I clear my throat. “Of course not. You’ll have your own private suite in a separate wing of the castle.”
“A private suite in a castle,” she repeats, amused. “You do realize how cliché that sounds? Like I’m about to become the mad wife locked in an attic somewhere.”
“I assure you we no longer keep madwomen in attics. The last case dates back to the nineteenth century, and it was merely a misunderstanding regarding inheritance rights.”
Her laugh this time is spontaneous, lighter than before. “Was that a joke, Mr. McGregor? I thought Scottish humor was limited to throwing logs in kilts.”
“It’s called the caber toss, and it’s a highly respected traditional sport.”
“Of course. Just like drinking whisky at eight in the morning is probably a ‘cultural practice.’”
Despite myself, I feel the corner of my mouth lift. “Only on rainy days. Which, admittedly, accounts for about three hundred days a year.”
She studies me with renewed curiosity. “You’re less robotic when you smile.”
“And you’re less irritating when you’re not insulting my country.”
She nods once. “Fair.”
A brief silence settles between us—less tense this time, but charged in a different way. She flips through the contract, pausing now and then to read more carefully.
“A million dollars,” she murmurs. “To play the perfect Scottish wife for a year.”
“That is correct.”
She looks up, suddenly serious. “And if I fail? If your grandmother doesn’t believe us? If this whole thing collapses?”
“Then I lose the family business,” I reply evenly. “And you return to Los Angeles earlier than planned, with compensation proportional to the time you’ve fulfilled your obligations.”
“Lovely. No pressure, then.”
“Pressure is part of the arrangement.”
She closes the folder and crosses her arms. “Why are you so determined to keep this company? You’re young, educated—you could build something else. Why fight this hard instead of letting your cousin take over?”
“Lachlan,” I say, my jaw tightening. “And it isn’t just a company. It’s my family’s legacy. My great-great-grandfather started it in a barn. My grandparents turned it into an international business without sacrificing tradition. My father devoted his life to it.”
I stop, surprised by the edge in my own voice.
Jane watches me quietly. “Your father?”
“He passed away. Car accident.”
Her expression softens. “I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.”
She nods and looks back down at the contract. “So, if I understand correctly, you need to be married before your next birthday to inherit?”
“That’s correct. My father believed a McGregor shouldn’t lead alone. That it takes two—partners.”
“That’s almost romantic,” she says lightly. “In a slightly outdated, patriarchal sort of way.”
I roll my eyes. “Thank you for the sociological commentary.”
“You’re welcome. Free of charge.”
A hint of a smile lingers on her lips. “Let’s talk logistics. How exactly do we explain that you suddenly married an American actress your family has never met?”
