Page 9

Chapter Nine

Hamish

It starts with a sound—low, rhythmic, almost like a heartbeat, if the heart belonged to a massive mechanical beast. Amy looks up first, eyes narrowing at the sky.

"Do you hear that?" she asks, her head tilting.

I follow her gaze, brows raised. A small black dot hovers in the hazy blue sky, growing larger with every passing second.

“That a drone show or somethin’?” I ask.

“No,” she murmurs. “That’s... a helicopter?”

The whoop-whoop-whoop of the blades grows louder, slicing the air into bits as the thing descends like it owns the sky. One by one, heads start to turn. Guests squint upward, murmuring questions and clutching their pearls, the carefully arranged rows of white chairs turning into a sea of craning necks.

It’s not every day you get to watch a billionaire fake a presidential fly-in to elope with his bride, fooling her mother, who thinks the president is about to descend in full tartan glory.

And it’s even less common to watch it all unfold while standing next to the lass you’re about to win a bet with.

A bet with massive benefits.

The unmarked black helicopter descends like a cinematic fever dream. The blades kick up air that sends hats flying and floral centerpieces trembling. Jordan’s monstrosities are holding on for dear life.

“Ye seein’ this, love?” I say, leaning in just enough to shout without having my face ripped off by rotor wind. “That’s the sound o’ victory.”

Amy’s eyes are wide, her mouth hanging slightly open. “That’s a helicopter. What is going on?”

“Nae idea,” I say, full of false innocence. “Could be the president poppin’ in fer the open bar.”

And that’s when Declan appears, strutting toward the maelstrom like he just got nominated for Sexiest Man Alive: Kilt Edition. Marie flails toward him, her face lit up like she’s about to be knighted.

She shouts something about the president and I nearly lose it. She really thinks the bloody president is here?

“Shite,” I mutter, unable to stop grinning. “He really pulled it off.”

Amy turns slowly toward me. “Wait. You knew?”

“Oh, aye,” I say, smug as sin. “He told me this mornin’. Said if things went sideways, he had a wee getaway plan.”

“A helicopter getaway plan?” she repeats like she’s auditioning for the role of Stunned Bridesmaid in a disaster film.

“Would ye expect anything less from a McCormick?”

Her mouth opens, closes, then opens again. “Oh, my God. I think I just lost the bet.”

I lean closer. “Ye thinkin’ aboot payin’ up?”

Before she can answer, Marie screams again. “THE PRESIDENT IS HERE!”

Andrew wraps his arm around Amanda, trying to preserve her modesty with a jacket that’s doing exactly zero percent of its job. She’s half dead with embarrassment. Meanwhile, Marie is pointing skyward like she’s directing air traffic.

Declan and Shannon make a break for it, her dress flying behind her like a bridal parachute. They’ve got that look—the ‘we’re in love and nothing else matters’ look.

The helicopter lowers again, close enough to scatter every bobby pin in a hundred-meter radius. Shannon’s tartan sash flaps like a flag in a hurricane as Declan helps her in. Then the thing starts lifting and Marie goes sprinting as if she’s at the greyhound races.

Amy clutches my arm, eyes still locked on the sky. “Are they actually?—”

“Aye,” I say proudly. “They’re elopin’.”

She gasps. “No. No way.”

“Ye see, lass,” I say, taking her hand into mine, “McCormicks dinna just plan a wedding. We also have an exit strategy.”

Amy stares at me, still reeling from the shock, hair wild, cheeks flushed, and absolutely stunning.

“Ye still think I won’t win that bet?” I ask, waggling my brows.

She narrows her eyes. “If you say one more word, I swear to God, Hamish?—”

“Ye'll rip ma kilt off yerself?” I say, eyes wide, raising my voice to make sure I make Amy squirm for me even more. “Ye should buy me dinner first, ye know.”

Two old ladies—Agnes and Corinne—whip their heads around at the same time, eyes laser-locked on me.

“Ladies,” I say with a wink. “Enjoyin’ the show?”

Amy groans and facepalms. “I cannot believe I am even slightly attracted to you.”

“Only slightly?” I feign offense. “Pet, ye stopped me from rescuin’ Amanda earlier. I felt yer hands on me.” I lean in. “And I liked it.”

She makes a strangled noise that sounds like a laugh and a scream had a baby.

The helicopter rises, Shannon shouting “ELOPE!” like a battle cry, and Marie hits the grass with a sound like a tossed cabbage.

And me? I just stand there, basking in the wind and glory, thinking one thing:

Best. Wedding. Ever.

