Page 24

Amy

We leave the gym like we’ve just survived a three-day music festival where all the bands screamed about emotional trauma and Freudian imagery.

Hamish’s hair is soaked in sweat, that nylon knee brace giving him the gait of a zombie trying to sneak into a nightclub. I’m half-limping, too, from the brutal lunges. Vince called them “glute igniters.”

I call them felony assault.

“I still haven’t had any real coffee,” I mumble, clutching my water bottle like it might magically transform into a venti espresso IV drip. “ Real coffee, not that butter-in-a-blender nonsense Vince made us drink.”

“It’s bulletproof coffee,” Hamish says automatically, but his eyes are far away. Like... Scotland-far.

He’s been quiet since we left the locker room. His phone buzzes again, the fourth text since we got to the sidewalk. He doesn’t check it until we’re halfway down the block, walking past a butcher shop that somehow smells like bacon and more bacon.

I try not to drool.

Hamish finally pulls out his phone, scowls, and hands it to me.

From Darren: Did you really hang up on Ma?

From Cora: Are you okay? Do you need a safe house?

He snorts. “Ye’d think I announced I was joinin’ a nudist commune in Alaska.”

“Give it five years. That might still happen.”

He limps along for a bit, then abruptly straightens and tries a slow jog. Ten steps in, he grunts, knee locking.

“I hate this knee,” he complains.

“You don’t hate your knee. You hate what it represents.”

“I hate what it won’t do.”

“That, too.”

We slow again. His face is a simmering stew of betrayal, self-loathing, and helplessness. I’d kiss him, but I might accidentally set off a new emotional landmine.

“Mum’s so unfair,” he says at last, voice sharp. “I’ve been a good son. I’ve done everythin’ she asked. Played ma heart out. Sent money home. Took her ta matches. Never embarrassed her. And still... it’s no’ enough.”

“Hamish—”

“I’m tellin’ ye, standin’ up ta her felt like... like I scored in the World Cup final. Like I finally took a shot I’d been holdin’ back for years.”

I nod, watching the way his hands clench and unclench.

“It’s just—she’s sacrificed so much. And I love her. But I canna keep lettin’ her take shots at you.”

“I love you so much. And you shouldn’t.”

“I won’t.”

I reach out and take his hand. He squeezes mine like he’s anchoring himself to shore.

“She’s like one of those giant, legendary sea monsters,” I murmur. “Only instead of dragging sailors under, she throws guilt grenades and tells you your form was off when you scored a goal.”

Hamish laughs, short and sharp. “Aye. Mum, the kraken of passive aggression.”

"There's no 'passive' in your mother."

We keep walking. His limp gets worse, and I slow my pace so we can stay together. The city hums around us. Garbage trucks beep. A guy walks by in a down vest, underwear, and flip-flops, because Boston is full of surprises.

Hamish tugs me to a stop at the crosswalk, turns, and touches my cheek.

“I meant what I said. Ye’re ma rock.”

My heart does that stupid flutter thing that no amount of iced coffee ever manages to replicate.

We barely make it two feet into the apartment before I groan, “I still haven’t had any real coffee.”

“Ye had that thing Vince gave ye at the gym,” Hamish says, gently closing the door behind us like we just came home from a church service and not a confrontation with his nuclear Scottish mother.

“That wasn’t coffee. That was sadness in a blender.”

He throws his head back and laughs. “Wi’ extra MCT oil.”

“I want beans that are roasted in the tears of a barista who’s been yelled at for misspelling ‘Ashley.’”

But he’s not listening. He’s pacing.

Well, limping.

Hamish’s limp isn’t subtle. He tries to hide it. His phone keeps pinging with texts from his siblings. I catch one from Darren.

Answer us! Or did God strike you dead?

Then Cora: Hellllooooo?? Are you drunk or dying? Did she hex you? Blink twice.

He growls and starts to jog in place, which lasts for three steps before he stops, grimacing.

“Mum’s got them all under her spell,” he snaps, fire in his eyes. “Like she’s a dementor in a pantsuit. I’m the first ta break free.”

"You're more powerful than I ever imagined. That's hot."

His nostrils flare. “God, I love ye.”

That’s it. That’s all it takes. One second I’m fantasizing about espresso, the next I’m pinned to the wall in the dining area, Hamish’s hands sliding up under my workout tank as if we’re in a low-budget Scottish porn remake of Rocky .

“Shower,” I pant, even as I arch into him.

“We’re already sweaty,” he murmurs, lips brushing my neck, “Might as well get wetter.”

"I've got that part covered, too."

He scoops me up like I weigh nothing and carries me to the bathroom, the flex one of dominance and strength. Sure, he limps, but so what?

We’re both in our gym clothes, soaked in salt and triumph, still vibrating with fight-or-flight hormones and sexual tension that needs to be resolved before one (or both) of us explodes.

