Page 8

Chapter Eight

Amy

On this sunny July Saturday, the ceremony begins just like every other overly orchestrated wedding, complete with soft piano music and row upon row of pristine white chairs. Standing at the glass door, I peer outside, mentally cataloging the scene.

Jordan's floral arrangements, with heather, thistle, and primrose, give each row a burst of color and Scottish charm. Ushers shepherd guests into their places, meticulously mixing our relatives from the Midwest—who look as bewildered as cows at a barbecue—with Declan’s polished associates from Anterdec, impeccably dressed and probably wondering how they ended up at this tartan-themed circus.

My eyes land on good old–emphasis on old –Agnes and Corinne, dressed in outfits that scream vintage chic—assuming vintage chic involves hats that could double as satellite dishes. Agnes, resplendent in bright red, has a hat pinned to her curls that Jackie Kennedy probably wore first. Corinne, never one to be outdone, sports something Coco Chanel would rise from her grave to reclaim.

I spot Josh, Shannon's old boss Greg with his wife, Judy, and—oh, dear God—is that one of the strippers from the piano bar sitting next to them, wearing a suit? Nice touch, Josh. Real classy.

Then there's Mom, blissfully unaware she's seated two rows ahead of Jessica Coffin, the queen of hashtag cruelty. Jessica is next to Pam and coos over Spritzy, snapping photos as Pam cheerfully encourages her, oblivious to the inevitable social media disaster brewing.

Perfect. While we're at it, why not just ask Dorothy Parker to pen a biting poem about us all?

Declan waits at the altar, cool as ever, the minister and his older brother Terry flanking him like they’re his security detail. James sits front row, dignified and calm, completely at odds with the mounting mess I'm anticipating.

And then someone ceremoniously places Chuckles at the foot of the aisle. My heart sinks. Our family cat is about to steal the show—or destroy it completely. Chuckles lifts his head like royalty, taking deliberate, measured steps forward, scanning the crowd left and right as if deciding who lives and who gets clawed.

I brace myself, stepping into my place, and take a deep breath, waiting for disaster to strike.

Hamish sneaks over, looking extraordinary in his tuxedo kilt. As pure pheromones pour off him like homing signals, I clutch my bouquet and wish for a cold shower. The quartet is softly playing the prelude as if we're all civilized human beings and not about to witness a complete fiasco.

Hamish leans closer, whispering in that annoying, irresistible Scottish burr, “Ye nervous, pet? Ye look ready tae bolt.”

“I'm not nervous,” I snap, lying through my teeth. Nervous doesn't begin to describe it. I'm absolutely petrified—mostly because of him. This stupid bet I agreed to sits heavily in my mind. Sleep with Hamish if Declan and Shannon actually escape their wedding? What was I thinking?

“Dinnae fash,” he teases, nudging me lightly. “Ye'll nae regret losin' tae me. I'll go gentle wi' ye." He tilts his head and smiles wider. "Unless ye like it rough?”

“Keep dreaming, McCormick,” I fire back, but my heart does an unwelcome flutter. He disappears out the back, then reappears at the altar, winking at me.

My attention shifts abruptly as Amanda strides forward to help wrangle Chuckles down the aisle. Watching her wrestle with an irritable cat in tartan is amusing enough until a sudden flurry of barking, hissing, and absolute animal madness erupts.

“Oh, no,” I groan, as Muffin, Chuckles, and Spritzy become a furry ball of fury, rolling straight toward the swimming pool.

Amanda lunges after them, stumbling a little as her dress snags on the gate to the pool—of course, because why not? The dress tears spectacularly, and suddenly Amanda is topless in front of God, Agnes, and every internet troll from here to Glasgow.

With their queen snapping pictures and already counting her content paychecks.

The dog-and-cat pile splash right into the pool, sinking immediately, and Amanda jumps right in without hesitation. Bubbles appear and it's hard to see what's happening underwater, but none of it is good.

“Jesus!” Hamish shouts, eyes wide. He immediately moves forward, alarmed. “She’s drownin’!”

Hamish starts fumbling urgently with his sporran and kilt. My eyes widen as he tosses his sporran aside and begins unclipping his kilt, revealing an always startlingly toned body with deep, V-shaped indents at his hips that make my pulse jump irrationally.

And—oh my God. I sprint toward him.

“Hamish! You’re not wearing underwear?” I squeal.

He winks, utterly unapologetic. “Aye, lass. True Scotsman, right doon ta the bone.”

Nearby, Agnes and Corinne suddenly perk up, their attention riveted, openly gawking and elbowing each other enthusiastically.

Blushing furiously, I grab Hamish’s hands, trying to stop his public–and increasingly pubic–striptease. “For God’s sake, you exhibitionist! Stop undressing!”

His green eyes glitter mischievously, and he grins broadly, easily out maneuvering me and beginning to unbutton his jacket and shirt. “Och, Amy, cannae keep yer hands off me, aye? Mebbe we don't need the bet?”

My embarrassment skyrockets. Before I can retort, Andrew—Andrew, the human hermit crab who never steps outside in warm weather and thus bailed on being best man at this outdoor wedding—charges across the courtyard like an Olympic swimmer on a caffeine overdose. He leaps into the pool after Amanda.

Hamish pauses, kilt hanging precariously from his hips, the muscles of his abdomen taut with readiness. “Ach, looks like ma cousin’s got it,” he says, sounding disappointed, snapping his kilt back into place. Agnes and Corinne sigh dramatically.

And sadly.

Meanwhile, Andrew emerges heroically from the pool, dripping wet, holding Amanda close as they get all three soaked animals out of the pool, Chuckles splitting off from the canines, hiding under a chair. Cameras flash, Jessica Coffin smirks, and the entire event spirals into a disaster worthy of its own hashtag. And then Chuckles, the most savage of felines, strolls up casually to pee on Jessica's designer heels.

Hamish nearly chokes on laughter beside me. “Wee beastie's ma hero now.”

“What a complete circus,” I say, biting back my own giggle.

Hamish nods, grinning broadly. “Best weddin' ever. What's Declan got planned next?”

My stomach flips. Escape. Sleep. Sex. With Hamish. Bad idea? Great idea? My brain scrambles to reach a verdict.

Amanda and Andrew share an intimate, heartfelt moment, completely oblivious to the melee around them. Despite the humiliation, Amanda looks happy—truly happy–and a pang of envy hits me. Could Hamish make me feel like that?

As if sensing my thoughts, Hamish bumps my shoulder gently. “Thinkin' aboot surrender, are ye?”

“Dream on,” I mutter, but my resolve is weakening dangerously.

The last shred of dignity has now left the building. I glance sidelong at Hamish.

He smirks, waiting for my next move.

Maybe, just maybe, losing that bet wouldn't be the worst disaster today.