Page 29

Hamish

Wakin’ up in the arms of the most beautiful woman in the world is a gift.

Her hand is flat on my chest under a swath of red satin, and when I open my eyes, I see... me .

Naked under red covers.

After shaggin’ a blonde.

Who is also naked.

Disoriented, I have that one raw second of panic where my brain short-circuits and rewinds to every poor decision I’ve made in changing rooms, pubs, and press events. The room spins. Time halts. Who is she and where am I and what have I done?

“Amy?” I whisper tentatively.

“Mmmm... coffee,” the blonde murmurs into my shoulder.

The world clicks back into place.

Right. Hair dye. Code Fiona. Archie in a pink polo. Horny moose. Earthquake bed.

We’re in Love You, Maine. Eloping.

No time machine. No rabid fans. Just the love of my life and sheets that look like they were stitched by Cupid’s grandmother on a Red Dye #2 high.

There’s a soft knock on the door, followed by the most polite voice I’ve ever heard.

“Room service, Mr. and Mrs. Jones! Coffee and breakfast.”

Amy jolts upright, pulling the sheet with her. I see the whole landscape of her back, the sunlight hitting her curves just right, and I nearly thank the hotel out loud.

“Did you order anything?” she whispers.

“Nope. Must be part of the Heart-on package,” I say, tryin’ not to laugh as I get out of bed and wrap a heart-emblazoned towel around my waist. There’s a little embroidered slogan on it: Let Love Drip .

Jesus wept.

The cart rolls in on wheels that squeak like an old mattress, and–is the entire tray heart-shaped?

Aye.

The mugs. The croissants. The melon slices. Even the wee dish of butter is molded into a miniature Cupid’s butt.

“Enjoy!” the server chirps, setting it all up on the little table by the window. “The chef is available for made-to-order omelettes. Eggs sunny side up, over easy, or scrambled with love.”

Amy looks at me. I look at her.

“Oh, God,” she groans. The server leaves, the click of the door in our ears before I realize it.

I grin. “D’ye think the yolks come out heart-shaped, too?”

“They better not,” she mutters, climbing out of bed and pulling on the pink silk robe.

"Poor hens in this town."

We sit together and dig in like two people who’ve just burned a week’s worth of calories in eight hours.

Because we likely did.

The coffee is hot, dark, and strong enough to revive a dead squirrel. Amy moans like it’s sex. I take that personally.

The pastries are ridiculous. Heart-shaped donuts with red glitter sprinkles. Pink danishes that smell like cherry. A tiny card on the tray reads:

Every bite brings you closer. XO, Love You Bakery.

I point at it. “That’s ominous.”

She tucks a piece of cranberry croissant into her mouth and mumbles, “So’s your appetite.”

We’re halfway through a second plate of fruit when I lean back and sigh, feeling warm and full and very much in love. Then I remember.

“I had the strangest dream last night.”

Amy looks up, chewing. “Hmm?”

“Mum found us.”

She freezes mid-bite.

“She broke into the inn dressed like a giant engagement ring wi' a ginger top. Silver lamé and everythin’. Sparkly tights, even. She screamed, ‘Ye cannae elope without yer mither!’ while shovin’ Archie into a gift bag filled with red foil chocolate hearts.”

Amy snorts, nearly choking on a strawberry.

“I tried ta run, but the heart-shaped tub swallowed me whole. Then Jenna Ortega emerged from the mirror above the bed like some sort o’ sexy wedding-themed poltergeist. Said I was grounded. Cracked a red whip at me.”

Amy is crying with laughter now.

“I woke up right before Mum demanded to do the first dance with me, in her Spanx and a sporran.”

“Oh, my God,” Amy gasps, wiping her eyes. “That is not a dream. That’s a premonition.”

I point my fork at her. “Then we need to move fast. Get married before she figures out how to disguise herself as a harpist.”

“She’s already disguised herself as an anxiety attack.”

We clink coffee mugs.

Heart-shaped, obviously. Matching.

Because here in Love You, Maine?

Even your nightmares are themed.

"What happened to poor Jenna?"

I shrug. "Dinna ken. She disappeared. Dreams never make sense."

"You are cut off from watching season two of Wednesday , buddy. And we're never watching the new Beetlejuice again."

"Wish it were sae easy to cut off Mum.”

"We haven't cut them off," she says, her voice anemic, as if she’s not quite convinced by her own words. "We're just strategically avoiding them until we can accomplish our goal, then face them with an aftermath they can't change. What’s that phrase? A fait accompli. "

"I feel like shite about it, too."

We sigh together, a sad sound that is the polar opposite of how we came together a few hours ago. Amy stands and moves to the bed, propping herself against the headboard. She’s staring up at the ceiling mirror again, as if trying to divine answers from her own reflection.

