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Hugh snaps upright. "I have never lied."
"Oh please. Doesn't take a genius to figure out you two have been keeping things from each other for a long time. If you want to save your friendship, confess."
"Cal can go first."
Kate sweeps an arm toward me. "Go on."
It's my turn to squirm. "First of all, I hate being called Cal."
Hugh's eyes go wide. "What?"
"You heard me. I hate that nickname."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
I shrug one shoulder. "Didnae want to hurt your feelings."
He sinks back in his chair. "All right. Lay the rest on me."
"Well…I know how to cook."
"Kate mentioned you made a meal for her, but I assumed it was store-bought food."
"No. I made it from scratch."
Hugh gawps at me like he's never seen me before. "You have never cooked anything. All you do is nick Scotch pies from your mother's kitchen and reheat them in the microwave."
"That's partly true. I do sometimes get those pies from my mother when I don't feel like making them myself." I scratch my cheek. "But I do well enough on my own. Ask Kate. I made a right feast for breakfast."
"It's true," Kate says. "Callum is an amazing cook."
Hugh is still gawping. "But you never told me, Cal—Callum."
"Didnae mean to lie, but you were so proud of your cooking skills that I thought it was best to keep mine to myself." I wave a finger toward him. "Your turn. What lies have you told?"
"I hate your Harley. It's enormous, ugly, and outrageously loud."
"Anything else?"
Hugh bows his head for a moment, then faces me. "I wanted to hurt you on the shinty pitch today. Thought it would make me feel better, but it didn't. And I felt awful about what I'd done as soon as I'd done it."
"I know. And I forgive you."
"There's one more thing. I've been jealous of you for a long time, though I didn't realize it until Kate and I had a chat earlier."
"Jealous? Why? You're the Viscount Sommerleigh."
Hugh slouches in his chair, seeming deflated in every way. "But you have a family, the sort that I thought only existed in films or books. You all look out for each other and help each other. My family are proper English aristocrats. We don't hug. And when my father died, none of us cried. We maintained our stiff upper lips."
"You are a MacTaggart, Hugh. An honorary one, if you want that."
"I doubt your family would want it."
"Ye donnae know my family if you believe that." I rise and spread my arms. Then I shout, "Is Hugh Parrish an honorary MacTaggart?"
A chorus of ayes erupts around us. Several people whoop, and at least two whistle.
Jack walks up to slap my arm. "Any mate of yours is family to us too."
