Page 31

Amy

Leaving the warm, red cocoon–or maybe womb –of our suite is something I've been dreading.

Because it means Hamish is going to be noticed.

The black hair looks silly on him but it does make his skin stand out, his green eyes bigger and brighter.

He looks like a sexy Dracula who does hot yoga and drinks protein shakes made with the blood of his enemies.

I am going to cheer when he goes back to his dark auburn norm, but it’s not the raven hair that bothers me.

It's the fans I really don’t like.

Crummy, I know. Especially for a woman whose almost-husband makes a living off those fans and who genuinely loves those fans. He signs stuff, smiles in photos, and once took a toddler to the zoo because the kid’s mom cried about how much he loved "Hammish Kickerman."

But it's not all fans that bother me.

It's just nearly all of them.

It starts the second we step outside, with sunglasses and our awful dye jobs, wearing casual clothes. There’s music–a song is ending–and then the announcer mentions something about WLUV before “I Think I'm in Love” by Kat Dahlia begins playing.

A woman in head-to-toe pink yoga gear, complete with a cropped sweatshirt that says Be Mine (or Else) , stops mid-stride, eyes bugging out.

“Oh, my God,” she whispers. “The black hair doesn't match, but... are you?—?”

“Nope!” I chirp, yanking Hamish’s hand and speed-walking like we’re dodging a cult recruiter at the mall.

“Was that a real no or a ‘nope, I’m famous’ no?” she calls after us.

Hamish just winks and keeps walking, his knee brace giving a subtle squeak with each step.

“Pet,” he says under his breath, “ye’re more paranoid than Vince when he thinks he’s drinkin’ microplastics in water.”

“That’s because you’re a magnet. And we’re in a town where everyone loves love . If they find out a famous footballer is here to elope, we’ll cause a small-town lovequake.”

I regret that phrase instantly.

Downtown Luview is... a lot, starting with its own radio station pumping out love songs.

Love You Coffee’s patio is strung with café lights shaped like arrows. The heart-shaped mugs clink gently as couples sip cappuccinos and gaze into each other’s eyes like they’ve never heard of emotional damage.

Love You Books has set out a sidewalk chalkboard that reads: Self-help books: 20% off. Shifter romance: Buy One, Get One Free. Love is cheaper than therapy.

Even the crosswalk signs are themed: The little blinking person is holding a heart-shaped balloon.

Pink cop car. Pink parking meters. Pink fire hydrants.

“It’s cute,” I admit.

Hamish laughs. “Ye’re twitchin’. This is my favorite version of ye.”

“What version is that?”

“The one right before ye snap and start yellin’ at pastry swans.”

“Too late. That one just winked at me.”

We keep walking, passing Love You Chocolates, where the storefront window now features a giant chocolate fountain and a live flutist playing “Endless Love.”

Because of course it does.

It's early November and there's some snow on the ground, but it’s the kind that's left over after a week or so of slow melting. The town is in a lull between seasons, getting ready for the big Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year's Eve holidays coming.

A teen boy gives Hamish a once-over as he skateboards past us.

“Yo! Are you that soccer guy?”

“Football,” Hamish corrects, but we don’t stop.

A few little kids wave from a distance. Their mom is pointing at Hamish and whispering furiously. I pull my hood up.

“This is why I eloped,” I murmur.

“Ye havena eloped yet.”

“Don’t get technical on me, Fake Dracula.”

As we pass Love You Flowers, currently hosting a benefit where people can pay to “adopt” a bouquet for lonely single residents, I pause. Not for the roses, but for the thought.

Mom. She really loved it here when we came years ago.

My mother would lose her absolute mind planning my wedding in this town.

She’d try to run the place within a day. Start color-coding the hearts. Make the cupids more symmetrical. Force me into a pink dress with bows and a tiara and maybe a tiny dog trained to deliver rings.

What is she doing right now?

I haven’t heard from her in nearly a day, and for Marie Jacoby, that’s basically a disappearance worthy of an FBI bulletin.

Is she crying? Planning?

Has she already re-enacted the wedding using dolls, Chuckles, and Chuffy? Is she wearing a veil from a box in the attic with so much dust on it, she and Dad will both need a mast cell stabilizer to make it through the day?

But of course, Archie's report explained why I haven't heard from her. The AI-generated responses are just coherent enough to make Mom believe I'm finally coming to my senses and agreeing with her, but it feels fake.

Because it is fake.

Like this town.

We had to come to Fakeville to get a real experience. None of this is fair.

I swallow the lump in my throat and squeeze Hamish’s hand.

“She’s going to be devastated,” I whisper.

"Who?"

"Mom."

"Why? Because we eloped?"

