Page 22

Matt gives us a warm, easy smile, the kind that says he’s seen a hundred anxious couples and still believes in love anyway. “I officiate. My fiancé, Nessa, works for a boutique wedding consulting company.”

“Wedding Protectors?” I guess.

“Yes.”

Hamish lights up. “Aye! We’re clients!”

“Then you’re in excellent hands,” Matt says. His voice is low and steady, calming in that 'everything’s going to be okay even if it rains on your wedding day and the venue floods' kind of way. “If you ever want to talk ceremony specifics, you can find me through Katie.”

“You any good?” Hamish asks bluntly.

“I once wrangled a ring bearer who was trying to flush the rings down the toilet mid-vows after pooping in the big boy potty,” Matt says without missing a beat. “And still made the couple cry. In a good way.”

"Wow," is all I can say.

"The guests all cheered for him. He got a gold star on his chart. It was a big day all around."

“Sold,” I say. “You’re hired. Even if we elope. Maybe especially if we elope.”

Matt gives us a little nod and heads off to the free weights, leaving behind a very faint scent of sandalwood and competence.

“God’s Gift,” I mumble again.

Hamish leans closer, grinning. “Ye can stare at his arms all ye want, hen. But only one of us knows yer sex face.”

I laugh so hard, I nearly fall off the treadmill.

“Focus!” Vince barks, pointing at my form. “Engage the glutes. Tighten the core. And for God’s sake, stop fantasizing about Matt while you run!”

“I am not fantasizing about him. I merely appreciate good workmanship. It’s your fault for bringing him in here while I’m in full sweat-goblin mode!”

“Life doesn’t wait for you to apply mascara, Amy. Love finds you mid-workout.”

“Aye. That’s how she found me .” Hamish smirks.

I throw my towel at him. It bounces off his chest and lands in a perfect little heap.

God’s gift, indeed.

There’s a certain kind of stillness that descends upon a gym when celebrity enters the building.

And no, I don’t mean Matt Draper, although in addition to being a Unitarian minister, he is also an influencer who helps teens with their self-image by presenting a healthy lifestyle, including posting his workouts.

His followers also include thousands of women who just enjoy the visuals, which led to his viral nickname: God’s Gift.

I also don’t mean Vince, although with his braided hair, yellow Hummer, and ten-thousand-dollar-glare, he is a spectacle.

People have been looking at us and murmuring amongst themselves, and they’re staring at the redheaded wonder.

I mean Hamish.

My Hamish.

Who is currently toweling off his face, unintentionally causing what can only be described as a ripple in the protein-powdered space-time continuum of this gym.

And sure enough, the second he pulls that towel away from his face, an elderly man emerges from the squat rack area. Clearly, he’s been lurking in the shadows, just waiting to pounce.

“Hamish McCormick?” the man croaks, Scottish accent thicker than steel-cut oatmeal. “Fancy seein’ you here.”

Hamish laughs, genuinely delighted by the sound of his own accent. “Nice ta see ye, too, mate. D’ye come here often?”

The old man ignores that. “Was at yer match against Celtic, when ye nearly punted the ball into yer own net. Still hurts ta think about it.”

I glare at Hamish. “And this is your fan? Someone who likes you?”

“I dinna choose them,” Hamish shrugs. “They choose me.”

“Right. Like Voldemort’s wand.”

“Sign this?” the man interrupts, holding out Hamish’s discarded sweat towel.

His. Used. Sweat. Towel.

Hamish grins, takes the Sharpie the guy hands him, and scrawls his name across the still-damp terry cloth as if he’s walking a red carpet.

“Appreciate it,” the guy thanks him, clutching the towel. “Ye still canna defend worth shite, but yer footwork’s pretty.”

Hamish bows. “I aim ta please.”

Suddenly, Smoothie Girl appears.

Bouncy blonde. Tank top two sizes too small. Smile too big to be anything but sales. She sprints over from behind the counter, holding out a smoothie with one hand and, uh… introducing the other to Hamish's sweaty midsection.

“I invented this for you. It’s called the Ginger Stud. Mango, beet, whey protein, and a kiss of cayenne. Wanna sign something?”

I blink.

Then she leans forward.

Bends down.

And presents... cleavage.

Like, skin canvas.

“Sign me right here?” she asks, biting her lip and pointing to the upper curve of her left breast, already lined faintly with red marker like a living autograph book.

Hamish, to his credit, freezes.

“Uh…”

“Here,” she purrs, grabbing his hand and guiding it forward.

Stepping off the treadmill, I just happen to “accidentally” bump into her with my shoulder.

Not hard, just… enough. Enough to cause his hand to jerk mid-signature, so that instead of “Hamish,” he scrawls something that looks very much like “Hamster.”

“Oh, my God ,” she gasps, pulling back to look. “It says Hamster . Like, ew.”

Hamish frowns at the Sharpie. “I swear that’s no’ what I meant.”

“Better than Guinea Pig,” I comment under my breath, sipping my electrolyte water cheerfully.

When another eager gym-goer jogs over, phone out, eyes starry, Vince steps forward, a human steel wall, arms crossed, jaw set.

“No.”

The guy freezes mid-step. “But?—”

“NO.”

He backs away slowly.

Vince doesn’t blink. “This isn’t Comic-Con. It’s leg day.”

Hamish just grins, sweat-drenched and completely unfazed. “Still got it,” he says to himself, beaming.

I toss him his water bottle. “If by ‘it,’ you mean delusional charm and a following of sweaty pensioners who fought in the Boer War, then yes. Yes, you do.”

We finally sit on a bench near the locker room, Vince prowling the space with the energy of an alpha werewolf.

Hamish’s phone buzzes. He checks it and immediately straightens up.

