The Scotsman

I've fallen head over heels. And that should worry me. Because I've tattooed Nick's surname on my body, it would be shameful to tattoo anyone else's name next to or in the vicinity of the Da Canaveze. But Bren MacClellan is vying for a patch of skin. It's my own fault.

I mean I looked at the picture of Jai Courtney and thought, yeah that's Bren, definitely! Now, this man plagues me. He believes in the power of good tailoring and how it emphasizes the very best of a woman's figure. A man who knows clothing better than I do? Check. Confident to the right degree. Did I mention he's Scottish? I don't know what to do, he's constantly in my head. Whispering naughty nothings in my ear.

It is horribly easy to be Wynne to Bren MacClellan's persuasions, trace that mouth of his, admire his boy booty (baby got back), listen to him curse modern fashion practices that undermine the skill of a tailor in that divine accent of his. He's fucking ambidextrous! Arrrrghhhhhh!!!

Bren wants to ruin me for everyone else, and all of them, from Nick to Tais, Luca to Beppe, Cain to Auden - they are all nervous about the pecking order, because of the Swagger of the Scot. (Ooh, good title...) That's by the by. He needs to give me some breathing space. I've got other dudes to deal with. And yet, I can see him framing my face, fixing me with those whisky eyes, and saying, "Keep your knickers on Billy. We've got ways to go before I'm finished with you."

Bren, I am really, really trying to....