“I’m sorry to hear that,” Maggie says sincerely. “Family is everything.”
“That’s what I’ve learned from Callum,” I say softly. “It’s one of the things I admi?—”
A loud crash followed by an indignant bleat cuts me off.
Every head turns toward the dining room entrance.
There, standing like a woolly conqueror among the shattered remains of what used to be an elegant porcelain centerpiece… is Hamish.
“Hamish!” Maggie exclaims.
The sheep—completely unbothered—struts into the room like he just got promoted to chairman of McGregor & Sons.
Pure panic spikes through me.
Ihatefarm animals.
“Don’t move,” Callum murmurs. “He can be unpredictable with strangers.”
CHAPTER 8
CALLUM
Jane lets out a high-pitched scream that startles everyone at the table. She bolts to her feet, knocking over her glass, water spilling across the antique lace tablecloth.
“Oh my God—whatisthat? A sheep? Inside the house?!”
Her eyes are wide with horror as she stumbles backward, colliding with the sideboard. A porcelain plate wobbles dangerously.
“It’s just Hamish,” I say, rising quickly to step between her and the animal.
“He’s part of the family,” Keira adds, far too cheerfully.
“In thedining room?” Jane stammers, her expression shifting from shock to outright disgust. “But that’s a farm animal! It’s covered in… in?—”
“In what, exactly, dear?” my mother asks sweetly. “Wool?”
Hamish, perhaps sensing Jane’s fear, strolls further into the room, his hooves clicking against the polished wood. Jane climbs straight onto her chair, her elegant dress riding scandalously high above her knees.
“Get it away from me! It’s going to bite!”
“Sheep don’t bite, Jane,” Keira says patiently, clearly enjoying herself.
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Lachlan cuts in with a wicked grin. “This one’s tried to take a chunk out of me more than once. He’s particularly sensitive to… how shall I put it… people who aren’t entirely sincere.”
Jane shoots me a panicked look as Hamish approaches her chair, sniffing curiously.
“In Los Angeles, we don’t exactly keep animals like this in our homes,” she tries, her voice climbing higher with every word.
“Not even movie stars with their exotic pets?” my mother asks innocently.
“Celebrities have chihuahuas or Persian cats! Not… creatures that smell like manure!”
The room goes ice cold.
I close my eyes briefly. Of all the things she could have said, insulting the smell of livestock in a family of Scottish sheep breeders might be the worst possible choice.
My grandmother straightens in her chair, her gaze turning as cold as a winter loch.
