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Chapter 1
Emerald’s Master List of Things to Do Before the Wedding:
Find dress of dreams.Thedress. The One Dress to Rule Them All. The dress that will change my life, and make me look like a redheaded Grace Kelly, marrying her real life prince.
Or do I want to go a bit more sleek and understated, like Carolyn Bessette-Kennedy, say?
Should probably figure that out first, given that whichever identity I choose is going to be the one I’m stuck with in the wedding photos for the rest of my life. Like my ghost outfit, basically.
Hair. Find way to tame it. Or maybe just buy a wig?
No. Knowing my luck, it would fall off as I walked down the aisle. Definitely no wig, then; just real hair, only a totally different, and 100% better version of it. This must be possible, surely?
Put together list of celebrity hairdressers based in the Scottish Highlands. Probably a very short list, obviously, but maybe Brian could help? He seems to know a surprising amount about hair, for some reason?
Big wedding involving the entire village, or small, intimate affair with just closest family and friends?
Should I invite Lexie, or will she just set me on fire again?
Ask Frankie to be Maid of Honor.
Get engaged.
I finish writing my list, then put two red lines under item number ten: which should really be number one, obviously. Because that’s the biggie, really, isn’t it? The one thing that everything else hangs on. Can’t have the perfect wedding without the perfect proposal first, can you? And, honestly, I’d settle for animperfect proposal, too, at this point. I’m not fussy. I know Jack isn’t the type to go for big, showy displays of affection, and I’m fine with that; I’m not either.
I just… I just really hope that’s the only reason he hasn’t asked me yet, is all. Because when he asked me to move in with him a few months ago, everyone said an engagement would be the next thing. Shona McLaren even put up a post on her Instagram, speculating about what kind of ring he’d get me, and how long it would take me to lose it.
(Which wasn’t fair, really: I don’t lose thingsthatoften. I mean, okay, therewasthat time I left my wallet on the train to Inverness, and had to do a 200 mile round-trip to get it back. And when my best friend Frankie and I went to Edinburgh for her birthday last month, we ended up spending almost three hours looking for the car, because I’d forgotten where I’d parked it. But those things could happen to anyone,Shona. My days of having accidents are far behind me, I swear. And so are my days of borrowing Jack’s car, apparently, but that’s beside the point.)
But then weeks went by, and there was no proposal — much to the disappointment of my mum, who’s already picked out a hat, and who looks pointedly at my ring finger every time I see her. And also to the disappointment ofme, really. Because I may not have the perfect hair, or the perfect figure (That’s another thing I need to add to my pre-wedding list, actually: join the gym…), but Idohave the perfect man. And as much as I know I’m a strong, independent woman, who doesn’t need a ring on her finger to be happy (No, seriously, Iam…)the fact remains that I’d stilllikeone.Anyone. Even the ring pull from a can of Irn Bru would do.
The thing is, it’s not aboutringsat all, is it? No, it’s about me and Jack, and how I want us to be together forever. And it’s about how, right now, I can’t seem to let myself believe that’s actually going to happen. Why would it? Why would Jack Buchanan, local Laird, who could have any woman he wanted, settle for me: Emerald Taylor — local laughing-stock, and all-round disaster?
But that was in the past, though. Like I said, I don’t have accidents any more. It’s been years — okay,weeks —since anyone laughed at me in ameanway. And ever since Jack told me he had a surprise for me, and that today was the day I’d finally get to see it, I haven’t been able to stop myself wondering if this might beIt. The thing I’ve been waiting for, almost since the moment we got together. The thing that will make me believe that he’s not just beenpretendingto like me, as part of some weird dare or something, but that he actuallylovesme, and he’s going to be mine forever. Even if I do keep losing his car.
“Emerald? Are you in here?”
As if on cue, Jack’s head appears around the door. I’m sitting at the desk in his study, feeling horribly out of place among all the polished wood surfaces and meticulously tidied bookshelves, and I jump guiltily as the door opens, even though I know I have every right to be here.
I live here now. I haven’t just snuck in, pretending to be a cleaner. I’m not here under any kind of false pretenses. I’m Jack’s girlfriend. His “bidie-in”, as Mum calls it. And I swear to God, I will never get used to saying that. And not just the weird Scottish slang bit either:allof it.
“You ready?”
Jack comes into the room, his dark hair rumpled, as if he’s been running his hands through it just a few seconds earlier. Which he probably has, actually: it’s what he does when he’s nervous or excited, and, right now, he looks the perfect mixture of both.
He also looks perfectin general. It’s been two years, but he’s still the most handsome man I’ve met in real life; and I once met Jett Carter, Hollywood heartthrob, and boyfriend of my best frienemy, Lexie, so I know what I’m talking about for once.
“Yup. Ready as I’ll ever be,” I say, snapping my notebook shut before he can see what I’ve written inside it. “Where did you say we were going again? It’s just, I wasn’t sure if I’d need to get dressed up for it, or—”
“I didn’t say,” Jack interrupts, grinning. “It’s a surprise, remember? And you look perfect for it. Amazing, in fact. You always look amazing to me, though.”
He comes forward and drops a feather-light kiss on my lips, which makes me smile, even though I’m not totally convinced by his reassurance. I have form for always wearing the wrong thing. And although it’s kind of Jack to pretend not to remember the time I went hiking in a cocktail dress, the fact that photos of it still keep popping up on the village Facebook group to this day tells me he’s probably the only one.
I put the notebook back on the desk, making sure I align it perfectly with the edge of the table before I stand up, not wanting to ruin the perfection of the room with my natural tendency towards chaos.
I run a tight ship, you know.
I frown to myself. That’s something my ex-boyfriend, Ben, used to say. (And hedidrun a tight ship, too, in spite of what I know he considered to be my best efforts to capsize it.) But I haven’t thought about Ben in years now; not since Jack and I got together, in fact. Why is his voice suddenly back in my head, right at the moment everything’s finally going well for me?
