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Chapter One

Amy

Sweaty, shirtless, and rippling like a Kentucky Derby horse going for the finish line, a very late Hamish McCormick is in full sprint, wearing only red soccer shorts, white athletic ankle socks, sneakers, and a dazzlingly glorious grin as we assemble for a last dry run for my sister’s wedding to billionaire Declan McCormick.

Who is Hamish’s cousin.

I cannot take my eyes off the famous-in-Europe Scottish soccer player–er, footballer–who towers over even Declan and his brother Andrew. Declan watches Hamish’s sprint with narrowed eyes.

I can’t be sure, but it looks like a mix of envy and spite.

Competition is in the DNA of the McCormick clan the way frugality runs in my family: as blood sport.

Besides, I’m struggling to manage my drooling and that instant heat that creeps over my skin as I devour the sight before me. When a half-naked, increasingly famous athlete shows up in the middle of his workout, it’s a bit like being allowed to see the dress rehearsals for the Emmys.

You take in as much as you can, while you can, and just appreciate the art.

In this case, muscled art.

“Ma apologies,” Hamish says in that Glaswegian accent, barely breathing hard. He slaps an earnest splayed palm across his sweat-soaked pecs, the sheen on his skin catching the sun as it caresses his auburn chest hair, my eyes unable to stop feasting on this buffet of visual delights.

I can’t stand the man, but damn, he is fine to look at.

Revulsion and arousal can’t coexist in the same body. I hate that I feel this way. Normally well in control of every part of who I am, this rush of desire is so abnormal.

And unappealing.

But most of all, completely unacceptable.

Approaching Shannon, he takes her hand in his and bows to kiss the back of it as she giggles, his dark red hair, nearly the same color as mine, bobbing insouciantly. It’s short in the back and on the sides but has a rakish wave that rests casually across his brow in front.

And it’s sweat-soaked, which somehow adds to the power of my response. Visceral and wholly biological, I’d have to be dead not to have a hormonal cascade at the vision before me, right?

The thrum inside me, followed by a tingling sensation that spreads everywhere tells me I am definitely alive.

As he bends, the thick chain of muscles rippling across his broad back, narrowing along the spine, and funneling down to dimples at his waistband, forces me to begin fanning myself.

No, it’s not the July weather. Even I have to admit that .

“Forgive me, Shannon?” he asks, eyes looking up at her as he stays in the bow. All the women are now ogling him, and my mother is making a sound–“mmm, mmm, mmm”– that turns my stomach sour. Mom’s libido is no secret–because she won’t shut up about it–and normally I just roll my eyes.

A primal wave of possessiveness that freaks me out turns my reaction sideways this time.

What is wrong with me?

“Of course,” my sister says, giggling again.

Declan’s look turns from annoyed to something deeper as his thick, dark eyebrows judge Hamish, moss-green eyes flickering with intensity.

The McCormick men have some gorgeous DNA floating through their double helixes.

“Hello, Terry,” Hamish says with a chin jut, acknowledging his other cousin, who is now filling in as best man. This extra rehearsal wasn’t in the original plans, but we’re doing it on the fly because the best man backed out of the wedding.

That’s right.

Declan’s youngest brother, Andrew, has pulled out of his duties at the last minute because the wedding will take place outdoors. He’s terrified of wasps, though he’ll never admit it. Billionaires have this ego thing about perceived weakness.

Like my sister and bees, he’s highly allergic to wasps and had a meltdown when he realized the ceremony and reception would be on the country club’s lawn.

I mean, I get it, and yet…

So now Terry is filling in.

Terry is Declan’s older brother, a guy who looks like he went to a Grateful Dead concert back in 1991 and never quite came back. He was on track to become CEO of Anterdec but walked away from it after their mother died twelve years ago, and how he could do that is beyond me. Shannon’s told me part of the story, but the bottom line: He’s a hippie leftover. Nice guy, but zero ambition.