“It’s Jody,” he tells me, then answers. “Hey. Uh huh. Really? Wait—seriously? Not ESPN?”

Oh, no.

Oh, no .

He didn't get the ESPN gig. We were holding onto that for hope, for incentive. This is terrible news. Our whole future together as a couple–as a family –is rewritten because of that no.

I'm reeling.

So why on earth is Hamish smiling?

His whole face is lit up like someone just told him carbs are good for your ACL.

He hangs up and turns to me, beaming.

“I got it.”

“Got what? You just said ' not ESPN'?”

“It's not ESPN. Jody said they went wi' someone older, a coach. But I got somethin' better, pet! A different sportscastin’ gig. Premier League. Post-match commentary on Sky Sports.”

“Hamish! That’s amazing! ”

“Aye,” he says, stunned. “I mean, I was sure they’d go for one of the older ex-captains or someone wi’ a jawline carved by the gods.”

I lean in and kiss him hard on the mouth. “They did. His name’s Hamster.”

We laugh so hard, we nearly fall off the bench.

“I’m putting that on your training schedule,” Vince says. “Five rounds of hamster hustles. Congrats, champ.”

Hamish wraps his arms around me and plants one of those forehead-to-soul kisses on my brow. The kind that makes my toes curl, my heart trip over itself, and my uterus whisper, Put a baby in me, lad.

He pulls away, breathless and grinning. “This means money, love. Stability. I’m no’ givin’ up on the pitch, but now I dinna have ta go back if I can’t. I’ve got this now. We’ve got this.”

I kiss his nose. “Damn right, we do.”

And that’s when he makes a choice that no man should ever make before coffee: He FaceTimes Fiona.

At 6:12 a.m., Boston time.

Fiona appears on his phone screen, smack in the middle of a supermarket, her basket overflowing with a shocking amount of broccoli.

“Hamish?” she asks. "What're ye callin' me fer? It's the middle o' the night there. What's wrong? Someone dead?”

Fergus leans into frame, squinting. “H'lo, son!”

“I got a telly job, Ma!” Hamish beams. “Premier League commentary! Sky Sports! ESPN said no, but this is a strong gig, and–”

Fiona claps her hands once and gives him a smile so bright, I wonder if she’s got LEDs in her teeth. “Oh, son, well done!”

Fergus cheers. “Proud o’ ye, lad!”

That lasts a whole 1.3 seconds before Fiona’s smile dies a cold, wet death.

“Why didna ESPN want ye? Ye should have more than one offer ta play them off each other and negotiate."

Blinking hard, Hamish looks away from the phone. I can see the young, eager-to-please boy in him. Once again, she's done it. Nothing's good enough. She can't just celebrate his accomplishment.

There always has to be more.

"Are ye at the gym? Shouldna ye be stretchin’? Icin’? Rollin’? Or are ye flirtin’ wi’ yer wee lass instead of takin’ this seriously?”

Excuse. Me.

“I’m not a flirt,” I snap, leaning into view. “I’m his fiancée . His partner. His future wife."

"Aye, I ken that, Amy. Nice ta see ye finally wearin' his ring."

Buttons. This woman pushes buttons like she works at a fabric store.

"Fiona, can you just–for once –tell him you're proud of him? That he’s doing a good job?"

"Amy," he says softly, hand on my shoulder. "It's okay."

"It is not okay," I hiss back. "I hate how she takes everything good and puts a shadow over it. She moves the goalposts constantly. It’s not fair to you."

"I can hear every word ye’re sayin', Amy," Fiona says acidly. "Havin’ ma son's rock on yer finger doesna make ye the Queen of Knowing Everything."

"I'm not just wearing his rock," I say tightly. "I am his rock. I'm here for him 24/7. And he's done a fantastic job getting offered the sportscaster position. Stellar."

“Oh, are ye now?” Fiona’s eyes narrow. “His rock? Last I checked, a rock dinna distract a man from his trainin’. A rock stays put. Anchors. Ye’re a pebble tossed in his path.”

And that’s when I see red.

I lean forward, so close to the screen, I nearly lick the pixels.

“No,” I say, my voice steely. “What slows Hamish down is you . You’ve done nothing but criticize and question him since he got hurt. If anyone’s undermining his recovery, it’s not me. It’s his own mother.”

Fiona gasps like I just slapped her with a salmon. Her whole face tightens, lips pinching, eyes blazing with Scottish fire.

“Fiona, love,” Fergus says gently, trying to pat her arm, but she jerks away.

Hamish jumps in. “All right, all right. We’re all feelin’ things. I feel very loved right now by ye both, surrounded by two strong women who care about me -”

“Oh, do ye?” Fiona explodes. “This spoiled wee brat dinna ken a damn thing about sacrifice! Rock? Psshh . She walks in at the end of a long, hard journey, lookin’ ta take all the credit! She’s a gold digger! And if ye canna see it, lad, ye’re more daft than I?—”

Click.

Hamish ends the call.

Dead silence.

Even the blender on the smoothie counter stops its noisy swirling.

Hamish slowly lowers the phone and exhales like he just finished a fifty-mile trail run, eyes closed, neck tight with tension.

“She called me a gold digger .”

“She called ye lots o' things that were wrong,” Hamish says, reaching for my hand. His face is stretched back, hairline tight, expression resolute. This is a man who’s reached a turning point. Experienced a shift.

Or an earthquake.

“Oh, good,” I say numbly. “That makes it better.”

He pulls me in and kisses the top of my head, eyes blazing with an intensity that's a whole new layer of burn. “Ye’re no’ a pebble. And ye are ma rock. Ye’re the whole damn mountain. And it's time Mum understands that.”

Hamish's phone rings.

Fiona.