“These next few days are going to be intense, aren’t they?”
“You have no idea,” I admit.
I grab an extra blanket from the wardrobe. “You should get some sleep. I’ll take the couch, like I said.”
“Callum?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you. For saving me from your mother.”
Before I can answer, she gathers her things and disappears into the bathroom.
I’m left alone, staring at the closed door behind the woman who is about to become my wife.
Against all odds—despite the chaos, the lies, the disasters—tonight wasn’t a complete failure.
Jane held her own. In her own unpredictable way.
And tomorrow, the real challenge begins: pulling off a traditional Scottish wedding in less than three days… with an American bride who only just learned what haggis is.
What could possibly go wrong?
CHAPTER 9
JANE
— You survived haggis, interrogations, and a psychopathic sheep. A little Scottish dance is nothing in comparison, I mutter, adjusting the skirt I just slipped into.
I’m wearing an outfit I never imagined I’d ever put on: a tartan skirt paired with a traditional white blouse Keira lent me for the occasion. According to her, I need to “immerse myself in the culture” before the wedding. Apparently, that immersion includes wearing clothes that look like they came straight out of the eighteenth century.
Three soft knocks sound at the door.
— Jane? Are you ready? Keira calls. Grandmother’s getting impatient.
I take a deep breath and open the door.
— Are the socks really necessary? I ask, gesturing to the thick white knee-high socks Keira provided.
— Of course they are, she replies, giving me a once-over from head to toe. You can’t learn a Scottish dance without the proper accessories. It’s like trying to swim without water.
— Or trying to be rational in this family, I mutter.
— I heard that, Keira shoots back with a smile. Come on, your first lesson in traditional Scottish torture awaits.
We descend the castle’s grand staircase, and I try to ignore the anxiety building inside me. After last night’s disastrous dinner and my traumatic encounter with Hamish, I’d hoped for a little break today. But no. Maggie McGregor has other plans for her future (fake) granddaughter-in-law.
The McGregor castle ballroom is just as impressive as the rest of the building. Massive windows let in a gray light—because of course it’s raining again—that reflects off the polished wooden floor. Stern-faced ancestors stare down at us from the walls, as if already judging my future missteps.
And in the center of the room, like a general before a decisive battle, stands Maggie McGregor. Beside her are a man in his sixties holding bagpipes, and Callum, looking deeply uncomfortable in his kilt.
Callum. In a kilt.
I stop dead in the doorway. My eyes linger on his bare, muscular legs, on the fabric falling perfectly over his hips, on the traditional jacket that emphasizes his broad shoulders. He is absolutely…
— My brother looks insanely good in a kilt, even if he hates wearing one, Keira whispers in my ear. He wears it well, don’t you think?
I feel myself blush like a teenager.