I guess? I don’t know. The McCormicks are so complex, it’s like trying to understand the Krebs cycle (and I stopped being a chemistry major because of that). Shannon’s love for Declan must be powerful beyond anything I have ever felt, because now she’s deep in the complications of a family with so many secrets, layers, tension, and calculation that I couldn’t even create a basic chart of it all.

You’d need a professional project manager.

More than that, an on-staff psychiatrist.

“Hamish. I see you’re adhering to the dress code,” Terry jokes. Hamish winks and spreads his hands all over his bare chest.

“Bit hot for a shirt, aye?”

“Oh, it’s definitely hot,” my oldest sister, Carol, says under her breath.

Did Terry just frown?

Mom picks this moment to insert herself, coming in from the side to give Hamish a hug, her face comical when she realizes too late how sweaty he is.

“Boston heat must be too much for a Highlander like you!” she jokes as Hamish smiles.

“I do what I can to manage.”

Then she looks him up and down and murmurs, “You manage all right. You’re more like a Thigh lander.”

“Marie!” Dad hisses, coming to collect her. Her glazed eyes meet mine before Dad hauls her off. As I watch them retreat, I see the similarity between Dad and Hamish.

No, not the rippling display of masculinity along bones so fine and elegant, they might as well be sculpture. Not that.

Dad, Hamish, and I all have the same auburn hair.

“Amy,” Hamish says, turning to me with a huge, engaging smile and a slight bow. “I’m paired wi’ ye, I know, and I promise no’ to be late fer the actual weddin’.”

“Why are you late now?” Declan asks in a voice more curious than upset. “You look like you just came in from a practice.”

“Aye. Of sorts. Needed to bang out a run and do some sprints. Lost track o’ time.” He looks over my shoulder.

“Do you need a handler for that banging?” Carol jokes, her voice lingering on the word handler .

As in, she’d like to handle him, all right. And let’s not even start on the word bang .

That possessiveness rises up in me again as Hamish’s hand knocks into mine for a brief second, the touch electrifying, my sister suddenly the enemy. Why is my body doing this to me?

I can’t stand this shallow excuse for a human being. Sure, he’s fine to look at, but nothing more. The man treats women like he’s a human plunger. He’s a blip in my life. He doesn’t deserve my body’s reaction.

But my sister deserves a smackdown for that comment.

I clear my throat, the minister watching us all with a mildly horrified expression. It’s a look I’ve come to know all too well, but it’s normally aimed at our mother.

“He’s a grown man, a professional who can juggle his own schedule, Carol,” I answer her, trying my best to sound bored so we can move on, get out of the humidity, and go back to doing what we do best at a wedding rehearsal.

Get it over with.

“Aye,” Hamish says, squaring his bare shoulders and standing next to me at the back row of chairs, the wedding party lined up and ready to go.

My sister is marrying a billionaire and I’m not. Instead, I get paired with a sweaty European soccer–er, football –player with a reputation for sleeping around, a guy who just finished a Sports Illustrated photo shoot–in the nude–before coming here.

I instantly suck in my gut.

“Thank ye fer noticin’ I’m a grown man,” Hamish whispers as the minister begins giving instructions to us. “It’s nice to know ye care.”

“I don’t care,” I say with a snort. “I just didn’t like how Carol was drooling all over you.”

“Jealous, are ye?”

“It’s humid enough. We don’t need Carol adding to the moisture.”

“I like it when yer wet, Amy,” he rasps in my ear, the words and touch and vibration of his voice making me, well…

Wet.

“OMIGOD, STOP!”

Every set of eyes turns to us as I let out a long breath, determined not to let this blithering blowhard get the better of me.

“Sorry. A bug was bothering me,” I say, waving my hand in front of my face to shoo the imaginary insect. Inspired, I smack Hamish’s chest as hard as possible, palm hitting solid granite under skin. “There. Got it.”

He leans toward my ear and whispers, “Ye like a good swat, do ye? Happy to return the favor.”

I will not make a scene. Ignoring him, I stare straight ahead.

