Perfect. Now, in addition to being a runaway husband, I’m also the weird customer who unnerves waitstaff. Jane would be laughing herself to tears if she saw me.
Jane. Again.
I can’t get her out of my head. I close my eyes and rub my temples, trying to regain some control over my thoughts.
— Callum McGregor, married less than twenty-four hours and already off on a solo trip to Edinburgh. Not exactly a promising start to marital bliss, my friend.
That voice.
That insufferable, polished, arrogant voice I’d recognize anywhere.
I open my eyes to confirm what I already know: Alistair McKenzie is standing in front of me, impeccably dressed in a navy suit that probably costs the GDP of a small country, a smug smile fixed on his perfectly groomed face.
Well. The day just got worse.
— Alistair, I say coolly. What an unpleasant surprise.
— And still as charming as ever, I see. Is that what won over your lovely wife?
Without waiting for an invitation, he pulls out the chair across from me and sits down as if he owns the place—which,given the size of his business empire, might not be entirely inaccurate.
— I’m here on business, I reply sharply. And I don’t have time for verbal sparring.
— Business, of course, he says, casting a pointed glance at my blank laptop screen. I forgot how devoted you are to your company. Even the morning after your wedding.
I snap the laptop shut, irritated by his accuracy.
— What do you want, Alistair?
— Simply to congratulate you on your marriage. I saw the photos in the papers this morning. Your new wife is very photogenic.
My heart stumbles.
— What photos?
Alistair smiles, clearly delighted.
— You didn’t know? Your wedding is splashed across several tabloids. “American actress and Scottish heir: a modern fairy tale.” A bit cliché, but the photos speak for themselves.
The waitress returns with my coffee, gives Alistair a curious glance, then leaves again after he orders an Earl Grey—with a splash of milk, no more.
— I haven’t read the papers this morning, I admit reluctantly.
— Of course not. You were too busy running away.
I glare at him.
— I’m not running from anything.
— Callum, let’s not insult each other with that performance. I’ve known you since university. You’re in Edinburgh, alone, the day after your wedding, staring at a blank screen.
— Are you spying on me now?
— Simple observation. This café is across from my office.
He gestures toward the imposing building across the street, where the McKenzie Industries logo gleams discreetly—but unmistakably.
— Wonderful, I mutter. Of all the cafés in Edinburgh…
