Page 56 of My Fake Highland Wedding Disaster

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— Ready for our big Scottish adventure?

Jane’s voice makes me start. I turn to find her standing in the doorway, dressed like she’s about to summit Everest: brand-new hiking boots, cargo pants, a bright yellow waterproof jacket, and… is that a walking stick?

— What is that? I ask, pointing at it.

— A walking stick, she replies, as if it’s obvious. Keira said it was essential to avoid slipping in the mud and falling into a ravine.

I suppress a smile.

— We’re going into the hills, not climbing a mountain in the middle of a storm.

— Well, I prefer to be prepared. Between Hamish the demonic sheep and my embarrassing encounter with your kilt, I’ve learned that Scotland is hostile territory.

I shrug.

— If it makes you feel better.

I glance at my watch again. 7:30 sharp. I sling my backpack over my shoulder.

— Perfect. We’re right on time. The car’s ready.

— The car? Jane repeats, following my gaze to the Land Rover parked out front. I thought we were going hiking.

— To reach the starting point, we need to drive for about forty-five minutes first.

— Oh! she exclaims, relieved. I was afraid we’d have to walk all day.

— Don’t worry, the hike will only take about two hours. Three if we go at a relaxed pace.

Her expression shifts from relief to horror in a fraction of a second.

— Two hours? In the mud? With sheep?

— Without sheep. Well… normally.

— Normally?

— It’s the Scottish countryside, Jane. I can’t guarantee a complete absence of sheep, but I can promise none of them will be Hamish.

She doesn’t look reassured.

— Okay. But just so you know, I haven’t hiked since… well, ever, actually. In Los Angeles, walking from the parking lot to the restaurant counts as intense exercise.

— I’m sure you’ll do just fine.

I open the passenger door for her.

— What about Ewan? she asks as she gets in. I thought he was coming with us?

— He had a “distillery issue,” I reply.

— Oh, that’s too bad. I hope it’s nothing serious.

— It’s mostly suspicious and entirely in character.

— What do you mean?

I start the engine, carefully avoiding her gaze.