Page 1 of A Scottish Highland Surprise

Chapter One

“What the hell is this?! This isn’t the shade I asked for!”

Her mahogany fake-tanned face edged closer to mine.

I glanced at the stream of pretty olive ribbon the bride was flapping about in her hand. “Ms Carberry… er… I mean… Mrs Carberry-Joyce,” I corrected myself, as the wedding guests stumbled around us, slopping champagne and braying loudly. “That was the shade you requested for the favours.”

Her pale cat-like eyes narrowed. “Indeed, I did not.” Her frothy veil protruded from her head like a volcanic eruption. “I wanted parakeet-green.”

“Darling,” soothed her new husband from behind. “Can’t this wait for now? Bunty and Seb are having to leave early. They have a red-eye flight to Gstaad.”

She threw off her groom’s pale hand. “Can’t you see I’m busy right now?”

I slid my folder out from underneath my arm and riffled through a few pages, which listed, in every minute and painful detail, the demands of Misha Carberry-Joyce.

Everything was there in Arial font, from the release of a dozen pink canaries in the hotel ground to the sculpted, entwined hearts she had commissioned to be made out of two blocks of ice.

As the reception was in full throttle, with swaying guests, glowing chandeliers and bodies throwing shapes on the dance floor, I couldn’t help but notice that the elaborate iced sculpture was now beginning to surrender to the heat and lights. It reminded me of a melting waxwork in a horror movie.

I tried not to stare as it slowly crumpled in on itself, growing ever closer to their six-feet-high lemon and chocolate ganache wedding cake. That melting statue was how I felt right now.

Jerking my attention away from the vanishing sculpture, I located the sample of ribbon Mrs Carberry-Joyce had brought with her months ago inside my folder. Well, when I say folder, it more resembled a phone book. It seemed like two years of my life had been devoted to organising this bloody wedding.

I pushed my growing resentment to one side. Hold it together, Sophie. Only a few more hours and then this living hell will be over.

I had sealed the section of the requested ribbon in a small plastic pouch for safety. I slid it out and handed it to her. “Can you confirm this is the sample of ribbon you asked me to ensure was on the favours, Madam?” I attempted to conceal my burning resentment. I had thrown everything I had at this wedding, working late and pulling in favours from contacts. Yet had I received so much as a thank you? Not a chance.

Behind us, the classical quartet had vanished, to be replaced by a plummy-sounding DJ by the name of Astor.

As the strains of Pharrell Williams struck up, the confrontational bride’s eyes drank in the piece of ribbon. She shifted in her spikey heels and swallowed. “You must have got them mixed up with someone else’s. I’m going to complain…”

Her accusatory voice trailed off, as I turned over the sheath of glossy satin. Written on the reverse, was “Olive for my favours,” in her spidery handwriting.

Two flashes of colour bloomed in her cheeks.

I waited for an apology, but she just fidgeted in her swathe of white meringue and struggled to speak.

“Is everything all right, Ms Harkness?”

My stomach dropped to the floor. Oh great. Just what I needed.

Heston Cole, the manager of the luxurious Castle Marrian and my boss, materialised at my shoulder without making a single noise. How did he do that? I could understand it when he traversed some of the hotel’s plush carpets, but the floor in the Great Hall was polished cherry wood.

“Everything is fine, thank you,” I trilled, willing him away.

Ignoring me, Heston turned his smarmy smile to the complaining bride. “I hope everything is to your satisfaction, Madam.”

Her smile was tight. I could see her deliberating. She shot me a look. “Yes, thank you. Everything is … satisfactory.”

Satisfactory? Was she joking?

The ice statue, the pink birds, not to mention the Ed Sheeran look-alike who’d serenaded them as they walked down the aisle and the jewel-encrusted rose gold limo which had been booked for later on this evening to whisk them away on honeymoon … and that was just for starters.

I could feel my blood bubbling in my veins. Months organising this sodding wedding had pushed my stress levels to warp drive and meant I very often went home with a migraine. Today’s shindig had made the dozens of weddings I’d previously organised here at Castle Marrian look like two-hour kids’ birthday parties.

Sensing my seething fury, Heston swung his sharp features to face me. “Why don’t you call it a night, Ms Harkness? I can attend to Madam’s needs for the rest of the evening.”

My fists balled up at my sides. I could barely bring myself to look at Misha Carberry-Joyce.