Be done with it.

  “Aye,” Hamish says, squaring his bare shoulders and standing next to me at the back row of chairs, the wedding party lined up and ready to go.

  My sister is marrying a billionaire and I’m not.

  Instead, I get a sweaty European soccer – er, football player with a reputation for sleeping around, a guy who just finished a Sports Illustrated photo shoot–in the nude–before coming here.

  I instantly suck in my gut.

  “Thank ye fer noticin’ I’m a grown man,” Hamish whispers as the minister begins giving instructions to us. “It’s nice to know ye care.”

  “I don’t care,” I say with a snort. “I just didn’t like how Carol was drooling all over you.”

  “Jealous, are ye?”

  “It’s humid enough. We don’t need Carol adding to the moisture.”

  “I like it when yer wet, Amy,” he rasps in my ear, the words and touch and vibration of his voice making me, well…

  Wet.

  “OMIGOD, STOP!”

  Every set of eyes turns to us as I let out a long breath, determined not to let this blithering blowhard get the better of me.

  “Sorry. A bug was bothering me,” I say, waving my hand in front of my face to shoo the imaginary insect. Inspired, I smack Hamish’s chest as hard as possible, palm hitting sheer granite under skin. “There. Got it.”

  He leans toward my ear and whispers, “Ye like a good swat, do ye? Happy to return the favor.”

  I will not make a scene. Ignoring him, I stare straight ahead.

  “Yer hair is sae gorgeous, Amy. Perfect auburn ringlets. And ye got yer mum’s blue eyes, aye?”

  “My hair is the same color as yours,” I hiss back.

  “Aye. Gorgeous.”

  “You are just an ego on two legs,” I snap.

  “Been called worse.” He glances down at me, his breathing steady now that he’s settled down from whatever run he was on before. “Ye noticed ma legs? Ye like to look?”

  With that, the minister cuts into the conversation and spends the next thirty minutes taking us through pacing, when to move and where to stand, all the things you do at a wedding rehearsal. This is a final final tweak. Things have changed a bit now that Terry is the best man. Plus, this isn’t just a normal wedding, it’s a billionaire’s wedding. There are a million details, and they all have to be perfect.

  Don’t get me wrong. I was a junior bridesmaid once, and my older sisters have been bridesmaids a few times. I know you have to rehearse. But like everything else, Declan’s wedding has to be bigger. Bolder.

  The best, whatever that means.

  Add in Mom and her Scottish obsession, and the whole affair is just too much.

  When my sister started dating Declan McCormick, my mother began planning the wedding before they’d even pulled out of the driveway to go out to dinner. Not only was Declan the VP of marketing for Anterdec, one of Boston’s Fortune 500 companies, but his father founded the company.

  Desperate to have one of her three daughters married at Farmington Country Club, she was in full-on activator mode. Her eldest, Carol, had a quickie Elvis drive-thru wedding in Vegas. And I haven’t dated anyone in so long, they all seem to think I’m asexual.

  I’m not. I’m just… discerning.

  So Shannon’s relationship with Declan was wish fulfillment for Mom.

  And by the time it became obvious Shannon had, as Mom said, “bagged a billionaire,” it was clear there was no other option.

  Farmington, it was.

  For the McCormick family, Farmington is an okay choice. Not inspired, but traditional and safe. For Mom, though, it’s like winning the lottery, or being chosen as a contestant on The Price is Right, then winning the car.

  Down to the smallest detail, like the McCormick tartan ribbons on our outfits, Mom has been in a playground of wedding fun. Satisfied (I hope) by this whole extravaganza, she’s getting it all out of her system.

  At least, that’s what I tell myself when she asks for my help and I find her cutting hair-waxing strips into the shape of the Scottish flag, complete with the cross in the middle, for the men to wax their calves.

  The upside to being the baby of the family is that no one blinks if I can’t do something. It’s a strange paradox. I’m one of the most organized people I know, on track to finally finish my bachelor’s after being forced to go part-time and work because of lack of money.

  Next stop: my MBA. But my own parents and older sisters still think I’m a two-year-old who can’t safely walk with scissors in my hands.

  So when I told Mom I wouldn’t help with her waxing project, she just waved me away with a smile.

