Page 40

Amy

Matt folds his hands together like we’re in a therapy session, not a tavern with a goat-stomping-heart logo and two increasingly drunk dads who are absolutely one IPA away from singing sea shanties. Visions of Will Ferrell and Ryan Reynolds are dancing in my head.

Not sure which dad is which.

“Let’s talk options,” he says gently, his voice soothing enough that I consider asking him if we can register him with some agency somewhere as my Emergency Emotional Support Clergy.

“We can’t undo what’s already happened. But you can build a bridge from there to here. If your mothers feel excluded, is there a way to include them now? Do you want to?”

I glance at Hamish, whose mouth twists like he’s trying not to admit he’s thinking.

“Something symbolic,” Matt continues. “Maybe a shared ritual? Or a video message? Or a second, mini-celebration back home in Massachusetts or in Scotland? Or both? Low-key, family-focused. You’re not surrendering your autonomy.

You’re making space and seeing where the room you create takes your extended families. ”

Hamish clears his throat. “I do like the hot springs wedding idea, and we already have the Passion Plunge all set fer tomorrow."

"Passion Plunge?" Fergus whispers to Dad. "Sounds like a porno."

"If Mum and Marie can be there, and Da and Jason... I’d be happy," Hamish continues. "We’d still get the small, quiet day we want, and I could soak ma knee.”

My eyebrows arch. “So our wedding is really about your leg?”

His eyes glint with mischief.

“Nae, hen,” he says, voice dipping low as one hand slides under the table to my thigh. “It's about yer legs, too. Around ma head. Ma hips, too.”

We’re not talking about ceremony logistics anymore.

“Seriously?” I hiss, trying not to shriek-laugh. “You’re turning our emergency elopement pivot planning into foreplay?”

He leans closer, his palm warm and very much in dangerous territory.

The man is vibrating with need, and while that's generally his baseline state, I realize suddenly that this is more than that.

He's seeking connection because he's freaked out and guilty and afraid of what will happen next.

We're different in that way. I shut down.

He reaches out.

"Anythin' can be turned into foreplay if ye try hard enough. And I do mean hard enough ." His hand takes mine and moves it to his thigh, as if he's kindly teaching me the physics of what he means by that last word. As if Hamish isn't a walking, dare I say it–

Heart-on.

My poor father's eyes are darting so much, they should be metal-tipped and have flights.

"Stop," I hiss.

“Ye’ve no idea what kind of vows I’ve got planned for later.”

Matt discreetly takes a long sip of his beer and looks at literally anything else, joining my dad.

Fergus raises a brow. “This is why we had eight bairns. I ken that look.”

“Oh, my God,” I groan, sinking lower in my chair.

“I’m just sayin’,” Hamish murmurs, “steam makes everything better.”

“Steam won’t help you when your mother finds us mid-vow with your hand down my bikini bottoms,” I whisper.

“I'll just tell her we're makin' a grandbaby.”

"Don’t you dare!"

Matt clears his throat. “Perhaps we can save that conversation for later. Some topics are better left for the honeymoon.” On that last word, he glances over at Nessa, who is still on the phone, looking tense. Poor woman. I know all about working operations to cover celebrities.

Hamish was my first.

Now I handle him without pay, but the fringe benefits are much, much nicer.

“Or the after-after-party,” Dad mutters, earning a Don’t encourage him! glare from me.

I glance around our ridiculous little circle of chaos—my dad, my fiancé who can’t keep his hands to himself, a man of the cloth, our Wedding Protectors project manager, and Fergus, drinking like he’s in the final round of a competitive pint-a-thon.

And I feel okay.

Hopeful.

Maybe even excited.

Because apparently, this is what love looks like in our world.

Loud. Messy. Stubborn. A little weepy.

And surprisingly… warm .

Hamish takes the lead and orders a slew of appetizers for the table, in a gesture of hospitality but also, more likely, to make sure his dad really doesn't pickle himself. As Rider heads toward the kitchen with the order, an emergency siren starts in the distance, then the Doppler effect kicks in.

"Two cruisers," he whistles as one goes by, lights flashing. "That one, and I hear one to the west. Must be something big on the edge of town.”

Nessa looks at me, then her phone. "Come on, Archie," she says under her breath. "Pick up!"

There's no way our mothers have done something so bad, the police have to be involved.

Right?

"Archie?" Nessa says his name loudly. "You're breaking up.

I can't– Walk around. I said WALK AROUND.

Try to get more bars." Nessa looks like a Roomba, following a drunken algorithm as she seeks out more bars on her data connection.

"No, BARS. Not bears. Why would I want you to get more bears?

I can't–yes? Located them? Where? At Love You what?

