— You are my guardian angel, I sigh, reaching for the glass, but Mrs. Gordon smacks my fingers like a strict schoolteacher.
— No sudden movements! And no alcohol until we’re finished. Champagne on this lace would be a disaster.
I let my arm fall back, defeated.
— This woman is a tyrant, I mutter to Keira.
— I can hear perfectly well, Miss Carter, the seamstress replies without looking up from her work. My ears function just as well as my fingers.
Keira sits down on the couch and watches me with a mix of amusement and sympathy.
— Are you holding up? she asks after taking a deliberately provocative sip of her champagne.
— I’m exhausted. Between the dance rehearsal, the dress fitting, the lessons on Scottish traditions, and the photo scandal… I feel like I’ve lived an entire week in a single day.
— And it’s not over yet, Keira reminds me cheerfully. The rehearsal dinner starts in… (she checks her watch) an hour and a half. And Grandmother invited half the village.
— Wonderful, I groan. Even more people to stare at me like I’m some exotic curiosity.
— You’re exaggerating, Keira replies. They’re just curious. It’s not every day the McGregor heir marries an American actress.
— Former actress, I correct automatically. A role as “woman crying in the rain” doesn’t exactly make a career.
— I don’t know, Keira counters, sipping her champagne. If it were in a raincoat commercial, I’d say that’s pretty relevant to life in Scotland.
I can’t help laughing, which earns me another disapproving look from Mrs. Gordon.
— There, I’m finished, the seamstress finally declares, straightening up. You may move, Miss Carter.
I let out a deep breath, only now realizing I’d been holding it.
— Can I have champagne now?
Keira hands me the glass with a wink, and I take a long, grateful sip.
— Turn around, she orders. Let me see.
I spin slowly, the dress swaying lightly around my legs.
— Well?
— You are stunning, Keira says with a sincerity that touches me. Callum is going to have a heart attack.
— Well, that would be an interesting development, I joke. “American bride arrives in Scotland, accidentally kills her fiancé with her dress.”
Mrs. Gordon gathers her things with a disapproving air.
— American humor, she mutters.
— Don’t mind her, Keira tells me once the seamstress has left. She was like that for my debutante ball too. I think she treats every outfit as a personal mission.
I look at myself in the mirror, truly taking in the image I reflect for the first time. The dress is beautiful, hugging my curves perfectly while remaining elegant. With the veil and jewelry waiting for me tomorrow, I will truly look like…
A real bride.
Not an actress playing a role. A real bride about to marry the man she loves.
The thought unsettles me more than I want to admit.
