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Chapter Two

Hamish

Watching the back of a woman as she walks away from me normally involves having her scent on my hands and mouth and her number in my mobile contacts.

This one, though–she’s not my type.

One to flirt with, sure. One to sleep with–I could. Of course I could. The right words, the perfect tone of voice, the charm turned up a bit higher than usual to get around those defenses she has, and I’ll have her in my bed, writhing under me, calling out my name like I’m God.

But just because you can bed a woman doesn’t mean you should .

So why shouldn’t I?

Because I’m a man of morals. Sleeping with Amy would make family gatherings messy.

But mostly because my Uncle James ordered me not to.

“Look,” he said to me at the rehearsal dinner a short time ago, as he caught me scanning the room for all the possible bedmates, “I know this is a fanny buffet for you–”

I spat a mouthful of my drink.

“Excuse me?” I choked, setting the glass down on a table and picking up a fresh one.

“Isn’t that what you call it in the UK?”

“No' quite, Uncle.”

His dismissive hand wave had come with a lowering of voice, a conspirator’s tone that forced me to lean closer. “I wouldn’t mind the publicity, you know, but the only eligible women in the room are Amy, Amanda, and Carol.” He’d given me side eye. “Unless you count the married women.”

“I may love women, but I’m nae a cad.”

He’d huffed through his nose. You learn a lot about people by what they don’t say and how they don’t say it.

“Declan is a very tightly wound man. Don’t make it uncomfortable. Sleep your way around the wedding but be discreet.”

“Maybe Marie was right. What she said at the rehearsal dinner.”

James had clicked the ice in his empty glass. “What’s that?”

“She said she had her three girls, ye have yer three boys, then there’s Shannon’s best friend Amanda, and me, yer nephew. We pair off nicely. Shannon and Declan. Amanda and Andrew. Terry and Carol. Amy and me.”

“Are you interested in her?” James had watched her just then, head tilted a bit. “She’s the smartest of Marie and Jason’s kids.”

“Uncle James! What a thing to say.”

“I’m pragmatic, Hamish. I speak the truth.”

“Every person has a special gift, ma mum always says. For me, it’s ma legs.”

“Your legs aren’t what get you nude Sports Illustrated covers, son,” he’d said dryly, looking me up and down as if I were someone else’s Ferrari that was parked in his spot.

The memory of the conversation is cut short by the smack of a palm against my shoulder blade, Declan giving me a stress-filled smile.

“Hamish.”

“Declan. Ye look like a man who needs a drink.”

His eyes cut over to his future mother-in-law, who was adjusting the sporran on a cat.

Aye. A cat . The woman is a bampot.

“I need the whole bottle, Hamish.”

“Good thing there’s yer party tonight.”

“We can’t stay out late again, like last night.”

“Then we need to start the drinking early.”

“I refuse to attend my own wedding hung over.”

“Ah, but that rule does na apply to me, cousin.”

For once, I see a real smile spread across his face, which lifts me up as he walks away chuckling softly. Making people happy is my job. Not really, of course–my job is playing football.

And yet, my mission in life seems to be to lift people’s spirits. Nothing warms my heart more than knowing I’ve made someone feel better than they did before I came across them.

In big and small ways, it’s how I go about my day.

When it comes to women, though–that’s my weakness. I can make anyone’s day brighter by spending a bit of time and attention, but women are like magic for me.

For parts of me, definitely. God gave my body a wand. Why not use it as much as possible to spread some magic?

I’ve never lost that feeling you have when you’re young and discovering sex, the marvelous realization that you can share your body with another person and you’ll both feel better than you can feel alone. Don’t get me wrong–a good wank feels fine when you need it and learning how to satisfy yourself means you’ll be better at making someone else feel good when they come.

But being naked, sweaty, uninhibited, all hands and tongues and other parts in a giant pile of fun–that is where pure joy is created.

For me, a woman’s body is a temple. And Amy’s ass–in eyesight right now–is an altar. Oh, how I’d love to worship between those legs.

“Hamish?” I’m interrupted by a sweet young thing wearing a catering staff apron and a shy smile. “Would ye mind?” She thrusts a small notebook and pen at me. “Ma mum’s a huge fan.” The accent’s Scottish, so close to my own that I’m charmed.

“Aye?” I flash her a grin and wink. “And ye?”

“Mum is from Glasgow. I’m more of a Manchester fan maself.”

