Page 28

Amy

There’s a cherub on the ceiling watching me undress.

I’m not kidding. Carved plaster. Chubby cheeks. A gold bow and arrow aimed directly at the heart-shaped bed that is, in fact, vibrating slightly from our footsteps like it’s trying to get a head start on the honeymoon.

The wallpaper? Red. Patterned with faint outlines of kissing Cupids and roses. The floor-length curtains are embroidered with the words “Love You Forever” in cursive so loopy, you can barely read it.

Hamish flops onto the bed with all the enthusiasm of a Labrador who just found a pile of dead fish.

“God, this is ridiculous,” I groan, eyeing the decorative heart pillows.

One says KISS ME UNTIL I PASS OUT.

Another? SEXY TIME ZONE.

Yet another: ENTER AT WILL.

Hamish pats the mattress beside him, the satin sheets shimmering like a drag queen’s thigh-highs. “C’mon, love. Test the goods.”

“You want me to lie down in a giant marshmallow of sin?”

“‘Tis no sin if we’re makin’ it official tomorrow.”

“Hamish.”

“Amy.”

He’s grinning at me like the room’s making him more powerful by the minute, like every heart-shaped swirl in the carpet fuels his libido.

Sitting down beside him with a dramatic sigh, I slip off my boots and try not to fall victim to the diabolical lure of satin sheets.

Hamish pulls me backward gently, spooning me, one hand on my waist.

“Just cuddlin’. No funny business,” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss behind my ear.

I close my eyes and exhale.

Then he begins to move.

Slowly. Lazily. Mimicking a lover’s rhythm. Not quite suggestive—yet. But close enough that I feel the heat rising.

“Hamish…”

“Just warmin’ up,” he says innocently.

“I’m supposed to be relaxing.”

“This is relaxin’. The bed does half the work. Satin slides like magic, and I dinna even need tae buy ye dinner first.”

I laugh, a real one. He knows exactly how to get to me. Not just the jokes, and not just the charm.

The gentleness. The way he touches me like I’m treasure and sin all wrapped in one.

He rolls me onto my back and starts to unbutton my blouse with maddening slowness, kissing each bit of skin he reveals.

“Ye smell like cupcakes and moral ambiguity,” he murmurs against my chest.

“What does moral ambiguity smell like?”

“Apparently, you.”

God help me, I’m into this.

By the time my blouse is gone and his shirt’s off, we’re tangled together, satin sheets whispering around us like we’re starring in an ‘80s soap opera.

That’s when I look up.

The mirror. The ceiling mirror. The one reflecting every inch of us. Half-naked, entwined, glowing in pink lamplight like pornographic wedding cake toppers.

“Oh, my God,” I whisper. “That’s… hot.”

“Told ye,” he says, eyes glinting.

“You didn’t tell me I’d be into it.”

“I ken things. Deep things.” He pauses. “Also wide things.”

I groan.

He stands, fully naked now—because of course he is—and grabs his pants off the ridiculous pink fainting couch in the corner.

I stare at him. “What are you doing?”

He doesn’t answer. Just pulls his wallet out of a pocket, flips it open, and slides a credit card into a slot on the nightstand.

“Hamish. Why do you look like you’re checking into a Vegas motel, circa 1983?”

A beat.

And then—BUZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

The bed begins to vibrate like it’s possessed.

I scream.

He laughs so hard, he drops the card.

The Champagne flutes rattle on the tray.

A Cupid falls off the headboard and lands on my thigh with a smack.

I grab onto the nearest pillow for dear life and shout, “IT’S A SEXUAL EARTHQUAKE.”

Hamish is doubled over, tears in his eyes. “Ye canna say that in a room wi’ a cherub surveillance system!”

“This is a health hazard!”

“This is foreplay , Amy!”

“I AM BEING RATTLED AGAINST MY WILL.”

We lock eyes.

The bed keeps vibrating.

And I burst out laughing.

“I can’t believe I’m marrying you.”

“I can.”

He climbs back onto the bed, still shaking with laughter—and because the vibration dial is apparently set to Oh, God, yes !

“I love you,” I say, breathless.

“I love you, too.”

And then he reaches behind him to grab a heart-shaped remote labeled MODE: TREMBLE.

Dear God. This town.

This man.

This bed.

I don’t stand a chance.

This is a cross between lying on top of a Jello wiggler and riding a mechanical bull. Sex is going to be utterly impossible. Hamish would end up jackhammering me, hitting the bullseye maaaaybe twenty percent of the time.

Which is not erotic. At all. Ever.

It's not just the orgasms I'd miss. I’m more worried about what he might hit .

