— You plan your life so much, you forget to live it. Sometimes the best things are the ones you never planned.
And with that remark—far too accurate for my liking—he leaves the room, leaving me alone with my thoughts and three fingers of whisky.
I stare at the fire crackling in the hearth, replaying our conversation. Ewan sees things that aren’t there. Jane and I have a clear arrangement, well-defined boundaries. I am not developing feelings for her.
Of course, I admire her resilience. I appreciate her humor. And yes, there’s undeniable physical attraction—I’m a man, after all, and she’s incredibly attractive. But to talk about deeper feelings? That’s absurd.
I’m not an impulsive man who confuses desire with love. I know exactly what I’m doing, and falling in love with Jane Carter is definitely not part of the plan.
And yet… the image of her face when she fell this morning—her wide, startled eyes, her flushed cheeks, her clumsy hands trying to fix the damage that brushed dangerously close to my cock… That image refuses to leave my mind.
I pour myself another drink, determined to chase away these inappropriate thoughts. I have a wedding to organize, a grandmother to satisfy, and a business to save. There’s no room for emotional complications.
The whisky burns pleasantly down my throat, but it does nothing to dispel the unease Ewan planted in me.
Tomorrow, I’ll take Jane to see my favorite place in the Highlands. Only because Ewan suggested it—and because it fits our cover. Not because I want to share that special place with her. Certainly not because I’m looking forward to seeing her expression when she discovers the wild beauty I’ve always loved.
At least, that’s what I try to convince myself as I drain my glass and head for my office, my refuge of logic and reason, far from the troubling questions my best friend stirred up.
It’ll just be an outing. A simple break in the wedding preparations. Nothing more.
CHAPTER 11
JANE
— Are you sure there isn’t a needle actively trying to stab my right lung? I ask Keira as the seamstress circles me like a shark around an unsuspecting swimmer.
Madame Gordon, an older woman with glasses perched on the tip of her nose and about forty pins clamped between her lips, mutters something unintelligible while continuing to adjust the bodice of the wedding dress. I’m standing on a small platform in the middle of one of the castle’s many bedrooms, surrounded by strategically placed mirrors so I can admire my transformation into a “true Scottish bride,” as Maggie put it with undisguised satisfaction.
— Stop moving, Keira orders from a comfortable armchair, a glass of champagne in hand. The more you squirm, the more she’ll prick you.
— I’m not squirming, I’m trying to breathe, I correct.
— In that dress, that’s risky, Keira remarks with a mischievous grin.
The dress in question is, I have to admit, absolutely stunning. An ivory white that perfectly complements my skin, it’s made of sumptuous lace and dotted with tiny pearls that catch thelight with every movement. The bodice is cut to create a perfect hourglass silhouette, and the skirt flares gently into a modest yet elegant train. It’s exactly the kind of dress I would have chosen if… well, if I were actually in love and about to get married.
The problem is, it was designed for a woman slightly smaller and less generously endowed in the chest. Hence Madame Gordon’s frantic adjustments, as she seems to take every extra inch of my body as a personal offense.
— I should have taken your measurements myself, she mutters, finally removing the pins from her mouth. Lady McGregor insisted on giving them to me over the phone, but I knew they weren’t accurate.
— Lady McGregor? I ask, confused.
— Grandmother, Keira translates, rolling her eyes. She’s not technically a “Lady,” but everyone in the village calls her that. Out of respect—and fear.
— I’m starting to understand why.
The door opens softly, and Maggie walks in, closely followed by Isobel. Both women stop short when they see me, their reactions as different as their personalities.
— Splendid! Maggie exclaims, her eyes shining with approval. You look absolutely ravishing, my dear.
— Hmm, it’s different from what I imagined, Isobel comments, her expression saying exactly what she thinks.
— It’s true, it’s not very conventional for a McGregor, Maggie agrees, circling me. Our brides usually wear an element of tartan, but I must admit, this style suits you wonderfully.
I shoot Keira a questioning look, and she silently mouths “that’s a compliment” with an encouraging thumbs-up.
— Thank you, Maggie. It really is beautiful. I’ve never worn anything so elegant.
