Page 20 of One Night in Glasgow (The Scottish Billionaires #15)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
BETH
I stumbled off the plane at JFK, feeling the familiar, bone-deep numbness of a long-haul flight.
My God, this place was a special kind of madhouse.
To say it was Glasgow on steroids would be an understatement.
Glasgow was a quaint village pub; this was a rock festival during a hurricane, and everyone was late for the headliner.
Welcome to New York, Beth, you absolute numpty. What the hell were you doing here?
It wasn’t the scale that was intimidating. I’d done London, I could handle crowds. It was the relentless, chaotic energy. It felt less like a city and more like a single, massive, caffeinated organism that had just been told its rent was due.
I hailed a taxi, giving the driver the Brooklyn address Mr. Douglas had provided.
As we rattled over the bridge, a definite twinge of confusion hit me.
This wasn’t the New York from the films. Where were the sleek high-rises, the swanky shops, the general aura of unattainable glamor? This was… brick. And lots of it .
We pulled up in front of a modest brownstone, and I double-checked the address on my phone. This couldn’t be right. “This is it,” the driver announced, already unloading my bags.
I stood on the sidewalk, staring up at the building. A far cry from the MacLeod ancestral pile. Definitely no turrets. Was this some kind of minimalist punishment from my mystery relative?
Before I could spiral further, the front door swung open with a flourish.
Out came a man who looked like he’d not only just stepped out of Woodstock but had been its mayor, chief spiritual advisor, and lead tie-dye consultant.
His hair cascaded past his shoulders in a riot of graying dreadlocks, adorned with what looked suspiciously like tiny silver bells.
“The seeker has arrived!” he exclaimed, his face splitting into a grin so wide I worried his jaw might unhinge.
His eyes, magnified by round spectacles, twinkled with an alarming fervor.
“The energies foretold your arrival! I am Ziggy, your humble guide to this vibrational vortex of Brooklyn! You must be Beth!”
Seeker of a stiff drink and a decent mattress, more like, I thought. I wondered if being called “the seeker” was a lateral move from “tabloid train wreck” or a step down. “Hi, Ziggy. Nice to meet you.”
He ushered me inside with a dramatic sweep of his arm, nearly clocking me with a beaded curtain.
“Welcome to the Temple of Tranquility! This, my friend, is the main cosmic convergence zone—or, as the unenlightened call it, the living room!” He gestured enthusiastically to a large, unassuming panel on the wall.
“Which, through the ancient magic of hinges, also becomes your dream portal: the bedroom! Behold, ‘ The Transformer’! By night, with a respectful tug, it becomes your personal dream capsule!”
Interdimensional if you count waking up with your face pressed against a dusty wall panel, I mused.
“Kitchenette, or as I call it, the Alchemical Cauldron, is over here!” He pointed to a corner that looked like a 1950s dollhouse kitchen had a passionate but regrettable affair with a thrift store.
“The coffeemaker, affectionately nicknamed ‘Brewcifer,’ is an antique. He’s temperamental and prefers you to hum a C-sharp before brewing.
And never ever use tap water. He considers it a personal insult. ”
Right. A diva of a coffeemaker. Perfect.
“And check out this view!” He pointed to the window, which faced a majestic expanse of authentic Brooklyn brick.
“Spectacular,” I said, my voice flat.
Ziggy was oblivious. “I’ve got patchouli incense burning to cleanse the aura of your journey, but feel free to supplement with the sage bundles.
Oh, and I noticed from your energy signature that your heart chakra is a tad…
bruised, darling.” He peered at me intently.
“I’ve left a piece of charged rose quartz on your pillow.
Sleep with it tucked in your bra. It’ll do wonders. Non-negotiable.”
For a horrifying second, I thought he was going to start a full diagnostic on my other chakras.
He handed me a set of keys attached to a keychain featuring a surprisingly detailed pewter unicorn.
“Well, I’ll leave you to acclimate! If you need anything, a spiritual consultation, a guide to the best vegan falafel, or someone to interpret your aura, just knock on my door downstairs.
Oh, and if you hear chanting on Tuesday nights, that’s just my interpretive dance and kombucha-brewing circle.
Feel free to join, but it’s BYOK—bring your own kombucha. Peace out, cosmic sister!”
And with that, he was gone, the faint jingle of his hair bells receding down the narrow hallway, leaving me alone in what could only be described as a New Age gift shop that had exploded inside a matchbox.
I sank onto the worn, brightly patterned sofa, my head spinning more than it had on the flight.
My gaze swept over the tiny space. A riot of tapestries, dream catchers, and posters written in a font I could only describe as ‘Psychedelic Serenity.’ A far cry from my spacious flat back home.
Or even Sean’s plush hotel suite. Oh God, Sean.
I shoved the thought away before it could properly form.
My stomach growled, a rude interruption to my existential crisis. Coffee. I needed coffee and food, in that order. I’d feel marginally more human once I had some caffeine in my system.
I approached the kitchenette, eyeing the vintage appliances with deep suspicion.
The coffeemaker, Ziggy’s beloved ‘Brewcifer,’ looked like it belonged in a museum, all chrome and odd, intimidating levers.
I searched for an “on” button. There wasn’t one.
After several minutes of frustrated poking and a whispered threat to its mechanical soul, I managed to get the machine to make an alarming gurgling noise, like it was clearing its throat after a long slumber. Progress, I supposed.