There’s actually a moment—just a moment—where I think Marie might launch herself into the sky and physically grab the helicopter, like King Kong on a bender.

She’s shouting at the clouds now. “WHERE ARE YOU GOING?” she bellows, jumping like she’s trying to slap the rotor blades back down to earth.

Just then, the bagpipes start playing. Good old Scottish timing.

I glance over at Amy. Her jaw’s slack, her eyes still glued to the sky like she’s expecting it to deliver answers. Meanwhile, I’m basking in the warm, smug glow of being one hundred percent correct about this elopement scheme. My inner smug-o-meter’s bursting like a cheap thermometer at a habanero-eating contest.

Jason reaches Marie just in time to catch her next meltdown. He’s squinting after the helicopter, hand above his eyes like a kilted pirate spotting sails on the horizon. Marie’s shaking her fist in the air, and thanks to the fact the blades have stopped trying to peel our faces off, we can all hear her, crystal clear.

“ELOPE? THEY CAN’T ELOPE! GET THEM BACK HERE, JASON! THEY ARE RUINING MY WEDDING!”

Jason looks like a man questioning every life choice he’s ever made, including not changing his name and moving to Paraguay.

“This is better than cheesy reality television,” Andrew comments nearby.

I snort. “Och, Love Island could ne’er dream o’ this madness.”

Pam, bless her, decides now is the perfect time to drop some unsolicited statistical wisdom. “Did you know,” she says to James, Carol, and Terry like she’s delivering a TED Talk, “that people who elope are more than twelve times as likely to divorce compared to those who marry with a wedding of two hundred or more guests?”

Carol snaps, “I eloped.”

James sighs, wistful. “Elena and I had more than two hundred guests and were happily married for more than twenty years.”

Pam suddenly looks like someone swapped her bingo card mid-round. “I eloped,” she adds sheepishly, glancing at Amanda. “And we know how that turned out.”

I nod slowly. “Let me guess. Therapy and three restrainin’ orders later…”

But none of that applies here. I watch the chopper fade into the clouds, and I know, deep down, Shannon and Declan aren’t statistics. They’re the outliers, the kind that shift bell curves and ruin academic averages.

“ANDREW!” Marie roars. It’s like being inside a malfunctioning foghorn.

Andrew jerks upright like someone just shoved an ice cube down his pants. “What? Why me?”

“YOU NEED TO GET ANTERDEC’S HELICOPTER NOW. NOW NOW NOW NOW!”

He blinks like he’s trying to reboot his whole personality. “I’m sorry, Marie. The helicopter is being used right now in Central America to help deliver medical supplies after the floods. It’s a corporate humanitarian mission.”

“THAT IS NO EXCUSE. WE HAVE MORE IMPORTANT PROBLEMS HERE. CALL IT BACK.”

Amy groans softly next to me. “Is she serious?”

I grin. “Oh, aye. Deadly.”

Jason tries to calm her. “Honey, we can’t do anything about this. Shannon and Declan decided they wanted to get away and?—”

“DON’T YOU DARE TELL ME THAT! I AM NOT MISSING WATCHING ANOTHER DAUGHTER GET MARRIED. I DID NOT SPEND THE LAST YEAR OF MY LIFE RESEARCHING TARTAN THONGS FOR THIS!”

Jason blinks like he’s been unplugged. “Tartan thongs?”

Andrew leans close and slaps a hand on Amanda's ass. “Tartan thongs?” he repeats.

She groans. “We were forced to match.”

“Why not go commando like we kilt wearers?” I ask.

“We tried! Marie wouldn’t let us," Amanda explains. "Said if we didn’t have balls, we couldn’t go commando.”

Andrew smirks. “You have balls. Bigger than most men’s.”

I nod, then narrow my eyes. “But not mine, aye?”

“JASON! CALL THE POLICE AND REPORT A KIDNAPPING!”

Jason looks like he’s aged ten years. “Shannon hasn’t been kidnapped, Marie.”

“MY WEDDING HAS BEEN KIDNAPPED!” she screeches.

He digs into his sporran and pulls out a roll of antacids like it’s holy communion. Peeling the last ones off, he tosses them back like a man accepting his fate.

Meanwhile, Marie’s still screaming. “WHERE ARE THEY GOING?”

Everyone around us just raises their hands like this is a school play and we’ve all forgotten our lines. Carol and Terry are drinking Champagne like they're on the set of The Great Gatsby . The caterers have clearly clocked out emotionally and are serving hors d’oeuvres like nothing happened.

I turn to Amy, who’s watching the chaos with a stunned look, and I smile.

Then I nudge her side and say, “Sooo… my room or yours, pet?”