The town has forty-seven businesses that start with Love You! "

And then she gasps and stares at her phone.

"Service unavailable," she says with an exasperated sigh.

"Sounds like the moms are here?" I ask gently, and point to her empty cocktail. "Want another?"

"No, thank you. We can have a drink on the job, but only one. And the last thing my system needs right now is a depressant. Archie located them at a business called 'Love You' something."

"That narrows it down," I commiserate.

"Ye can eliminate Love You India. Mum hates curry," Hamish helpfully adds.

"One down, forty-six to go," Nessa says, contemplative. "They'll try the inn first. Archie's covering that." Nessa bites her lower lip as Matt watches her, listening. "I wonder if I should just go there and help him."

"Go where, exactly? You don't know where Archie is. I'm sure he'll find a better line and call you back," he assures her. "And you need to put something in your stomach. Wait until the food's here, have a bite, then spring into action and follow Archie."

Rider reappears behind the bar and I ask Nessa, "How about something non-alcoholic?"

"No, thanks." She shakes her head.

A man dressed like a Valentine’s Day action figure walks through the door.

Red police uniform, white belt, polished boots, and a hat so red, it makes the stop sign outside look pastel. His sandy blond hair is trimmed short with a bit of boy-next-door fringe and his eyes are glacier blue, no-nonsense and full of calm authority.

Three women at the bar swivel like weather vanes.

“Chief,” Rider calls out. “You here for wings or war?”

“Neither.” Chief doesn’t smile. He scans the room like he’s on a manhunt, and when his eyes lock onto us, my stomach drops.

“Hamish McCormick. Amy Jacoby.”

Hamish tenses. “Depends. Am I bein’ arrested? On the eve o' ma weddin’? I didna even get a stag party. Brutal.”

Fergus looks around and raises his glass. "We're yer stags, son."

"Thanks, Da."

“Ye tell ‘im, Hamish. No man should wed sober.”

The cop doesn’t laugh. Or react. He just steps closer, his face impassive.

“I'm Chief Luview. Head of police here. I need to speak with you, both of you. Immediately.”

My back straightens like I’ve been caught cheating on a test. “Chief Luview… is something wrong?”

He hesitates. And that hesitation is worse than a yes .

“There’s an incident under investigation. Possible felony,” he says quietly. “I have questions and you may have answers.”

“Possible felony? ” I echo, voice wobbling. “We haven’t— We didn’t?—”

Chief’s expression doesn’t change. “I’m asking for your cooperation. Please come outside.”

Nessa turns slowly toward us, jaw slack. “Oh, no. Oh, no no no. This is not happening. My mom will taunt me forever if she learns I let the bride and groom get arrested .”

Matt carefully sets his beer down. “Should I be your one phone call?”

Hamish rises beside me and sighs. “If this is about Mum again, I want ta state fer the record: She’s legally her own person. I have nothin' ta do wi' any crimes she's committed.”

“Same,” Fergus says. “Though if she’s committed a felony, I’d like a moment ta finish this pint before bein’ interrogated.”

Chief Luview lifts an eyebrow.

The whole tavern holds its breath.

And I suddenly understand why people plead the Fifth.

The chief doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t soften.

“I need to speak with you both outside. Now.”

The word now hits with the force of a gavel.

I blink rapidly. “Are we being detained?”

“Not yet.”

Not yet? I feel every molecule of my martini evaporate from my bloodstream.

Around us, Bilbee’s falls silent.

A fork clatters.

Someone at the bar mutters, “Ooooh, snap.”

Hamish addresses the crowd. “Put this on record, too: I regret nothin’. Except no cake.”

Fergus hoists his beer. “An’ nae strippers.”

Matt tries to rise but Nessa holds him back. “You stay. One of us should be an impartial observer in case this becomes a true crime podcast. And also be able to call my grandmother for bail money.”

My legs move but I’m not convinced I’m the one controlling them. I stand and immediately feel every eyeball laser-beam onto my spine. Every person here is watching us like we’re in the finale of Love Is Blind: Felony Edition.

Chief Luview leads us to the door, opens it, and motions. It shuts behind us with a solid, soul-jolting thunk.

My heart pounds so hard, I think I might vibrate out of my own body.

Outside, dusk spills gold over Love You, Maine like someone cracked open a snow globe filled with sunlight and late-fall vibes.

The chief walks to his cruiser, staring at the door like a man facing down a war criminal.

He doesn’t speak at first.

Hamish fidgets beside me, and I swear I hear him mutter something that sounds like, “They’d never do this at St. Andrews.”

Letting out a sigh, the chief flicks on his flashlight and angles it at the back seat of his cruiser.

“I assume these belong to you?” he says.