He leans over to kiss me, but the violent jerking of the bed just makes our teeth bump up against each other. The last thing I want on my honeymoon is a cracked tooth.

"Ma skin is tingling," he laughs, pulling me close. "Itchy."

"So romantic." Now I just feel like Rose in Titanic , clinging to a door. If I kick Hamish off the bed like she made Jack float in the water, will the vibration be less awful?

"C'mon, pet. It's fun," he says, rolling across the bed on the red satin sheets. "Why have we never come here before? Ye were keepin' such a wonder of a place secret from me."

"Right. Whoops."

Looking up at the mirror, I see my nude body on display, and Hamish's ass. He's on his belly, making low guttural sounds for fun.

"Uh-uh-uh-uh-uh," he says as the bed shakes us. I am marrying a five-year-old. A puppy. A goofy man who is really, really good at one thing, and one thing above all else.

No, not football.

No, not sex.

Happiness . Hamish is world-class at being happy.

So why isn't any of it rubbing off on me?

The vibrating bed finally sputters to a halt with one last ominous whirrr-thunk that sounds uncomfortably like something might have caught fire inside the mattress.

Hamish lets out a laugh that starts in his chest and ends in his soul.

He laughs like someone just told the best joke he’s ever heard.

Like he can’t hold it in.

Like he’s never been happier in his entire life.

It’s ridiculous.

It’s beautiful.

And now I’m laughing too, my forehead pressed to his shoulder as we shake with giggles on top of a bed that no longer feels like it’s trying to launch us into low Earth orbit.

“I think we broke it,” I whisper.

Hamish wipes a tear from his eye, still catching his breath. “I hope so. I dinna think ma arse can handle another quake. Didna ken a bed could massage a prostate from the outside in.”

The room is a disaster of tossed pillows, rumpled satin sheets, one tipped-over Cupid lamp, and a bottle of massage oil that’s fallen between the nightstand and the mattress.

I look at him, sprawled out and grinning, his hair dark from our disguise job, green eyes bright, like the sun rises just for him. His smile dims a little as he watches me.

He reaches out and brushes a strand of hair from my cheek. “C’mere, love.”

I move toward him and he pulls me into a soft kiss, nothing frantic. No rush. Just a taste.

A promise.

We kiss for long minutes, our fingers exploring slow paths across each other’s skin. He undresses me like he’s unwrapping something rare and precious, pausing to kiss my collarbone, the dip of my shoulder, the swell of my breast.

When his mouth finds my nipple, I gasp, arching into his warm, clever tongue. His hands cradle me like I’m fragile, like I might break from too much feeling and he’s trying to balance it.

I try to return the favor, kissing his chest, his shoulder, the trail of hair leading lower.

But Hamish has other plans.

He rolls me gently to my back and kisses a different trail down my body—my ribs, my stomach, my hips—until his head settles between my thighs.

“Hamish,” I whisper, half warning, half prayer.

“ Shh , pet. Let me.”

He kisses the inside of my thighs like they’re sacred, his scruff just scratchy enough to make me shiver. Then he licks me slowly, the way he knows I like, using his mouth like it’s the only instrument he’s ever learned to play.

And trust me, the man is a virtuoso.

My hips rise to meet him, one hand in his hair, the other clinging to a Cupid-shaped pillow like it’s a flotation device on a sex cruise.

The orgasm rolls through me in a long, slow wave, my toes curling against satin, my thighs trembling. I cry out but he doesn’t stop—just slows down, kissing me through it like he wants to etch my pleasure into his bones.

When I finally open my eyes, he’s watching me with that look. The one that makes me feel seen. Known.

Loved.

“I want more,” I whisper, my voice shaking.

“Aye,” he says, kissing my knee. “There’s always more.”

He rolls onto his back, wincing as he favors his bad knee, and I climb over him, straddling his hips, our bodies flush, hearts pounding. He’s hard and warm and mine , and when I sink down onto him, we both gasp.

This part is quiet. A rhythm. A knowing.

His hands trace my thighs, my hips, my breasts. He looks up at me like I’m the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

And I believe him.

I ride him slowly, savoring the fullness, the connection, the way his body feels under mine, hard and hot and perfect.

The mirror above us reflects everything, and I like it.

I like seeing us. I like seeing me —with him.

This is the only wedding I need.

Not the chapel, not the music. Not flowers or dresses or cakes.

Just this.

Just us .

When I come again, it’s softer, deep and full of gratitude.

Then he follows, groaning my name, the sound of it on his lips so real and right.

I collapse on his chest, our limbs tangled in the wreckage of ruffles and ridiculousness.

“I love you,” I whisper.

“Aye,” he murmurs. “I love ye, too.”

Tap tap tap

"Room service. Delivering your Heart-on!" someone calls out from behind the main door.

