RITA award winner! Andrea Sullivan is so consumed by her hospitality-consultant job that she’s forgotten what brings her joy. She dreads her new assignment―a last chance to snag a high-profile client in Scotland. Yet the lush Isle of Skye transcends her preconceptions. As does the man she must impress, the rugged, blue-eyed Scotsman James MacDonald. He’s passionate about cooking, but after six restaurants, four cookbooks, and his own television show, he’s grown weary of the scrutiny that comes with living in the public eye. Soon Andrea and James begin to sense these five days in Skye together may just be God’s wild invitation into deeper life . . . and truer love. Sweet and scathing, lush and intimate. . . . This story has guts and heart as well as the depth and heat necessary to satisfy any romance reader’s palate. USA Today Five days in Skye By Carla Laureano Tyndale House Publishers Copyright © 2018 Carla Laureano All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-1-4964-2621-5 CHAPTER 1 At least they couldn't fire her. Andrea Sullivan propped her elbows on the bar and buried her head in her hands. How had things gone wrong so quickly? One minute she'd been on the verge of closing a half-million-dollar deal. The next, she'd nearly broken her hand on the jaw of a client who thought her company's offerings extended to favors she had no intention of delivering. Three years of working her way up the ranks toward VP of Sales all down the tubes because one man couldn't keep his hands to himself. No, her company certainly wouldn't risk an ugly public legal battle. They didn't have to. Her boss had other, more subtle means of showing his displeasure. As punishments went, Scotland was a big one. "What's so terrible about Scotland?" Andrea jerked her head up and met the bartender's gaze. Had she said that aloud? The man's eyes crinkled at the corners as he ran a towel along the polished mahogany surface of the bar, evidently amused by her slip. Round faced and topped with a thinning mop of dishwater-blond hair, he looked as stereotypically English as the London pub in which he tended bar. She let out a long breath, her shoulders slumping. "Scotland's cold, it's miserable, and the food is horrible." "Oh, it's not so bad as all that, is it?" His expression turned from amused to sympathetic. "Take in some countryside, tour a castle or two, maybe some high street shopping ..." "This is a business trip. Trust me. My dream vacation involves sunshine and umbrella drinks on the beach, not rain and fog in some backwater village." If she'd only managed to keep her temper in check, she'd have been spending the next week in the tropics with the promise of a fat commission and a guaranteed promotion, not serving time in Scotland babysitting a celebrity client who suddenly wanted to dabble in the hotel business. James MacDonald. She'd never heard of the man. Then again, she didn't own a television. She spent so much time on the road, she wasn't even sure why she owned an apartment. She seemed to be the only one on the planet, however, who hadn't heard of the Scottish celebrity chef. Half a dozen restaurants, four cookbooks, his own television show. Even her taxi driver had been able to name MacDonald's three London restaurants without hesitation. Andrea toyed with her half-filled wineglass, watching the golden liquid slosh around the bowl. "I should be on my way to Tahiti right now, not sitting in a pub drinking a rather mediocre glass of wine." "That's because you go to Paris to drink wine," a deep male voice said over her shoulder. "You come to London to drink ale." Andrea straightened as a man leaned against the bar beside her. He was tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in a pair of dark slacks and a business shirt, the collar unbuttoned and sleeves rolled up to show off muscular forearms. Dark hair worn a little too long, brilliant blue eyes, handsome face. Handsome enough she took a second look and immediately wished she hadn't been so obvious about it. His grin made her heart do things it was certainly not intended to do. She couldn't prevent the corners of her mouth from twitching up in a smile. "Now you tell me." He glanced at the bartender. "Get me a 90 Shilling, and whatever light's on draft for the lady." He looked back at her. "We can't have you leaving London thinking that pathetic chardonnay is the best we have to offer." "That's very thoughtful." She offered her hand. "I'm Andrea." "Mac." He held her hand just a moment too long while he studied her face. Her stomach made a peculiar little leap. She quelled it ruthlessly and drew her fingers from his grasp while he slid onto the barstool beside her. "Now tell me why you're sitting here instead of on what sounds like a brilliant holiday in the South Pacific." Because my temper finally got me into more trouble than I could talk my way out of. Aloud she said, "I'm doing research on the owner of this pub." "Ah, the illustrious Mr. MacDonald. Brilliant chef, but not the