  “Amy? Step forward?” the minister prompts, shaking me out of my distracted brain that really doesn’t need to ponder Mom’s wedding oddities. I brush against Hamish’s body, his strong, sweaty forearm emitting pheromones like a toxic waste dump, his muscles thicker than my, uh…

  My own. I can’t get away with all that “thicker than my leg” stuff because it’s not true.

  The journey alone down the aisle as we mark our steps makes me think about my own wedding, a vague, gauzy future thought that is more a feeling than an image.

  And what I feel when I imagine it is pure happiness.

  Like what I see on Shannon’s face.

  At the altar, the minister points to where I’ll stand, then laughs. “We practiced this at the church the other day, so I really think you all have it down.”

  Hamish approaches me, bends down, and whispers, “Ye ever think about yer own day?”

  “My own what day?”

  “Yer weddin’ day. Bein’ the bride. How it’ll feel.”

  “Of course. I played Barbies and all that.”

  “Barbie dolls!” His laughter makes dimples appear. Of course he has them, this fine specimen of human physical perfection. “Aye. Ma sister lines up all her stuffies and makes them throw rice.”

  “Rice is bad for birds. It swells up in their stomachs and kills them.”

  “Yer such a romantic, Amy.”

  “I’m a realist, and I care about the birds.”

  “Bet yer the kind of woman who goes to a concert and listens fer two hours, then complains about the single note that was off-key.”

  “I–”

  “Ye read the last page of mystery novels first.”

  “But - ”

  “Ye look up every menu in town before ye settle on a place fer dinner, then ye pick out what yer orderin’ before yer even seated at yer table.”

  I try to argue but I can’t.

  Damn.

  So I press my lips shut and go back to silence.

  At the altar, we split off, Amanda already there, me standing to Carol’s left, Hamish going to Terry’s right. Declan and his assistant are scrambling to find someone to fill in for Andrew, I know, but that’s not my job. Good luck to them.

  Declan’s never struck me as the type to have a lot of close friends. I suspect Shannon is his best friend, and at the thought, a tug of envy surprises me, pulling at my heart.

  Even though it’s just the rehearsal, a photographer is snapping pictures, and Mom runs over to Hamish.

  “It’s a shame to cover up God’s own art, but Farmington has a dress code and the manager is having a fit,” she tells him as she hands him a t-shirt, which he pulls on by lifting his arms high, his abs displaying all of these individual muscles that I didn’t know belonged there.

  Can you have a ten pack? Seriously?

  The shirt is red with white lettering that says GROUNDS CREW.

  “You look amazing,” Mom gushes. “And I’ll bet you’re great at trimming bushes.”

  “MOM!”

  “That Sports Illustrated nude photo shoot yesterday left you with a gorgeous tan. For a Scotsman, I’m surprised you don’t burn!”

  “Ma mum’s side has some Southern European in it. I dinna burn much,” he says, clearly uncomfortable with Mom’s attentions.

  “Well, whatever your genetic makeup, you certainly hit the body jackpot, didn’t you?”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see a shirtless man pulling a wheelbarrow, headed for a door marked MAINTENANCE. How on earth did Mom talk a landscaping worker out of his shirt?

  Oh, no. Bet she invited him to the wedding.

  “Marie,” Dad says gently with a breath that stops suddenly, as if he’s suppressing a long-suffering sigh. When it comes to my mother, aren’t we all? “The minister has a few questions.”

  “Does that mean we’re done?” I ask, my obvious eagerness making Dad smile.

  “You link arms with Hamish and walk back down the aisle, but we don’t have to—”

  Without a word, I turn away from Hamish McCormick.

  Because Shannon’s bachelorette party is tonight, and the last thing I want on my mind is a tall, muscled, hot-as-sin redhead with a mouth like velvet and an ego the size of an island.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Hamish

  Watching the back of a woman as she walks away from me normally involves having her scent on my hands and mouth and her number in my mobile contacts.

  This one, though–she’s not my type.

  One to flirt with, sure. One to sleep with–I could. Of course I could. The right words, the perfect tone of voice, the charm turned up a bit higher than usual to get around those defenses she has, and I’ll have her in my bed, writhing under me, calling out my name like I’m God.

  But just because you can bed a woman doesn’t mean you should.

  Why shouldn’t I?

  Because my Uncle James told me not to.

