— Where did your brother go? I ask, quickly changing the subject.
— Last I saw him, he was trapped in a fascinating conversation with old McTavish about the comparative merits of East versus West whisky. A discussion that could last until dawn if no one rescues him.
I scan the room and spot Callum near the whisky bar, politely nodding as an animated elderly man gestures enthusiastically at him. Even from a distance, I can see the deep boredom etched across his face.
— Maybe I should go save him, I say, straightening slightly.
— You’d be surprised how acceptable people find it to monopolize the bride and groom at their own reception. And trust me, I know what I’m talking about. I’ve been a bridesmaid at…
She trails off, squinting as she counts on her fingers.
— At least fifteen weddings!
I get to my feet, suddenly a little nervous.
— Wish me luck.
— You don’t need it, Keira replies. You’re already the only person who can make my brother smile in a crowd.
That comment unsettles me more than it should. It sparks a warmth inside me, a strange sense of pride I have no business feeling. After all, making Callum smile is just part of the role I’m playing… isn’t it?
I weave my way through the guests, exchanging polite smiles and thanks with those who stop to congratulate me. By the time I finally reach Callum—after what feels like an obstacle course—our eyes meet over his companion’s shoulder, and I see unmistakable relief wash over his face.
— Ah, there’s my charming wife! he exclaims, warmth in his voice that catches me off guard.
— I’m sorry to interrupt your conversation, gentlemen, I say, slipping my arm through Callum’s. But I’m afraid I have to steal my husband away for a moment.
The elderly man—McTavish, apparently—smiles indulgently at me.
— Of course, my dear. A day like this belongs to the newlyweds. We’ll continue this discussion another time, Callum.
— I look forward to it, Callum replies with such perfectly feigned sincerity that I have to bite back a laugh.
The moment we’re out of earshot, he leans toward me.
— You just saved me from a forty-five-minute dissertation on the ideal peat percentage in malt drying. I owe you.
— It’s my duty as your wife to rescue you from boring conversations, I reply with mock seriousness. It was in our vows—somewhere between “for better or worse” and “until the contract do us part.”
A flicker of something I can’t quite identify crosses his face at the mention of the contract, but he quickly recovers.
— Well, if it’s a marital duty, then I’m doubly grateful.
He checks his watch.
— It’s almost one. Tradition says the bride and groom leave before the guests—though in our case, it’s more of an excuse to escape further whisky debates.
— Oh. Right. The… wedding night, I stammer, suddenly aware of what that normally implies.
Callum seems to read my mind, because he adds quickly:
— Don’t worry. Our arrangement remains the same. We’ll share the master bedroom, as planned, but nothing more is expected.
— At least nothing that can’t be faked with a few strategic moans and some well-timed bed shaking, I joke, trying to mask my embarrassment.
Callum flushes slightly, which is unexpectedly adorable on a man usually so composed.
— I’m sure we can convince everyone without… uh… sound effects.