He turns the water on, not waiting for it to heat up before pulling me into the spray, clothes and all. My black leggings cling to my skin like melted licorice, but his shirt comes off with a sound I can only describe as shower sex commenced .

The shower fogs quickly. Steam billows, making the tiny bathroom feel like a Turkish bath.

I peel my sports bra off, wet and awkward, my boobs springing out, released from prison. Hamish groans and palms them, fingers rough and reverent all at once.

“Look at ye,” he murmurs. “All flushed and perfect.”

“You’re biased.”

“I’m no’. I’m hard.”

He proves it by spinning me around and pressing against me, erection thick and insistent between my cheeks, steam and sweat and arousal making my skin buzz. The water runs in rivulets down my back, and when his fingers slide between my thighs, finding my clit, I’m already gasping.

“Hamish—”

“I need ye,” he rasps.

“You have me.”

“Prove it.”

He enters me in one slow, possessive push, his hand braced on the tile wall in front of me, his other gripping my hip like he’s staking a claim. My knees wobble, palms smacking the tile, heart banging like I just ran a mile in stilettos.

His thrusts start slow, controlled, precise despite the compression of his brace. The wet slap of our bodies mixes with the hiss of the water and the occasional curse in Glaswegian, the accent thick and old. I understand about one in every four words, but I don’t care.

Because I am full.

Because he is home.

Because every stroke feels like he’s rewriting the history of the day with his body.

“Harder,” I whisper, forehead pressed to the wall.

“Aye,” he growls, pace picking up. “Hold on.”

My fingers claw for purchase on slick tile, but I find my grip in the sound of his moan, in the way he holds me tighter, moving faster, deeper.

I come with a cry that I try to smother against my arm, shaking so hard, I nearly collapse.

He follows seconds later with a strangled sound and a final thrust, his forehead resting against my back as he breathes, chest rising and falling.

We stay like that, wrapped in steam and spent silence, the water now lukewarm and our hearts finally slowing.

“You okay?” I ask, voice hoarse.

“Best cardio I’ve had in months,” he replies.

“Better than Vince’s wasp runs?”

His lips brush my shoulder. “Way better. None o’ those ended like this.”

“Well,” I say, smiling as I turn off the water, “now that we’ve addressed the physical therapy portion of the morning…”

“I’ll make ye coffee,” he offers, cradling my face in his big, wet hands.

“Really?”

“Ye earned it.”

“Damn right I did.”

For the next two hours, both of our phones buzz continually, like bumblebees on cherry blossoms. We’re half asleep, Hamish snoring lightly beside me.

What a morning.

I don’t think I’ve ever had cardio, trauma, sex, and maternal warfare all before ten a.m.

Then the buzzer for my apartment goes off with the same intensity as a smoke alarm in a dorm room on hash brownie night.

BZZZZZZZZZZZ

“What the hell—?” Hamish bolts upright like he’s been tasered, arms flailing, one foot catching in the sheets as he jerks out of slumber.

“I got it!” I announce, grabbing my robe.

BZZZZZZZZZZZ

And then, before I can even get my hand on the bedroom doorknob, there’s a crash like someone just threw a microwave at my living room wall.

“What’s happening?” I freeze.

Hamish leaps–okay, lurches–out of bed, clutching the edge of the windowsill like a battle-weary soldier as he peers through the glass. Then he rushes past me into the living area, naked as can be.

“Amy!” he bellows, voice thick with rage and accent. “She broke yer bloody winda!”

“What?! Who? Who broke my window?”

There’s a rock the size of a lemon on my rug.

And down below, in all her tulle-skirted, waterproof-mascara’ed glory, stands Mom.

Wailing .

“She’s cryin’,” Hamish notes, expression somewhere between fury and an awkward sympathy. “Like, full-on keening. What’s she shoutin’? Sounds like... Fiona? Or phone call?”

Oh, no.

Struggling into yoga pants and a t-shirt, I stalk to the intercom and press the button.

“WHAT?” I scream into the wall.

“Fiona CANCELED the WEDDING!” Mom shrieks through the crackling speaker, voice three decibels higher than a fire truck.

“She what? ” Hamish echoes, blinking like Mom said his team’s goalie has been traded for capybaras.

“She called Wedding Protectors and told them it was off! That you were being scammed! That you were emotionally manipulated! That your fiancée–” she chokes on the word, full operatic sob, “–was in this for the Instagram sponsorships!”

My jaw drops. “I don’t have any Instagram sponsorships!”

“I said the same thing!” Mom howls, like we’re trauma-bonded.

"WHY DID YOU THROW A ROCK THROUGH MY WINDOW, MOM?"

"Because you weren't answering the buzzer and this is a catastrophe! Emergencies call for drastic responses! You need to know! This is your call to arms!"

“She broke yer bloody winda,” Hamish repeats, shaking his head.

“And now she wants to come in?”