“Yer hair is sae gorgeous, Amy. Perfect auburn ringlets. And ye got yer mum’s blue eyes, aye?”

“My hair is the same color as yours,” I hiss back.

“Aye. Gorgeous.”

“You are just an ego on two legs,” I snap.

“Been called worse.” He glances down at me, his breathing steady now that he’s settled down from whatever run he was on before. “Ye noticed ma legs? Ye like to look?”

With that, the minister cuts into the conversation and spends the next twenty minutes taking us through pacing, when to move and where to stand, all the things you do at a wedding rehearsal. This is a final final tweak. Things have changed a bit now that Terry is the best man. Plus, this isn’t just a normal wedding, it’s a billionaire’s wedding. There are a million details, and they all have to be perfect .

Don’t get me wrong. I was a junior bridesmaid once, and my older sisters have been bridesmaids a few times. I know you have to rehearse. But like everything else, Declan’s wedding has to be bigger. Bolder.

The best , whatever that means.

Add in Mom and her Scottish obsession, and the whole affair is just too much.

When my sister started dating Declan McCormick, my mother began planning the wedding before they’d even pulled out of the driveway to go to dinner. Not only was Declan the VP of marketing for Anterdec, one of Boston’s Fortune 500 companies, but his father founded the company.

Desperate to have one of her three daughters married at Farmington Country Club, she was in full-on activator mode. Her eldest, Carol, had a quickie Elvis drive-thru wedding in Vegas. And I haven’t dated anyone in so long, they all seem to think I’m asexual.

I’m not. I’m just… discerning.

So Shannon’s relationship with Declan was wish fulfillment for Mom.

And by the time it became obvious Shannon had, as Mom said, “bagged a billionaire,” it was clear there was no other option.

Farmington, it was.

For the McCormick family, Farmington is an okay choice. Not inspired, but traditional and safe. For Mom, though, it’s like winning the lottery, or being chosen as a contestant on The Price is Right , then winning the car.

Down to the smallest detail, like the McCormick tartan ribbons on our outfits, Mom has been in a playground of wedding fun. Satisfied (I hope) by this whole extravaganza, she’s getting it all out of her system.

At least, that’s what I tell myself when she asks for my help and I find her cutting hair-waxing strips into the shape of the Scottish flag, complete with the cross in the middle, for the men to wax their calves.

Poor Dad. She made him be the guinea pig for those. The end result was patches that looked like the kid from Home Alone , so thankfully Mom gave up.

The upside to being the baby of the family is that no one blinks if I can’t do something. It’s strange. I’m one of the most organized people I know, on track to finally finish my bachelor’s after being forced to go part-time and work because of lack of money. Next stop: my MBA. But my own parents and older sisters still think I’m a two-year-old who can’t safely walk with scissors in my hands.

So when I told Mom I wouldn’t help with her waxing project, she just waved me away with a smile. Hooray, for once, for being underestimated.

“Amy? Step forward?” the minister prompts, shaking me out of my distracted brain that really doesn’t need to ponder Mom’s wedding oddities. I brush against Hamish’s body, his strong, sweaty forearm emitting pheromones like a toxic waste dump, his muscles thicker than my, uh…

My own. I can’t get away with all that “thicker than my leg” stuff because it’s not true.

Staring down the aisle as we mark our steps makes me think about my own wedding, a vague, gauzy future thought that is more a feeling than an image.

And what I feel when I imagine it is pure happiness. I envision my parents beaming, my pride and excitement about starting a life together with the man of my dreams.

Like what I see on Shannon’s face.

At the head of the aisle is a huge arch covered with roses, where the ceremony will take place. The minister points to where I’ll stand, then smiles. “We’ve already had one rehearsal, so I really think you all have it down.”

Hamish approaches me, leans in, and whispers, “Ye ever think about yer own day?”

“My own what day?”

“Yer weddin’ day. Bein’ the bride. Gettin’ marrit. Staring into yer true love’s eyes. Taking vows for eternity. How it’ll feel.”

“Of course. I played Barbies and all that.”