Or maybe just figure out how we ended up here, in a candy-colored explosion of red velvet chaos, with a heart-shaped cake sitting on the dresser and fake rose petals stuck to my arse.

"Are we making a mistake?" she asks softly, looking up at the mirror as if asking God. Her hands fly to her face, brushing blonde hair off it. "Why didn't you tell me I look so awful?"

"Because ye dinna. And no, we're no’ makin’ a mistake. It's a choice, but no' an easy one. Seems normal to fash a bit about it."

“I used to dream about my wedding.”

“Ye did?”

She nods. “Not in a crazy way, just... when I was little. Mom used to talk about it all the time. How we’d plan it together. How I’d love every minute. How she’d cry when she zipped up my dress. She said she’d hold my hand and tell me, ‘You’ve waited your whole life for this.’”

I reach for her hand and squeeze. “Ye’ve waited your whole life fer me , ye mean.”

She gives me a crooked smile. “Maybe. Or maybe I waited my whole life to make a different choice. My own choice. Even if it means thwarting the Jacoby family wedding industrial complex.”

“Aye. It does feel a wee bit like takin’ on a multinational corporation with a butter knife.”

She laughs, then sighs. “Carol eloped to Vegas with a guy who ended up in prison for MLM pyramid fraud.”

“A love story for the ages.”

“Shannon got married at Farmington Country Club, but ran off mid-ceremony with Declan in a helicopter.”

“Romantic and completely justified.”

“I didn’t want any of that. I don’t want a huge wedding, Hamish. I never did. But I wanted to give my mom her moment. Let her have the wedding she wanted me to have. Let her live vicariously through all the events she’s been mentally planning since I was six.”

“Sounds like Marie’s been the bride all along.”

“Yes. That’s exactly it.” Amy stares at me, eyes wide.

“Ye canna live yer life for someone else’s fantasy, pet. Even if that someone else raised ye and loves ye and threw a rock through yer window.”

“That was a metaphorical rock.”

“That was a literal rock. I had ta use ma brace as a doorstop.”

She laughs again, but the sound’s brittle. I scoot closer, tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Amy. This—us—is what matters. No’ the cake. No’ the venue. No’ how many bloody mason jars yer mother sources from Pinterest.”

“She’s a menace with a hot glue gun.”

“Then let’s glue ourselves together, pet. Emotionally. Legally. Possibly with red velvet icing we eat off each others’ bodies when survival’s at stake.”

She exhales hard, sagging into me. “I just feel like I’m disappointing my mother.”

“Aye. And I feel like I’m disappointin’ mine. That’s the price of growin’ up, eh? Takin’ the hit so we can finally stop bein’ someone else’s version o’ ourselves.”

“Are you quoting a self-help book?”

“Nae. I’m just in love with ye, and bein’ in love makes me profound.”

She snorts and leans her head against my shoulder.

We sit like that for a while, just breathing. The room smells like Champagne, satin, and sin. Somewhere down the hallway, a harp plucks out a cover of “Like a Virgin.”

And for once, I feel like we’re exactly where we’re supposed to be.

“Do ye want to plan a fake wedding with yer mum later?” I ask. “So she gets the dress zippin’ and the cryin’ and the monogrammed handkerchiefs?”

Amy turns to me slowly. “Do you really think that would work?”

“I’m known for many things, love. Strong thighs. Great hair. And now? Strategic deception in the service o’ family harmony.”

“I really am marrying the right man.”

“Aye,” I say, pulling her close. “Now let’s find out if heart-shaped croissants taste better than normal ones. I have a theory.”

“What’s your theory?”

“They’ll be easier ta lick the jam out of.”

She groans. “And the moment’s over.”

“Never fear,” I say, licking imaginary jam off her shoulder. “This one’s just begun.”

A sharp ping makes me wince.

No, not my knee. My phone.

Amy looks up. “Was that your phone or did the bed just reset?”

“Phone.” I reach for it, but a knock sounds at the door before I can check the screen.

Amy tightens her robe with the speed of a woman who once had a UPS driver walk in on her wearing nothing but a pumpkin face mask and a towel turban. (Don’t ask.) I get dressed as fast as I can with a barely bendable limb. I manage well enough to limp over.

I open the door and there’s Archie. Crisp red polo. Heart-shaped logo over the left pec. Clipboard. Polished loafers. A Bluetooth earpiece that suggests, “I listen to three calls at once and assess everyone on all of them.”

Wedding Protectors takes this whole "blend in with the town" stuff so seriously, their workers are impersonating hotel staff?

“Morning, Mr. and Mrs. Jones,” he says with the focused tone of someone who has already handled three emergencies and started his third cup of gunpowder green tea. “Here’s your twelve-hour status report.”

He hands Amy a sheet of pink paper. I read over her shoulder.

Elopement Distraction Protocols Report

7:00 p.m. to 7:00 a.m.

Marie Jacoby:

Twelve text messages received

Three emails