While I waited for what I prayed would be coffee, I wrestled with the Murphy bed.
The instructions were a series of faded cryptic diagrams. After a near-disaster involving a trapped finger and some decidedly un-ladylike cursing, I gave up.
That was an adventure for a version of me that hadn’t just crossed the Atlantic.
The bathroom was equally compact. “Kinna has to see this,” I muttered, grabbing my phone. I video-called her, and her smiling face appeared on the screen.
“Beth! You made it!”
“Barely,” I grinned. “And you will not believe this place. Let’s just say it’s less ‘Manhattan penthouse’ and more ‘spiritual guru’s broom cupboard.’”
I flipped the camera, giving her the grand tour. “And for the pièce de résistance,” I said dramatically, panning to the majestic brick wall outside my window, “an unparalleled view of our neighbors’ mortar choice.”
Kinna’s laughter echoed through the phone. “Well, it’s… cozy?”
“That’s one word for it. It’s like a hippy exploded in here, and?—”
A high-pitched, demonic whistle cut me off.
“Shit, Brewcifer is summoning me! Kinna, I gotta go. Talk later!” I ended the call and rushed to the kitchen, where the coffeemaker was now emitting clouds of angry steam.
Finding no off switch, I did the only logical thing: I yanked the plug from the wall.
The whistling died, leaving behind a burnt smell and a sludge in the pot that looked like pure tar.
I stared at the ruined coffee, feeling utterly defeated. As I slumped against the counter, my eyes landed on a flyer stuck to the fridge with a peace sign magnet. “Joe’s Diner. Best Coffee in Brooklyn!”
Right. Time for Plan B. I grabbed my purse, desperate to escape.
The street bustled with an energy that was pure New York. I decided the subway was the quickest way to see the city. I’d navigated the London Underground; how hard could this be?
Turns out, very hard. I gawked at the subway map like it was alien hieroglyphics. It was like someone had vomited a rainbow spaghetti dinner onto paper and called it a transit system. “Fuck it,” I muttered, picking a random train that sounded vaguely familiar.
Three transfers and an hour later, I realized I was hopelessly lost. I trudged up the station stairs and emerged into a quiet, leafy neighborhood that was definitely not the Brooklyn I’d left.
As I wandered, trying to get my bearings, I stumbled upon a small park where a group of people were tending to raised garden beds.
“Hey there!” A cheerful woman waved at me. “You must be our new volunteer!”
Before I could correct her, she’d thrust a trowel into my hand. “We’re planting tomatoes today. Just dig a little hole, pop the seedling in. Easy peasy!”
I looked down at my designer slacks and silk blouse, then at the dirt, then back at the woman’s expectant smile.
Every instinct told me to say no. But I was tired of saying no, tired of running.
For some reason, I just nodded. In for a penny, in for a pound.
I knelt, the expensive fabric of my trousers protesting as I dug the trowel into the cool, dark earth.
It wasn’t long before I broke a nail. The woman next to me, an older lady with silver hair and kind eyes, chuckled. “First time gardening?”
“Is it that obvious?” I asked, feeling my cheeks flush.
“Only a little,” she laughed. “I’m Margaret.”
“Beth,” I replied, wiping my dirty hand on my now-ruined pants before shaking hers.
We worked, and the repetitive motion of digging and planting began to quiet the noise in my head. The stress I’d been carrying started to ease.
“So, Beth,” Margaret said after a while. “What brings you to our little garden today? You’re not exactly dressed for it. ”
Something about her kind face made me want to be honest. “I… I’ve made some bad choices lately,” I admitted, focusing on the tomato seedling in my hands. “Screwed up my life pretty thoroughly back home. Came to New York for a fresh start.”
Margaret nodded. “Sometimes we need to uproot ourselves to grow,” she said softly. “Just like these tomatoes.”
I laughed, surprised by how good it felt. “I suppose you’re right. Though I feel more like I’ve been tossed into unfamiliar soil and told to grow or die.”
“That’s not always a bad thing,” Margaret mused. “Sometimes the most beautiful flowers grow in the most unlikely places.”
I spent hours in that garden, my clothes ruined, my back aching. But I felt… good. The ache in my muscles felt clean, earned, a world away from the soul-crushing exhaustion of a hangover. This chaotic, unexpected day felt more meaningful than a hundred nights spent chasing a high in a Glasgow club.
After navigating the subway back to Brooklyn, I faced my final challenge: the Murphy bed. I glared at the wall. After a ten-minute battle of pulling, yanking, and some creative cursing, the damn thing crashed down.
I collapsed onto the mattress, laughing at the absurdity of it all. Here I was, Elisabeth MacLeod, covered in dirt, struggling with a fold-out bed in a hippy’s closet in Brooklyn.
Before long, my giggles faded. The nagging urge to find the nearest cocktail bar and get lost was still there, a familiar whisper. But for once, the whisper was getting quieter. I felt the satisfying ache in my muscles and realized I wanted more of this feeling, and less of that.
As I lay there, my mind drifted to Sean.
God, I’d been such a bitch to him in Glasgow.
He didn’t deserve that. A part of me wished I could see him, apologize…
But no. I shook the thought away. He was on the other side of the country, living his perfect life.
Wishing for anything else was just a fantasy.
With a sigh, I pushed those thoughts aside. Tomorrow was a new day. I had a meeting at the Hillsdale Foundation. It was time to focus, to make the most of this opportunity.