“Barbie dolls!” His laughter makes dimples appear. Of course he has them, this fine specimen of human physical perfection. “Aye. Ma sister lines up all her stuffies and makes them throw rice at the bride and groom.”

“Rice is bad for birds. It swells up in their stomachs and kills them.”

He presses his palm against his heart. “Yer such a romantic, Amy. Making me melt with feeling.”

“That’s the heat.”

“Come on. Don’t ye want to wear a fine dress like Shannon? Have everyone cheerin’ fer ye and yer soulmate as ye walk down the aisle?”

“I’m a realist, and I care about the birds.”

“Bet yer the kind of woman who goes to a concert and listens fer two hours, then complains about the single note that was off-key.”

“I–”

“Ye read the last page of mystery novels first.”

“But–”

“Ye look up every menu in town before ye settle on a place fer dinner, then ye pick out what yer orderin’ before yer even seated at yer table.”

I try to argue but I can’t.

Damn.

So I press my lips shut and go back to silence.

Hamish heads to the altar while I wait at the back of the rows of chairs. Shannon’s best friend and maid of honor Amanda is already there, me standing behind Carol, and Hamish heads up to Terry’s left. Declan and his assistant are scrambling to find someone to fill in for Terry, who is now filling in for Andrew, but that’s not my job.

Good luck to them.

Declan’s never struck me as the type to have a lot of close friends, though he knows so many people. I suspect Shannon is his best friend, and at the thought, a tug of envy surprises me, pulling at my heart. They're so close. So connected. Love like that runs deep and rooted. A pining feeling fills my chest.

I will it away.

The women in the bridal party do our processional and take our places at the altar, across from the men. The minister goes through the lines, each one sweeter and more emotional than the next. It's routine, and I've been to enough weddings to know how this all works, but it hits harder when it's my sister getting married.

Shannon is an adult. A full-fledged grown-up. Tomorrow, she becomes a wife.

I am so far behind in life.

The minister takes a few minutes to wrap up, and Mom fusses over details like the view of the wedding party, the color of the ribbons against the flowers, whether the music will overpower our visuals. These are trivial issues compared to the love Declan and Shannon share, but Mom cares about them.

Care infuses the entire scene.

I can't help but smile.

Even though it’s just the rehearsal, a photographer is snapping pictures, and Mom runs over to Hamish.

“It’s a shame to cover up God’s own art, but Farmington has a dress code and the manager is having a fit,” she tells him as she hands him a T-shirt, which he pulls on by lifting his arms high, his abs displaying all of these individual muscles that I didn’t know belonged there.

Can you have a ten pack? Seriously?

The shirt is green with white lettering that says GROUNDS CREW.

“You look amazing,” Mom gushes. “And I’ll bet you’re great working with bushes.”

“MOM!”

“That Sports Illustrated nude photo shoot left you with a gorgeous tan. With you being a Scotsman, I’m surprised you don’t burn!”

“Ma mum’s side has some Southern European in it. Got ma hair from her and the better skin. I dinna burn much,” he says, clearly uncomfortable with Mom’s attentions.

“Well, whatever your genetic makeup, you certainly hit the body jackpot, didn’t you?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a shirtless man pushing a wheelbarrow, headed for a door marked MAINTENANCE. How on earth did Mom talk a landscaping worker out of his shirt ?

Oh, no. Bet she invited him to the wedding.

“Marie,” Dad says gently, with a breath that stops suddenly, as if he’s suppressing a long-suffering sigh. When it comes to my mother, aren’t we all? “The minister has a few questions.”

“Does that mean we’re done?” I ask, my obvious eagerness making Dad smile.

“You take Hamish’s arm and walk back down the aisle, but we don’t have to do that part if you don't?—”

Without a word, I turn away from Hamish McCormick.

Because Shannon’s bachelorette party is tonight, and the last thing I want on my mind is a tall, muscled, hot-as-sin redhead with a mouth like velvet and an ego the size of an island.

Because him? I'm trying very hard not to care about.

As hard as I possibly can.