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An 8am meeting. Twenty four hours together with this stranger.
Then a choice: cancel our agreement, or marry Mr MacGregor.
What will he be like? A harsh voice in my head keeps whispering that he can’t be too great, since he signed up for the mail order bride program. Women can’t exactly be knocking down his door.
But how hypocritical is that?! I signed up too, and I’m arguably crazier than he is, because I’m leavingeverythingbehind. At least my maybe-groom is staying in his home. He has a job; a life to keep hold of. I have nothing.
Nothing, except my mountain of tattered belongings, and the car that coughs and wheezes as I pull through an open wood gate. The lane spills into a huge paved driveway, and my neck twinges as I lean forward, gaping up at the white buildings in front of me.
I always thought of lighthouses as small and windswept. Little white towers jutting up from the cliff like chess pieces, with nothing but grass and wild goats for company.
This is closer to a castle. A modern, whitewashed keep. There’s the tower, yes, looming so much taller than I ever dreamed, dotted with windows and crowned with the huge light and a wraparound walkway. But lower down, there’smore.Two more grand white buildings attached to the tower, and a stone wall wrapping around everything. In the distance, the frothy ocean glints in the sunshine, and puffy clouds skid past overhead.
“What the…”
Mr MacGregor didn’t mentionthisin his profile. He said he was a lighthouse keeper, sure, but he didn’t say that meant he was lord of a freaking manor. I squeeze the steering wheel, palms sweatier than ever, and my stomach is one big tangle.
Maybe I should go home after all.
Or look up hippy communes in the area.
It’s not too late to turn back. Maybe I should—
A man steps out of the nearest building, stopping on the driveway with his boots planted and his arms folded over his massive chest. He’s watching me.
* * *
There were no photos with our profiles. Back when I signed up for the mail order bride program, I liked that about it—I figured if someone chose me, it would be more authentic. You know: based on the things I wrote instead of the way I look. Because let’s face it, with my glasses and my freckles and my limp, mousy hair, no one was ever going to pick me from a photo. I’m not acompletedisaster to look at, but my older sisters definitely got all the good genes.
They’re both practically models.
Meanwhile, I’m a rumpled bookworm with wide hips.
If I’d seen a photo of Mr MacGregor… would I have agreed to the match? I stare at my potential husband, mouth dry.
I’m not sure.
“You getting out?” His deep voice rumbles along the driveway, somehow audible over the wind and through the car.
I nod, dazed, and fumble with my seat belt. What else am I gonna do, throw the car in reverse and peel out of here after a single glance? That would be so freaking rude. So judgmental. The thought straightens my back, shame gnawing at my insides, and I throw my car door open. The wind makes my sweatshirt flap as I climb out onto the driveway.
Thump. Thump.His steps are heavy, vibrating down into the earth.
Oh god. He’s big. He’s really big.
And I signed up for this program because I wanted someone to reallyseeme. To connect with a man for the first time in my life, away from the glittery distraction of my sisters; to finally feel known.To not be immediately overlooked.
The least I can do is give Mr MacGregor the same courtesy. A proper chance. But wow, my maybe-husband is kind of scary.
“I, um.” I wave at my cluttered backseat, my tongue thick and heavy in my mouth. “I brought all my stuff.”
The lighthouse keeper nods, walking closer then bending to peer inside. His expression doesn’t change, not even a twitch, and I bite down hard on my lip as I take him in.
His hair is long and black, half tied back, half falling past his broad shoulders, and his face is weathered and tan—at least ten years older than mine, and maybe more. Scars cover one side of his face, warping the skin of his cheek, and his damaged eye is milky white. There’s a chunk missing from his ear.
He looks like a modern day viking warrior. One that took some serious blows on the battlefield.
“That’s a lot of books,” Mr MacGregor rumbles, still gazing at all my belongings.
