A faint smile touches the corner of his mouth.
“I see we’re both prepared.”
“Not quite,” I say, flipping a page. “I’m still processing clause 14.b, which states that I must ‘maintain a public image consistent with the standards of the McGregor family.’ What exactly does that mean? Am I expected to wear a kilt and learn the bagpipes?”
“It means no scandals or behavior that could embarrass the company. No viral videos of you yelling at people, for example.”
I narrow my eyes.
“Point taken, Mr. McGregor. But that video was taken completely out of context. That director deserved every decibel.”
“I don’t doubt it,” he says evenly. “But within the context of our arrangement, I would ask that you reserve such… expressive moments for private settings.”
“And those ‘private settings’ are detailed where exactly?” I flip through the document. “Ah—there it is. Clause 18: cohabitation and personal space. You’re seriously telling me we have to keep up the act even in front of your staff?”
“Jamison has been with my family for thirty years. He witnessed my first steps and likely knows more about McGregor history than most historians. If he suspects anything, my grandmother will know before you can say ‘single malt.’”
I sigh, rubbing my temples.
This is getting complicated.
“How exactly am I supposed to convince your entire world I’m thrilled to marry you when I barely know you?”
“You’re an actress,” he replies calmly. “It’s literally your job to make people believe things that aren’t true.”
“There’s a difference between playing a role for a few hours with a script and living a lie twenty-four hours a day for a year.”
He leans forward slightly, and his scent—something warm, sandalwood mixed with citrus—hits me unexpectedly.
“Consider it immersive preparation for your comeback role,” he says. “An actress willing to do anything for her career revival. It would make an excellent film.”
“With me in the lead, I hope?”
“Naturally. An Oscar-worthy performance.”
I laugh despite myself.
“You know, for someone so rigid, you occasionally have a surprisingly decent sense of humor.”
“I’m Scottish, not a robot. Contrary to popular belief, we do have emotions—we simply express them in a more… controlled manner.”
“By controlled, you mean repressed to the point of suffocation?”
“I prefer the word measured.”
I shake my head and keep reading.
“Clause 22: early termination. Now that’s interesting.”
He clears his throat. “As requested, I included an exit clause in case the arrangement becomes problematic.”
I scan the paragraph, then snort softly. “‘In the event that one party develops genuine romantic feelings toward a third party…’ Wow. You really know how to make love sound deeply unappetizing.”
“That clause exists to protect both of us,” he says a little too quickly. “You may meet someone in Scotland.”
“In an isolated castle in the Highlands?” I arch a brow. “Unless you have a secret brother or a dangerously attractive mailman, I doubt my romantic prospects will be overwhelming.”
“You might be surprised. The Highlands are full of… robust men who would likely be intrigued by an American actress.”