“Oof.” I pause mid-word on the page and give her a mock glare. “Mebbe I’ll nae sign this after all.”

“Blame ma da,” she says matter-of-factly. “He’s English.”

We both shudder, then laugh. I start writing, beginning with “Manchester sucks!” and ask her name.

“Lila. But Mum’s name is Gertie.”

“Gertie,” I mutter, “i-e or y?”

“G-e-r-t-i-e.”

With a flick of the wrist, I’m done, handing the notebook and pen back to her. Lila tucks it away in her bag like a Fabergé egg. I don’t know why moving my hand across a piece of paper while clutching a pen holds so much value for people, but if it makes them happy, then I’m happy to do it.

“Want a picture?” I ask as she looks me over, her phone already in her hand. Just then, Amy appears, peering intently about the area, checking the tables for something, her pretty face screwed up in confusion, brows knit together.

“Amy!” I call out. “Need help?”

“I left my phone here.”

Being tall has its advantages. I spot her mobile two tables away and reach it before she does, surprised to find it unlocked when I press the home button.

“No code?”

“No need, until now. You’re so nosy!” She reaches to snatch the phone from my hands, but my height really pays off in moments like this.

Holding it aloft, I type my number in her contacts, labeling it That Guy You Would Call. But then I delete it. If I put my contact in there, then she’s warned when I ring her. I like to retain the element of surprise.

“What are you doing to my phone?” she asks suspiciously. Lila watches us with the same keen interest as the caterer at my Sports Illustrated shoot.

“Improving it.”

“You better not have deleted anything!”

I don’t know this woman other than meeting at the first rehearsal dinner. Amanda and Andrew got shitfaced that night and had some kind of fight, and Amy’s mother made it clear she not only knows nothing about football, she knows nothing about baseball, hockey, basketball, or likely anything not involving drool, yoga, or sex toys.

Amy Jacoby isn’t special. She’s just someone I am stuck with by circumstance.

So why am I enjoying teasing her so much?

With a loud humph worthy of my mother after discovering that my younger brother Darren yet again used the last square of loo paper and failed to put a new roll on the rack, Amy storms off.

Lila leans toward me and asks, “Angry girlfriend?”

“Me? Have a girlfriend? Nae.” I squint and watch as Amy runs off, propelled by sheer self-righteousness. “And if I did, wouldna be her.”

“Looks like you two have some chemistry.”

“Like ammonia and bleach mixed together, mebbe.”

The face Lila makes cracks us both up, but her words ring through me. Chemistry?

My phone buzzes, and I look down to find a text from Andrew’s executive assistant, Gina. She’s been handling the details of tonight’s stag party.

The limo leaves at 6:30 for the bachelor party. Dress is business casual. Please wear a shirt.

I see word has gotten around.

Lila walks over to a table and fixes chair covers while I deal with Gina.

I text back, Shirt it is. And only a shirt .

That’s not what I meant! Gina replies.

The cat doesn’t wear trousers in the wedding. Why can’t I go without? I reply with a grin.

Ha ha , she answers. I’d much rather see you without pants than Chuckles!

Gina. I’ve met her once before, the woman who talks as if every sentence out of her mouth were a question. I half expected her texts to be the same way.

Wonder if she’s like that in bed. “Oh, my God? I think I’m coming? Do that thing again with your tongue? I'm so close? No, there?”

A bedmate worth his mettle could get her to the point where every word out of her mouth as she comes is a statement . That poor woman needs all the uncertainty banged out of her.

Wonder if I should give her a go?

Will I see your lovely face at the wedding? I venture.

Three dots appear. Then disappear. Then appear.

That’s more like it. She’s crafting a message…

You will, with my date, Louis.

...and that message is: No .

No isn’t a word I’m used to hearing out of a woman’s mouth, but I guess today is an exception. An aberration.

Anomaly, aye?

Between Amy and Gina, though, my “no meter” is full.

I give Lila a sly smile and as she catches my eye, she grins, waving enthusiastically.

That’s more like it.

A breeze shifts to my left as a man jogs past me, pulling my prospect into his arms and giving her a fierce kiss.

So that’s a no, too.

Three nos in a row.

The cat in a kilt walks over to me, looking up with a frown like the poor thing’s face is stuck that way. Then he shows me his arsehole, like a puckered granny’s face, disapproving.

This is not the booty I want.