— Too bad. I won Best Fake Orgasm in my acting class.
He nearly chokes on his champagne, and I burst out laughing.
— Jane, he murmurs, glancing nervously around. There are ears everywhere.
— Relax, Callum. No one’s listening. They’re all too busy debating peated whisky and placing bets on how long it’ll take us to produce a little McGregor heir.
This time, I’m the one who blushes, realizing what I just said.
— I mean—not that we’re going to… obviously, it’s just what they think…
— I understand, he cuts in gently. Let’s go tell my grandmother we’re leaving. She’s probably been waiting for this moment.
As expected, Maggie greets our decision to retire with a smile that says far too much.
— Excellent idea, my dears. It’s been a long, emotional day, hasn’t it?
Her sparkling gaze flicks between Callum and me, and I feel my cheeks heat again. This woman has a gift for making me feel like a teenager caught kissing a boy behind the bleachers.
— Very long, I confirm. So many traditions to follow, so many dances to learn.
— And so many more to discover, Maggie adds with a not-at-all subtle wink.
— Grandmother, Callum chides softly. You’re embarrassing Jane.
— Oh, I’m quite sure Jane isn’t easily embarrassed. Are you, my dear?
— It depends on the topic, I answer diplomatically. And how much champagne I’ve had.
Maggie laughs heartily and waves us off.
— Go on, don’t keep your guests waiting. They’re eager to toast your departure.
Sure enough, the announcement of our exit is met with cheerful applause and a few not-so-subtle bawdy jokes from Callum’s friends. We cross the room under a chorus of cheers, and I can’t help but notice that Hamish has somehow slipped back into the reception, watching us from a corner—his bow tie crooked, but still in place.
— Your loyal sheep came to wish us good night, I whisper to Callum as we climb the grand staircase.
— He’s not my sheep—he’s yours. He’s been following you around like a woolly guard dog ever since you won him over.
— I didn’t win him over—I bribed him with apples. Which, by the way, is basically the same technique I used on you, except with legal clauses instead of fruit.
Callum shoots me a sideways look.
— Did you just admit you bribed me into marrying you?
— Technically, you bribed me, I correct. Which makes you what—my Scottish sugar daddy?
He stops dead in the hallway, horrified.
— Do not ever call me that. Ever.
His expression is so comically outraged that I burst out laughing.
— Okay, I promise. I’ll save it for when I really need to blackmail you.
We reach the door to the master bedroom, and a sudden wave of nerves hits me. It’s ridiculous. We’ve already defined the boundaries of our arrangement, and it’s not even the first night we’ve spent in the same room.
So why do I feel like a blushing nineteenth-century bride?
