A Sometimes in Love Novel
April 30, 2019
Blurb: IT’S TIME TO FLIRT WITH A MAN IN A KILT
Cassie Crow, a pop-culture reporter for a TV talk show, is focused on becoming a “serious” journalist. But when she stumbles into a kilted Highlander with a killer accent, Cassie decides that taking one night off from work and spending it with a sexy Scot couldn’t hurt. . .
Logan Reid has built a career on his charm, hosting a series of off-the-wall hijinks on the Web. But when the Scottish prankster meets the all-American, equal parts intelligent and irresistible Cassie, Logan realizes that one night of fun won’t be enough. Could it be that this career-focused, commitment-phobic couple is finally ready to take a chance at true and lasting love?
SASCHA DARLINGTON’S REVIEW
This is a YMMV review.
The meet-cute between Cassie Crow and Logan Reid in Melonie Johnson’s Getting Hot with the Scot was unpredictable, funny, and sexy and made me think that I was going to read a funny, sexy unpredictable novel. While the sexy continued, the funny died with unpredictable, and it took my interest with it until the very end and the romantic grand gesture. Perhaps part of my feeling toward Getting Hot with the Scot is that the meet-cute felt so misleading for what came next.
For much of the beginning of the novel, it seemed like the author had discovered a website of Scottish sayings and slang and felt it necessary to liberally sprinkle them throughout Logan Reid’s dialogue, which resulted in much of the dialogue sounding stilted in order to accommodate the words. Unfortunately even an Irish slang word got tossed into the mix; I know this because I had to look the word up last year when reading an Irish novel (the spelling and meaning are different for Scots and English).
As for the actual romance between Cassie and Logan, despite frequent romps for much of the beginning, the two didn’t have much chemistry or a connection that came across on the page. Imagine knowing someone for a month, having sex with them, and pretty much living with them and then on the monthiversary, asking them to tell you about their family. I don’t know about you, but that’s pretty much a first or second question, never longer than that. Even when she’s mad at him, all Cassie can think about is getting into his pants…or under his kilt. Yep, I get it– Scot + kilt = hot, but still.
While I wanted very much for Logan and Cassie’s story to enthrall me, it didn’t happen. I reached a point of apathy, because the story dragged on, and I just wanted to read The End. Unfortunately, at the point of ennui, Cassie began to seem like a fleshed out character with her pursuit of books for everyone. For this reader, it was too little too late. Cassie should have always been this person, even if she was “fantasy Cassie” in Europe. I am hoping that Bonnie and Theo’s book is a significantly better read for me.
So what makes this a YMMV review? Hundreds of reviewers on Goodreads love this book. They call it witty, fun, frisky, and sexy. So if you are a reader who loves Scottish accents and appreciate a guy saying “lass” a lot, men in kilts, and sexy ginger men, Getting Hot with the Scot may be for you.
I received an ARC from St. Martin’s Press in exchange for an honest review.
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
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 my-
self 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 deli- cious 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 sensa- tion, drowning in it.