— Always watching the clock, I comment as I stand. You know, we could just… I don’t know, stay here forever and avoid all this wedding madness?
— Tempting, but I suspect my grandmother would send out a search party with tracking dogs. And possibly Hamish.
The image of Maggie McGregor leading a rescue operation with Hamish at the front makes me burst out laughing.
— Okay, let’s leave before the sheep reinforcements arrive.
The walk back feels oddly shorter, maybe because we’re talking more freely now. Callum tells me about growing up in the castle, the pranks he and Keira used to pull on each other, their father—strict but fair. I share a few disastrous filming stories, tell him about my Hollywood dreams that slowly turned into B-movie nightmares.
When we reach the castle, there’s an unusual buzz in the courtyard. Several cars are parked out front, and I spot Jamison deep in conversation with a group of people I don’t recognize.
— What’s going on? Callum asks, frowning.
— No idea. A haggis fan invasion?
Jamison notices us and quickly walks over, looking concerned.
— Sir, Miss, I’m relieved to see you. Lady McGregor is waiting for you in the study. There’s been… an incident.
— An incident? Callum repeats. What kind of incident?
The butler glances toward the cars.
— I believe it would be best if Lady McGregor explained herself.
Callum and I exchange a worried look before following him inside. As we cross the hall, I notice the staff seem on edge, and a few people are staring at me with open curiosity.
— Do I have something on my face? I murmur.
He gives me a quick glance and shakes his head.
— No.
The McGregor study is an imposing room of dark wood and leather chairs. Maggie sits behind a massive desk, looking grave, while Keira paces near the window. Dougal, Callum’s right-hand man, is there too, in deep conversation with Isobel.
Everyone falls silent when we walk in.
— Ah, there you are at last! Maggie exclaims. Where have you been?
— I was showing Jane the hills, Callum replies. What’s going on?
Keira steps forward and hands me a tablet.
— This is what’s going on.
I look down at the screen and feel my blood turn to ice. It’s a Hollywood gossip site, and the headline screams: “JANE CARTER: FROM DIRECTOR SCANDAL TO SHOCKING SCOTTISH WEDDING.” And beneath it, a photo.
Of me.
On my knees in front of Callum, my hands on his half-lifted kilt, caught in a position that, out of context, looks… well, very explicit.
— Oh. My. God, I choke out, horrified.
Callum leans over my shoulder, and I hear him suck in a sharp breath.
— How is this possible? he asks, voice tight. Who took this?
— A paparazzo, apparently, Keira answers. He must’ve slipped onto the property during the dance lesson.
