“You should. I got a call from Bobby, standing security over at Morning Chat. It seems some kilted idiot wandered down to the question mic seeking love advice this morning.
Luther snorted a laugh. Catriona tried to throw her disapproval in his direction, but he shifted his paper to block her view.
Sean peered down his nose at Broch. “You were on set? During filming?”
Broch held out his hands and tilted his palms to the ceiling. “The woman’s man cuidnae fin’ a place tae hing his towel, sae ah tellt her aboot the hook oan the back o’ the door, ‘n’ then thay asked me if ah had quaistions.”
Sean turned back to Catriona. “You’re sure he was on air?”
She nodded. “Yep. As was I. No makeup, wet hair…generally looking like a crazy person because I didn’t get my coffee.”
Sean rubbed his temple. “You can’t go on sets, son. They’re filming.”
“Sorry.” Broch nodded and stood to pour himself a cup of coffee from Sean’s machine. “Thare wis a wifie thare wha touched mah hindquarters. Ah think that’s against policy.”
Sean looked at Catriona, his expression hovering somewhere between alarmed and amused. She shrugged, flopping her hands to her sides. “I have no idea what he’s talking about.”
Catriona watched as Broch poured the last drop of coffee from the carafe into his mug and settled back into his chair to enjoy it. “You’re lucky I wouldn’t drink his coffee on a bet.”
Sean scowled. “There’s nothing wrong with my coffee.”
Catriona tried to fluff her hair in the hopes of salvaging the chance it might dry pretty. She glanced at Sean. “So what did you need?”
“I need you to check on Tyler Bash. I’m hearing rumors he might have gotten into some trouble last night and he’s not answering his phone.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“Celebrity poker game. He lost, and I don’t think it’s the first time. Sounds like someone tried to collect and he made a run for it.”
“One of Alain’s games?”
Sean nodded.
A smalltime French gangster known as Little Alain ran the largest and most prestigious underground celebrity poker game in Hollywood. No one called him Little Alain to his face, though. Five-foot-five of pure Napoleon complex, Alain had dealt broken bones, missing teeth and missed call times to Parasol Pictures talent in the past. He didn’t mess around.
Sean handed Catriona a slip of paper. “Here’s the address Tyler was playing at last night. See if you can find any cameras. Check his house first. I put that address on there, too.”
She stood and took the torn notebook page. “You know, you could just text me this stuff.”
Sean shrugged. “Why, when I have a perfectly good pen here?”
Broch threw back the last of his swill and stood to put the cup back near the machine.
“You stay out of the studios,” said Sean, following his movements.
Broch offered a sheepish smile. “Aye.”
Catriona reached for the door and heard Sean whisper behind her. “And keep an eye on her.”
“Aye.”
She turned. “Kilty’s not my bodyguard, you know. I did this job just fine before he dropped out of the sky.”
Broch scratched his head. “Ah don’t think ah fell oot o’ the sky.”
She pointed at him. “You shut it. You’re on my last nerve today.”
He tucked back his neck to keep her finger from poking him in the chin. “Ye wouldnae be sae cranky if ye’d juist marry me. Ah—” He sent a sideward glance in Sean’s direction before lowering his voice to a whisper to her. “Ah cuid explain why later.”
Luther snickered from behind his paper.
Catriona huffed. “Don’t encourage him.” She flung open the door and hustled from the office, striding down the hall until she reached outside.
Broch followed on her heels. “Whaur ur we gaun?”
She glanced up at him as he flanked her. “Let’s get a few things straight—”
Broch rolled his eyes. “Och, here we gae.”
“First off, I’ve told you a million times do not go on sets without me.”
He nodded. “Sorry. Ah watch they wummin oan mah television set ‘n’ ah couldnae hulp masell.”
The way Broch said the word television with no Scottish accent made it hard for Catriona not to laugh. It sounded like a bad dubbing, where a different actor had filled in the word. It was how he pronounced all words unfamiliar to his eighteenth century Scottish vocabulary and it never ceased to amuse her. But giggling in the middle of a scolding would sap all the power from it, so she set her jaw and continued.
“You could cost Parasol thousands if they have to reshoot a scene because you wandered through some modern day romantic comedy in that filthy kilt.”
He loured at her. “‘Tisn’t filthy. Ye washed it and erased a decade o’ fine seasoning, remember?”
She ignored him. “Second, don’t ever tell me I won’t be cranky if I marry you.”
He chuckled. “Did ye understand whit ah wis sayin’? Ah wis sayin’ wance ye slipped intae mah kip, I’d—”
She held up a hand to stop him. “Yeah, I got it. The point is, you said you’d pound the cranky out of me in front of my father.”
“Ah didnae say pound.” He smirked. “Though ‘tis fair ‘n’ accurate.”
“You implied it in front of Sean.”
“Sae?”
“Sae you may be his real son but he raised me. What if some guy came to your crappy mud hut—or whatever hovel you lived in back in Outlander-land—looking for your daughter? Said he was hoping to work the temper out of her?”
Broch’s expression clouded. “Ah’d knock his head aff his neck.”
“Exactly. Sean doesn’t want to think about me in anyone’s kip. And he’s not stupid, he knows there’s something between us, but the whole thing puts him in a weird position, worrying we’ll be hurt and he’ll have to take sides.”
“Whyfur wid
