“We should write this down,” I say quickly. “A simple agreement.”
“Good idea. I’ll have my lawyer?—”
“No.” I shake my head. “No lawyers. No one else knows. This stays between us.”
He studies me, then nods.
“Between us.”
He holds out his hand.
I take it.
His palm is warm, his grip firm—and something about the way his fingers close around mine sends a faint shiver up my spine.
I let go a little too quickly and check the time.
“I should go.”
“I’ll walk you out.”
We head back through the building in silence. The receptionist watches us with open curiosity—probably wondering what disaster just unfolded.
“So,” he murmurs as we reach the entrance, “how are we announcing this?”
“My mother and grandmother already know. My brother finds out tonight.”
“And my family?”
“That’s your problem,” I say, grimacing. “But we should coordinate our story.”
“I’ll call you tonight. We’ll align details.”
Outside, my car waits.
“Let’s hope our families don’t start sharpening claymores,” he says, opening the door for me.
I smirk. “If they do, I’m standing behind you.”
He laughs—and I hate how much I like the sound.
“Tonight, then.”
I get in, start the engine, and drive away. In the rearview mirror, I see him still standing there, watching me leave.
What have I just done?
And more importantly—how am I going to explain this to Callum?
I drive back in a daze, my mind spinning, until I reach the gates of the McGregor estate.
And then?—
I slam on the brakes.
“Oh no,” I whisper, turning slowly toward the empty back seat.
“Hamish?”
