When we finally pull apart, slightly breathless, the applause of the guests drags me back to reality. Jane’s cheeks are flushed, her eyes wide—surprised… or something else?
— Well, Mr. McGregor, she murmurs, visibly shaken. That was…
— Convincing? I suggest, trying to regain composure.
— I was going to say surprising—but convincing works too.
A smile tugs at her lips, and I wonder if she felt it too—that spark, that moment when our act became something real.
We turn toward the crowd, hand in hand, and begin walking down the aisle as husband and wife.
At the entrance to the garden, a surprise guest awaits us: Hamish, wearing a rather questionable bow tie attached to acollar, watching the procession with what looks suspiciously like satisfaction.
— It seems even your new friend approves of our union, I comment.
— Hamish is my biggest fan, Jane laughs. And apparently, he dressed up for the occasion.
As we pass him, Jane—who, just days ago, would never have done this—reaches out to briefly pat the sheep’s head.
— Thank you for coming, Hamish, she says with mock solemnity. Your presence means a lot to us.
The sheep lets out a soft bleat in response, as if he understands perfectly.
And just like that, we begin our married life: surrounded by family, friends… and a bow-tied sheep, beneath the unexpectedly bright Highland sun.
The contract is signed. The vows are spoken. The performance is underway.
But as Jane smiles at me, her hand still firmly in mine, I can’t help but wonder…
What if it’s no longer just a performance?
What if Ewan was right?
What if it’s time to step off the plan, to embrace the unexpected, to turn this temporary marriage into something that might actually last?
Those questions swirl in my mind as we head toward the reception—toward the next act of our shared story.
A story that, I now realize, may be heading somewhere neither Jane nor I ever anticipated when we drafted our carefully worded contract.
CHAPTER 16
JANE
If someone had told me six months ago that I’d end up married to a kilt-wearing Scotsman in a centuries-old castle, surrounded by people drinking whisky while reciting incomprehensible poetry, I would’ve asked what illegal substance they were on. And yet, here I am—Jane Carter-McGregor, married for exactly twelve hours and twenty-three minutes, according to the elegant silver watch my new mother-in-law gave me as a wedding gift.
— I am officially exhausted, I declare, dropping into a chair in the corner of the reception hall. If I have to dance one more jig, my legs are going to detach and go on vacation without me.
Keira settles gracefully beside me, her champagne glass still full despite the late hour.
— You did remarkably well for a beginner. Most non-Scots give up after the first sword dance, but you made it to the fourth.
— I’m just terrified of disappointing your mother and your grandmother. They can make anyone fold with a single raised eyebrow.
— A family talent, Keira confirms. You’ll see—after a few years of marriage, you’ll develop it too.
Her comment snaps me right back to reality. A few years of marriage. The irony almost makes me laugh. Our contract is very clear—this masquerade lasts one year, not “a few years.”
I glance toward the dance floor, where Savannah and Lachlan are currently dancing. They make an unlikely pair, probably united for the evening by the impressive amount of alcohol they’ve consumed.