I nod.

“Aye. But ye can’t be the salve for everyone’s wounds, love.”

He means well. But I already am.

It’s my role. My purpose. The thing I’ve been trained to do since birth. Carol was always the rebel, who eloped to Vegas with a soon-to-be convicted felon. Shannon's a people pleaser but she married a guy with massive balls and helicoptered off with him like a romance novel on steroids.

I was the one who was supposed to stay and fulfill Mom’s dream, give her the big wedding she never had. Even if it isn't what I want. I wouldn't mind a big wedding, but it would have to be our wedding.

Not hers.

Dad's story about Grandma Celeste makes the guilt reverberate. Mom got screwed over by her own mother trying to hog the limelight. My mom isn't that way at all. Sure, she's overbearing and controlling, but she doesn't do it to be the center of attention.

She does it because she enjoys planning the perfect wedding. Mom shines when her girls shine.

She should be in the wedding business, actually. I wonder if Wedding Protectors is hiring. Maybe she'd like that, a substitute for not getting the daughter's wedding she hoped for.

Instead, I ran away to a cartoon town with a vibrating bed and a man who makes moose jokes during foreplay.

Hamish tugs my hand. “Let’s head on over to Love You Jewelers to pick up the rings.”

I nod, wiping a stray tear away before it has the audacity to fall.

Because the only aisle I’ll be walking tomorrow is the one in a ceremony called The Passionate Plunge.

And dammit... it’s ours .

We’re not even near the water yet and Hamish is already unbuttoning his pants.

“Easy there, Magic Mike,” I mutter, glancing around us, steam rising to our right. "What are you doing? We said we'd go to the jewelers first!"

"We're here. The steam beckons. Let's enjoy," he says in that low voice that can convince me to do damn near anything.

It’s not like we’re alone here. Love You Hot Springs: Take the Plunge!

isn’t exactly a secret hideaway. There are at least twenty other people in various states of near-nudity, ranging from honeymoon couples to one guy wearing a red Speedo and snorkel who might be part of the town’s water quality department, judging by his clipboard abandoned on shore.

Hamish ignores me, grunting as he pops each metal snap up the side of his track pants like a dancer in a nursing home revue. His left knee, swaddled in his thick offloader brace, is revealed slowly, one layer at a time.

“What is that?” I ask, pointing at the black nylon underneath with a hole in the center, puffy padding around it.

“Ma compression sleeve,” he says, voice tight with anticipation. “Keeps the inflammation down, aye? And ma kneecap where it belongs.”

“And you’re putting that in the water?”

“Aye.”

“Is that why you brought that hand towel?”

He flashes me a cocky grin, like I’ve just caught him sneaking candy into a movie theater.

“Knew I’d need it,” he says, limping toward the edge of the spring.

"At least you didn't bring a scrunchie," I tease.

"Yer never goin' ta let me live that down, are ye?"

"Nope." He has no idea.

The moment his foot hits the steaming water, he lets out a moan so primal and satisfied.

“Ohhhh, sweet mercy. This is almost better than sex.”

“ Excuse me? ”

“I said almost better.”

"Whew. For a minute there, I thought you were Archie's decoy."

"I'm sure any fellow two-meter tall ginger is going to share my opinion on sex," Hamish says tartly.

He sinks deeper, his body visibly relaxing, the brace dangling just above the waterline as the compression sleeve absorbs the heat.

The sight of him–broad shoulders, flushed face, that goofy little smile he gets when he’s too pleased with himself–is enough to melt the artificial pink frosting off the entire town.

Other people are definitely watching us. An elderly couple in matching swimsuits give us an approving nod. A girl with a Valentine’s-themed headband giggles as she recognizes him, and two teens argue over whether or not he’s “the Scottish footballer who cried on Sky Sports.”

But none of it matters.

He leans his head back, eyes closed, a puff of steam rising around him like some bizarre photo shoot for a Hunks of Hydrotherapy calendar. I’ve never seen him look this content. This still. This relieved.

I sit beside him, dipping my legs into the water, letting the steam ease my nerves.

“You okay?” I ask.

He doesn’t open his eyes.

“I’m more than okay, love. I’m whole.”

And for a brief, blessed moment, I believe we both are.

The steam swirls around us in a warm embrace, a paradox in this chilly air. Hamish leans back, his good leg stretched, the other submerged just up to the compression sleeve, arms spread wide like he’s claiming the entire town.

“You look like you’re about to do a whisky commercial,” I tell him. “Something rugged. Melancholic. Slightly damp.”

He cracks one eye open. “Aye. Picture it: Hamish McCormick, soaking away generational trauma in a natural mineral bath. The scent? Brine and redemption.”