward. Oh God, what if he was hurt? For all she knew he was a member of some historic castle tour who got lost in a back passageway and hit his head. She leaned down to inspect him for bruises.
He threw a hand out, palm up, warding her off. “Back away, sorceress,” he hissed.
“Seriously?” She slapped his hand out of the way. “Here, let me help you out of there.” Cassie tugged gently on his shoulder. The voluminous shirt was loose, but she could feel—and appreciate—the thick spread of muscle beneath the soft fabric.
Just my luck, I finally run into a hot Highlander, and he’s delusional.
The man waved off her assistance and struggled to his feet, shaking a wild tousle of thick, red hair out of his eyes. Cassie never fancied herself to be a ginger girl, but it worked on him . . . or maybe that was the kilt talking. She eyed the swath of plaid fabric wrapped around his hips and wondered, like any female in her position would, what might or might not be under there. Reluctantly, she raised her gaze and caught him scrutinizing her in return.
“What be these strange breeks ye wear?” he asked, moving in a circle around her.
Cassie swore she could feel the weight of each of his eyeballs resting on her denim-clad backside. Fair enough. After a prolonged moment, she glanced over her shoulder. “Get a good look?”
“Aye.” He swallowed. “’Tis most unseemly, lass.” He shook his head, gaze still glued to her ass.
“They’re called jeans.” She pivoted to face him. “Are you for real?”
He met her gaze, his answer falling from his lips in a deep, rich brogue with trilling r’s that curled her toes, “Aye, lass, I’m real.”
Cassie’s heart hiccupped. Of course he’s real. Unless those shots were stronger than I thought. “Were you at the whisky tasting?”
“Whisky?” His green-gold eyes lit with interest. “Do ye have whisky for me, then? I could use a wee dram. Be a good lass and fetch it for me.”
“Ha! I think you’ve had enough, mister. Is that how you ended up stuck in there?” Even as she said this, Cassie doubted it. She didn’t smell a hint of alcohol on him, though she did pick up other pleasant smells. Mint and clove and man and . . . Stop being ridiculous.
His broad shoulders lifted and dropped. “I dinna ken.” “How long were you in there?”
Cassie dragged her attention away from the wide curve of his shoulders and leaned past him, inspecting the dark, narrow space behind the bookshelf.
He grabbed her wrist and pulled her back, panic edg- ing his voice. “Nay, lass. Doona be going in there.”
“Why not?” She inched forward and tried to get a bet- ter look.
“It canna be safe.” He tugged on her wrist again, his fingers warm and firm.
Tiny butterflies danced along the path where his skin touched hers. She brushed away the tingling sensation and slipped out of his grip, careful not to snag her bracelet. “Well, you were in there, and you appear to have man- aged.”
“Are ye daft, wench? I was trapped!”
She sniffed, not sure she liked being referred to as a wench, and frowned up at him. “What’s the last thing you remember?”
He closed his eyes and slumped against the shelf. “I canna recall anything afore the moment I woke to find myself crammed within yonder wall.” He blinked and fo- cused intently on her. “The moment I found you, lass.”
Cassie decided she liked being called lass much better than wench, especially when he was looking at her like that. Gazes locked, her other senses sharpened, heighten- ing her awareness of his body and its proximity to hers. She cleared her throat. “Hm. I think it’d be more accurate to say I’m the one who found you.” Telling herself she was only searching for injuries, she reached up and tentatively skimmed her palms along his temples, her fingers trailing his scalp.
“Looking for devil’s horns?” The man cocked one wicked brow at her as he raised his arms to mirror her movements, running his hands over her head and shoul- ders before brushing his palms down her back. “Ye’ve naught got any fairy wings, so I’d say we’re even. In fact,” he whispered against her hair, standing so close the low burr of his voice became a purr in her own chest, “ye feel perfect to me.”
Like the migrating monarchs her dad studied, the but- terflies made a return trip, enveloping her in a fluttery haze. She shivered. Whether it was the Scot or the scotch or both, Cassie didn’t care. He was here and she was here, and damn it all, it was about time she skipped to the good stuff. With a forceful mental click, Cassie turned off her brain, tilted her chin up, and caught his mouth with hers.
He made a low sound in the back of his throat, of pro- test or surprise, she wasn’t sure. But then his hands settled at her waist, and he returned the kiss. His mouth was somehow soft and hard at the same time, and when he slipped his tongue between her lips, she felt more light- headed than if she’d downed every shot of whisky that had been on that tasting list.
Cassie rolled her tongue against his, savoring the delicious contact. He met her thrust for thrust, deepening the kiss until she was swept away on a tidal wave of desire. This. This is what I’ve been waiting for. She clung to him, hands gripping his shoulders, swimming in sensation, drowning in it.
A Star Wars junkie and Shakespeare groupie who quotes both Yoda and the Bard with equal aplomb, award-winning author Melonie Johnson—aka #thewritinglush—is a two-time RWA Golden Heart® finalist who loves dark coffee, cheap wine, and expensive beer. And margaritas. And mimosas. And mules. Basically any cocktail that starts with the letter m. She met her future husband in that most romantic of places—the mall—when they were teenagers working in stores across the hall from each other. They went on to live happily ever after in the suburbs of Chicago with two redhead daughters, a dog that’s more like a small horse, and a trio of hermit crabs.
After earning her Bachelor of Arts magna cum laude from Loyola University Chicago, Melonie taught high school English and Theatre in the northern Chicago suburbs for several years. Now she writes smart and funny contemporary romance and moonlights as an audiobook narrator under the pseudonym, Evelyn Eibhlin.