"Good," Hamish says, flopping his now-limp cock against my hip. "Someone has to. Mine's been used up."

" Pfft . Give it five minutes," I tell him as I get out of bed and find a pink silk robe, tying the sash before I head toward the door.

"Ye can leave it, Amy. What's the rush? Come back to bed."

"Nessa said there was cake with the Heart-on package. I am never turning away a good red velvet cake.” I look through the peephole and, sure enough, there's a hotel worker dressed in–what else?–a red uniform, with a heart-shaped velvet hat and a fake grin.

"Ms. Jaco–I mean, Mrs. Jones," the nervous young person says. Her hair is short, buzzed on one side, and red-dyed pieces poke out from under the cap. "My name is Lissa and I'm delivering your cake. The Champagne should be in your mini fridge. Is there anything else I can get you?"

The cake is under glass, on a cart. Love You Forever Inn doesn't do anything halfway. That cake could feed a hockey team and still have leftovers for breakfast.

Written in icing on top: Welcome Mr. and Mrs. Jones

I pat my robe, realizing I have nothing for a tip. "Sorry, Lissa. Let me go get some cash."

"Oh, no! Tip's been taken care of. Enjoy!" Like a little red mouse, Lissa skitters down the hall, disappearing around a corner.

I wheel the enlarged heart into the room.

This isn't a dessert. It's baked art. Red velvet cake, heart-shaped, with the biggest strawberries I've ever seen all around it, all dipped in white chocolate.

"We canna tell Brandi, Vince, or Coach about this," Hamish says seriously.

"Or my hips."

"I love yer hips. Feast away if it gives me more ta grab."

We sit cross-legged on the bed, still mostly naked, sharing forkfuls of cake as if it’s a communion ritual for horny heathens.

It tastes like sin and buttercream and the noodly looseness of having been made love to really, really well.

“This is unreal,” I say around an enormous bite. If I keep eating this way, I’ll evolve to have a double-hinged jaw.

Hamish groans, his mouth full. “We’ll have ta run laps around the hot springs just ta earn another slice.”

“Or we just eat the guilt with the strawberries.”

I pop one in my mouth and sigh. The sugar, the post-sex haze, the complete lack of judgment from the embroidered throw pillow that says I Do... You Do... Let’s Do It Again…

Perfect.

I stretch back against the headboard, the satin sheets clinging to me, and let out a long, happy, belly-busting sigh. Maybe getting married in Tacky Town isn't so bad after all.

“I haven’t heard from my mom in... hours,” I say, sounding like I just realized the Earth is round. “Could she be dead?”

Hamish doesn’t even look up from the cake. “Nah. Wedding Protectors has a full tech support team runnin’ interference. All yer texts and emails are bein’ rerouted through them.”

“Oh. Right.” I'd genuinely forgotten. It didn't seem real when Katie explained it, but now that I have the absence of Mom, it's unsettling. Not bad, just unfamiliar.

He grins and licks a smudge of frosting off his thumb. “They read everythin’ yer ma sends, then reply as you. Calm, obligin’, vague. Ye ken–like ye’re slowly losin’ yer mind in a polite way.”

“You’re saying there is an actual person pretending to be me... to my mother?”

“Aye.”

I drop my fork. “That is horrifying.”

“Is it?” he asks, holding out another strawberry to my lips. “Because I think it’s genius. Archie said the replies have been so convincin’, Marie’s been throwin’ fewer tantrums. She thinks yer finally listenin’ ta her.”

“She thinks I’m planning a country club wedding at Farmington?”

“For another week,” he says with a wink. “Then it’ll be too late ta stop the real one. We'll already be wed.”

I chew slowly, thinking about it.

“So I’m being impersonated by a professional handler. A job I once held myself, handling you .”

"Aye, and yer damn good at it. Just handled the best part o' me a moment ago like the pro ye are."

"Hah." If this cake weren't so good, I'd throw some at that smug face.

“And ye’ve never been so emotionally healthy.”

I laugh despite myself. “I feel like I should be offended. But I’m just relieved. It’s quiet, almost too quiet. But nice quiet.”

“Don’t jinx it,” he warns, tapping his fork against the wood table like a superstitious old crone in a fairy tale. “Let the handler be the one dealin’ wi’ yer mum. Ye deserve ta be happy, pet.”

He’s right. I do.

And in this ridiculous hotel room, with frosting on my lips, a ring on my finger, another one coming shortly, and a naked Scotsman beside me who treats orgasms and cake with the same deep respect and delight, I actually believe it.

I lean over and kiss his cheek. “You’re trouble.”

He grins. “Sweet trouble.”

And that’s the only kind I want.