Page 10

Chapter Ten

Amy

"There will be no room!"

He smirks at me, looking around. "The bushes don't give much privacy, but we can give it a go. Didn’t know ye were an exhibitionist, Amy."

I ignore him. The helicopter is a dot now—just a whisper of a noise as it disappears into the sky. I blink at it, mouth open, my brain trying to catch up with what I’ve just witnessed. My sister. My people-pleasing, approval-seeking sister just escaped. With her billionaire fiancé. From her own wedding.

I stare at the sky, then turn to Hamish.

He’s grinning as if he just scored a goal, got knighted, and found an unlimited haggis buffet all in one day. I look from him back to the sky, then back to him again, stomach sinking.

“Ye all right there, pet?” he asks, that smug twinkle lighting up his eyes.

I snap my mouth shut. “Don’t start.”

“Start what?” he says, all faux innocence and smugness wrapped in a kilt.

I’m just about to tell him to screw off because he clearly cheated when Agnes—yes, nonagenarian Agnes—drops into a crouch like she’s about to do downward-facing dog in a St. John suit.

Her red hat slides under Hamish’s kilt like it’s on a mission from God. Then she shoves one arm up like a geriatric spelunker reaching for treasure and pulls the kilt aside. Hamish looks down, eyebrow arched so high, it practically dislodges itself from his face.

“He’s authentic, Corrine!” Agnes crows, clearly delighted.

Corrine hobbles over, looking like a fashion-forward velociraptor, clutching her pearls and smiling like this is the most exciting thing she’s seen since color TV. With over-dyed blond hair swept off her face in Farrah Fawcett wings, she looks like Charlie’s Angels did a Golden Girls crossover featuring Kathy Bates.

“I owe you ten bucks,” Agnes sighs.

“Here. We’ll call it even,” Corrine says, fishing through her vintage clutch and coming out with a compact. “Take this, open the mirror, and angle it just so?—”

I want to dissolve into the lawn.

Hamish, for his part, doesn’t even flinch. “Americans are so bizarre,” he mutters.

“Just take ten bucks for our bet, too,” I say dryly, handing him imaginary cash. “We’ll call it even like those two, and I can move on with my dignity intact.”

He grins wide. “Nae chance. The bet’s nae aboot cash, pet. It’s aboot principle.”

“Your principle is to blackmail me into sex?” I ask sweetly, though my pulse skips. "You cheated!"

He softens, just enough. “Only if ye want tae, and only when. I’d never push, Amy.”

And just like that, the heat in my cheeks flares again—for a different reason.

Then his hand brushes my bare shoulder. Lightly. Casually. But my skin goes molten.

I tense.

And he notices.

His fingers trail down slowly, stopping just shy of my elbow, then slip away like it never happened. My heart stutters. I’m about to say something—anything—when his fingers reach for mine. He doesn’t grab. Just lets his pinkie graze mine.

Before I can react, Dad comes in for a hug. Poor guy. He kisses my temple.

“STOP THAT! YOU SHOULD BE ON THE PHONE ARRANGING THE CORPORATE JET FOR US!” Mom’s voice screeches through the mayhem like a preschool teacher who's lost control of her class as the ice cream truck appears.

Her hair is trying to escape her skull, curling away in stiff, terrified spirals.

“To go where?” Andrew calls back casually from Amanda’s side, where he’s wrapped around her like he’s never letting go.

Mom turns her fury on them. “YOU TWO KNOW!”

Amanda and Andrew look caught—but not sorry. She leans into his shoulder, her whole body exhaling against him like it just found its home.

My chest aches a little.

Mom catches Amanda’s eye. Her gasp is cinematic.

“Oh, no–not Las Vegas!” she moans. “Not like Carol and Todd. Please tell me they didn’t just run off to Vegas.”

“They didn’t just run off to Vegas,” Andrew deadpans in a robotic voice, then kisses Amanda again.

“ORDER THE CORPORATE JET TO TAKE US THERE!”

“Right now?” Andrew mumbles into Amanda’s mouth. “We’re kind of busy.”

Mom laughs like a cartoon villain. “BUSY? YOU ARE BUSY GROPING AMANDA AND I AM BUSY PICKING UP THE SHATTERED PIECES OF THIS?—”

“We’re trying to make up!” Andrew says.

“MAKE UP IN VEGAS!” she bellows, grabbing Chuckles from Dad with the delicacy of a drunken linebacker.

Andrew looks at Amanda. “Vegas?”

“Make up sex in Vegas?” she suggests.

He whips out his phone. “You have a way with words.”

Two guests, a petite blonde with a very worried, pinched look on her face, and a brunette who seems mildly familiar, someone I saw Shannon pointing to earlier, are whispering. They're sitting on a garden bench, the very picture of a beautiful serene audience for a lovely bride and groom's nuptials.

Nuptials that aren't happening now.

Something about the blonde makes me move closer, and I overhear her making a soft groaning sound.

"James is going to kill me," she mutters to the other one, who takes a sip of her drink and just nods. Then I realize who she is. I don't remember her name, but she's the person who works for Anterdec, managing the wedding. Candy? Callie? Something like that. Mom complains about her a lot, mostly that this event planner isn't taking Mom's recommendations seriously.

As I watch Chuckles chew on his kilt, gee . I wonder why.

"Katie, no one - and I mean no one , could have predicted any of this. You can't anticipate this kind of dysfunction," the brunette says softly, and I almost start laughing because, well....

With my mom involved? You absolutely can.

Katie looks around the chaos as the other woman does as well, taking it all in.

"Someone should, though," Katie muses. "Imagine something more than just event planning. Like disaster preparedness."

"You mean FEMA for weddings?"

"Kari!" Katie gasps. "What a thought." She looks at Amanda. "I really should get her a towel," but instead, she picks up her tote bag and looks at Kari. "Want to get a drink?"

The two women walk across the gardens, headed for the parking lot.

Around us, it’s pure disarray: Mom tearing across the lawn, Chuckles hissing his displeasure, children plotting amphibious missions to the fountain, and the caterers serving sliders to stunned guests.

And Hamish.

Hamish is still standing there. Shirt fitted to sinful perfection. Legs sculpted by some ancient kilt-wearing deity. Kilt flapping like it owns the place. Agnes is now asking for his autograph on her upper thigh. Corrine’s got her phone out, and I think I just saw a flash.

He turns and catches me looking.

“Ye’re still starin’, love,” he murmurs, voice low and warm.

“I’m staring in disbelief,” I say. “At your entire... existence.”

He steps closer. Inches. Heat rolls off him like he’s a furnace in a kilt.

“Ye ken,” he says, brushing a knuckle along my wrist, “ye dinnae have to resist. Sometimes, impulses are good things.”

I swallow hard. “My sister just eloped.”

“Aye. She chose what made her happy. Reckless. Brave.”

“I’m not her.”

“Ye don’t have tae be. I like ye just as ye are.”

His hand reaches for mine again, but this time I press my palm against his chest to stop him.

I give him a long look. “You’re too used to getting what you want.”

He raises an eyebrow. “No' today, apparently.”

He’s right.

But also? It makes me feel seen.

I turn on my heel and storm off across the lawn—aroused, aching, fuming, and absolutely not giving in.

Even though I really, really want to.

:)