Working It by Leah Marie Brown Page A

whisky is verra much like having a love affair. It should be done slowly and savored until the very end.”
    “Stop! I know all about your whisky moves, so don’t even try to run them on me.”
    He lifts a brow. “My whisky moves?”
    “Hello,” I say, holding out my hand. “My name is Stéphanie Moreau. We met last year, when you tried to seduce my best friend by plying her with whisky, remember?”
    “Aye, I remember,” he says, chuckling. “I promise not to try any of my whisky moves on ye, lass.”
    “Really? You promise?”
    “I swear it.” He presses one hand to his heart and raises the other in the air as if making an oath. “I, Calder James Kenrik MacFarlane, do solemnly swear that I will nae rely on whisky to seduce ye.”
    “ Bon ,” I say, pushing my empty glass away. “No winking, no whisky, and no seducing.”
    “Nay.” He lowers his hand. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t seduce you, just that I wouldn’t use whisky in the doing.”
    “ Bon chance, mon ami ,” I say, chuckling. “You can try, but you will fail.”
    We lock gazes.
    “Challenge accepted, lassie.”
    Tiffani arrives with a plate of molten cheese lumps and presents it to Calder as if he were Bonnie Prince Charlie. I half expect her to drop into a deep curtsy and call him “sire.” Calder takes it all in stride, demonstrating that natural, effortless self-assurance that comes from being born beautiful. Beautiful people take their beauty for granted because they never suffered the painful metamorphosis from pimply, gawky, chubby teen to attractive adult.
    Calder hands me one of the appetizer plates Tiffani left on his side of the table.
    “No, thank you.”
    “Eat something, lassie.”
    I shake my head. “Do you know how many calories are in one of those deep fried cheese lumps? I would have to take two Boot Camp classes just to work off the weight.”
    “Believe me, lassie, ye dinnea need to worry about yer weight.”
    I am not good at taking compliments about my appearance. Deep down, I don’t believe the praise is sincere. I might have shed my Éléphanny weight, but I am still carrying the baggage of being fat and unpopular.
    Calder uses his fork to maneuver three cheese balls onto my plate and pushes it across the table. The aroma of hot, bubbling, greasy cheese hits my nose like a right hook. My stomach growls at the assault. The aspirin and booze aren’t cutting it.
    “Was that yer stomach?”
    “Yes.” Heat flushes over my body. “I haven’t eaten since yesterday.”
    “Why not?”
    I shrug. “I’ve had a lot on my mind.”
    “Eat something, lassie.” He forks another ball onto my plate. “Then ye can tell me what brought ye to Alaska.”
    I look at the artery blocking bites of cheese, and my stomach growls again. Woman cannot live by booze alone.
    “Maybe one,” I say, forking a ball into my mouth. “Just one, though.”
    “Och, ye're a long time deid.”
    I finish chewing and swallow the diet-killing appetizer, resisting the urge to moan with pleasure. Either my body has entered starvation mode or these damned cheese balls are addictively delicious.
    “What does that mean?”
    “It means”—he grins and pops a cheese ball into his mouth, chews, and swallows—“enjoy life, because once ye’re dead ye’re going to be that way for a verra long time.”
    “Force me to eat another one of these crispy crack balls, and I will definitely die.”
    “Go on, ye ken ye want another one.”
    He’s right. I do want another one.
    “I am onto you, Calder MacFlirty. You’ve exchanged your whisky moves with cheese.”
    He grins and pierces me with an intensely sexy stare. “Is it working?”
    “Maybe.”
    His grin widens.
    I cut a cheese ball in half, dip it in the sauce, and put it in my mouth. I rationalize eating the second half by telling myself the cheese will stop the liquor from sloshing around in my belly. The whisky has me feeling a bit light headed and— foutre! —horny.
    I am not attracted