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Rachel chuckles like she’s used to special attention. “No, but I’m thrilled you’re here. And the dye jobs really work for you. Not that anyone’s fooled, of course, but it’s charming.”

I snort. “We’re trying our best to look less like celebrity fugitives.”

Rachel leans in slightly, her voice dipping into PR mode.

“This is exactly the kind of buzz we’ve been dreaming of.

A Scottish footballer elopement in Love You, Maine?

The photos alone could boost our destination wedding bookings tenfold, especially among the international audience.

And if we can build a little foreign press, especially in the UK—well, that’s the goal. No pun intended.” She chuckles.

“Have ye ever been to Edinburgh?” Hamish asks, studying her like she’s a trivia question.

“No,” she replies easily.

“Newcastle?”

“Nope.”

“St. Andrews? Glasgow? Aberdeen? Inverness?”

“Afraid not.”

“New York?”

“No.”

“L.A.?”

She tilts her head with a patient smile. “I'm from L.A. I grew up there.”

A vein in my forehead starts to throb.

“Hamish,” I say through a smile that is made entirely of enamel and restraint, “can I borrow you for a quick private moment before I explode in front of a town official?”

Rachel backs away with a polite nod. Once we’re out of earshot, I turn on him.

“Did you sleep with her?”

His head jerks back like I slapped him. “What? No!”

“You’re looking at her like you’re about to ask for her autograph, her measurements, or her scrunchie.”

“I didna sleep with her, Amy, I swear!” He frowns, eyes narrowing. “But she does look so familiar, and I canna put ma finger on—wait. Wait wait wait …” His whole expression lights up. “That’s it!”

“What’s it?”

Hamish spins, water sloshing around him as he points a dripping finger toward Rachel. “PORTIA STARMAN!”

Rachel blinks, stunned. “Sorry—what?”

“Ye’re her! Portia bloody Starman! Ye look sae young. Good work done on ye, eh?”

"Hamish!" I hit his chest. "That's rude," I hiss.

Rachel's jaw goes tight. “No. That’s… Portia is my mother.”

Silence.

I blink. Twice.

Hamish’s mouth drops open in something that could only be described as reverence. “Ye mean to tell me… yer mum is the Portia Starman?”

“Yes,” Rachel says cautiously, glancing around as if a paparazzi ambush might spring from the trees. “Perhaps you know her from the reality series she filmed here?”

Hamish looks enchanted, like someone handed him his childhood in a gift bag. “No, no, better than that! I had her poster on ma wall for years . The famous one, ye ken?"

"I ken," Rachel says weakly.

"I—God, I’ve got so many memories of her.”

I raise one eyebrow.

“Fond memories,” he clarifies. “Respectful memories.”

I raise the other.

“Mostly.” He winces.

“Did you use a scrunchie?” I ask sweetly.

Rachel rightly looks confused. “Sorry?”

“Inside joke.”

Rachel clearly has no idea what to do with that. She just smiles in the way polite professionals do when a situation is rapidly sliding into the weird zone.

I shift into business mode.

“From one PR person to another,” I say, wading through the water to stand closer, “we’re absolutely fine with you using this for promotional purposes. Just embargo the announcement for a month.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive,” I say. “We'll need to sign releases, of course, and I want final approval on any messaging involving us."

"We'll talk," Rachel says neutrally. Hmm. Definitely a pro.

"That gives us time to handle the family politics and the media firestorm we’re absolutely not inviting right now. After that, you can have your headline. We'll even come back for an anniversary visit and do some press for you next year."

"We will?" Hamish is shocked. "That's such a good idea, pet!”

Rachel is clearly relieved. Graciously, she extends her hand to shake mine, saying, “Thank you. That’s more than fair.” Then she adds, "Enjoy the town. I hated it when I first came here from L.A."

"I can see why," I reply, relieved to have someone understand.

"It grows on you. I married a Luview. Be careful, though–stay long enough and you might not want to leave."

With a wave, she departs. Hamish sighs and closes his eyes, gently flexing his knee.

I whack his arm. He opens his eyes.

"You wanked to Portia Starman posters? Seriously? She was popular before we were born!"

"Da had her on the wall over his workbench."

"You masturbated in your garage? "

"Aye. And in the broom cupboard. Ma bed. The loo when I could get a moment's peace. Ten people, one bathroom, means peeing in the bathtub while your sibling gets the toilet and Da shaves."

"And I thought one and a half baths for five people was bad."

"Ye ken I was a horny little freak if I found places to wank in our tiny house.”

The thought makes him frown and after a minute, he says, "Mebbe we shouldna do this."

"Elope?"

"Aye."

"Thinking about wanking in your crowded childhood home is suddenly... casting doubts?"

"Has nothin’ ta do wi' wankin’."

"You're feeling guilty."

His stomach growls.

"I'm feelin' hungry."

"Your leg must be a prune by now."

"A verra relaxed prune."

"I didn't think it would be like this, either," I confess. "It feels like we traded one set of meddling people for another."

"Aye."

"I just want you. Us. The public can have you when you're in public, but in private? You're mine."

"Oooo," he says, reaching for me a bit awkwardly, his knee catching him. I move close, into his embrace. "I like this possessive version of ye."

"It's not possessive as much as it's practical. There's no boundary, Hamish. Will it always be like this?"

"It doesna have ta be. We can make our own rules. We already have, coming here."

"We both feel guilty," I say sadly. "But that report from Archie makes it clear we're doing the right thing."

"Aye."

For the next few minutes, we sit in silence, the cool air and warm sun frolicking with the steamy hot water. Life doesn't give us many chances to slow down and live in the moment. Hamish's injury is a curse but in a way, it’s also a blessing.

Just like our mothers' love.