The Great Scot by Donna Kauffman Page B

the new production schedule, and told him she’d be in touch sometime today to go over details and personally answer any questions he had, as they’d agreed. Apparently Dylan hadn’t been patiently waiting for her to find time to call. She flipped quickly through the rest of the pile, but the message was the same on each. “Have Erin MacGregor contact me a.s.a.p.”
    â€œGreat.” She sighed, checked her watch, before glancing longingly at the lobby stairs that led to the upper floors…and her room. Her nice, quiet room, away from the mob, away from the madness. Where she’d hoped to spend a whole forty-five minutes in peace before tackling the new pile of work Tanya had just thrust in her lap. She hadn’t liked two of the four date locations, or either of Erin’s backup sites, which meant working overtime to come up with alternate locales. Hence her meeting with Daisy.
    She gave a final longing look at the staircase and the nice warm bath she wasn’t going to get—again—then resolutely pushed her way through the crowd and out the back of the hotel to the tiny car lot where her rental was parked. She’d wanted to set the damn show in Brigadoon, she could hardly complain now that she’d gotten her way. Shoving her pink slips into her satchel, she tossed it on the passenger seat, and pointed her car in the direction of Glenshire.
    Halfway there, she had a little brainstorm. If Dylan were going to make himself a general pain in her ass, which, clearly, he was going to, then she might as well find a way to make it work for her, right? He wanted to stick his nose in? Well, she was about to let him.
    By the time she pulled into Glenshire’s rear service entrance, which was already clogged with a stream of vans and crew trucks, she had a plan firmly in place. She absently nodded and waved at the guys who were presently streaming in and out of the house, running miles of cable, toting lighting fixtures, barking orders. It all looked completely normal to her, but she knew it was quite the opposite for Dylan. She pretended not to see the men’s aggrieved expressions as she ducked past on her way through the central part of the house.
    It didn’t take long to find him. In fact, she heard him seconds after hitting the second floor landing.
    â€œI dinnae much care what the contract stipulates. There’s no need to go stringing lights and mounting cameras in every bloody corner!” Dylan’s bark echoed through the halls. “That plaster isn’t going to hold those brackets. One good tap and the whole face will crumble down upon your Charming Prince’s pretty head. I’m savin’ ye from a certain lawsuit.”
    â€œErin!” The poor crewman who was the target of Dylan’s current tirade all but leaped upon her the second she turned the corner into one of the two main upstairs hallways where four men were mounting cameras and installing lighting. “Thank god, you’re here.” His fingertips dug into Erin’s arm as he all but dragged her to his side. Jaw clenched into a sorry facsimile of a smile, he said, “Mr. Chisholm has been expressing some doubt regarding the installation process. Perhaps you could discuss this with him privately while I get back to directing the crew?”
    She wasn’t given any time to answer, but was instead all but thrust directly in front of Dylan. “Um, sure,” she said, pasting on her own bright smile. “In fact, I need to talk to Mr. Chisholm anyway.” The relief on the faces of the workers was so complete, she was surprised they didn’t do the wave. She turned to Dylan. His jaw was set, his legs braced apart, arms folded across his chest, every bit the Great Scot. “We need to talk.” She cast a quick glance over her shoulder. “In private, if you don’t mind.”
    He shifted his intent gaze from her, to the crew who had paused in their