  “Look,” he said to me at the rehearsal dinner a short time ago, as he caught me scanning the room for all the possible bedmates, “I know this is a fanny buffet for you–”

  I spat out my drink.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Isn’t that what you call it in the UK?”

  “Nae quite, Uncle.”

  His dismissive hand wave had come with a lowering of voice, a conspirator’s tone that forced me to lean closer. “I wouldn’t mind the publicity, you know, but the only eligible women in the room are Amy, Amanda, and Carol.” He’d given me side eye. “Unless you count the married women.”

  “I may love women, but I’m nae a cad.”

  He’d huffed through his nose. You learn a lot about people by what they don’t say and how they don’t say it.

  “Declan is a very tightly wound man. Don’t make it uncomfortable. Sleep your way around the wedding but be discreet.” He’d looked over at Andrew and Amanda just then. “And I’d stay away from Amanda.”

  He didn’t need to explain why. Something was brewing between those two.

  “Maybe Marie was right. What she said at the first rehearsal dinner.”

  James had clicked the ice in his empty glass. “What’s that?”

  “She said she had her three girls, ye have yer three boys, then there’s Shannon’s best friend Amanda, and me, yer nephew. We pair off nicely. Shannon and Declan. Amanda and Andrew. Terry and Carol. Amy and me.”

  “Are you interested in her?” James had watched her just then, head tilted a bit. “She’s the smartest of Marie and Jason’s kids.”

  “Uncle James! What a thing to say.”

  “I’m pragmatic, Hamish. I speak the truth.”

  “Every person has a special gift, ma mum always says. For me, it’s ma legs.”

  “Your legs aren’t what get you nude Sports Illustrated covers, son,” he’d said dryly, looking me up and down as if I were someone else’s Ferrari that was parked in his spot.

  The memory of the conversation is cut short by the smack of a palm against my shoulder blade, Declan giving me a stress-filled smile.

  “Hamish.”

  “Declan. You look like a man who needs a drink.”

  His eyes cut over to his future mother-in-law, who is adjusting the sporran on a cat.

  Aye. A cat. The woman is a bampot.

  “I need the whole bottle, Hamish.”

  “Guid thing there’s yer party tonight.”

  “We can’t stay out late again, like last night.”

  “Then we need to start the drinking early.”

  “I refuse to attend my own wedding hung over.”

  “Ah, but that rule does nae apply to me, cousin.”

  For once, I see a real smile spread across his face, which lifts me up. Making people happy is my job. Not really, of course–my job is playing football.

  And yet, my mission in life seems to be to lift people’s spirits. Nothing warms my heart more than knowing I’ve made someone feel better than they did before I came across them.

  In big and small ways, it’s how I go about my day.

  When it comes to women, though–that’s my weakness. I can make anyone’s day brighter by spending a bit of time and attention, but women are like magic for me.

  For parts of me, definitely. God gave my body a wand. Why not use it as much as possible?

  I’ve never really lost that feeling you have when you’re young and discovering sex, the marvelous realization that you can share your body with another person and you’ll both feel better than you can feel alone. Don’t get me wrong–a good wank feels fine when you need it and learning how to satisfy yourself means you’ll be better at making someone else feel good when they come.

  But being naked, sweaty, uninhibited, all hands and tongues and other parts in a giant pile of fun–that is where pure joy is created.

  For me, a woman’s body is a temple. And Amy’s ass–in eyesight right now–is an altar. Oh, how I’d love to worship between those legs.

  And yet… no. Off-limits.

  James words were clear.

  “Hamish?” I’m interrupted by a sweet young thing wearing a catering staff apron and a shy smile. “Would ye mind?” She thrusts a small notebook and pen at me. “Ma mum’s a huge fan.”

  “Aye?” I flash her a grin and wink. “And ye?”

  “Mum is from Glasgow. I’m more of a Manchester fan maself.”

  “Oof.” I pause mid-word on the page and give her a mock glare. “Mebbe I’ll not sign this after all.”

  “Blame ma da,” she says matter-of-factly. “He’s English.”

  We both shudder, then laugh. I start writing, beginning with “Manchester sucks!” and ask her name.

  “Lila. But Mum’s name is Gertie.”

  “Gertie,” I mutter, “i-e or y?”

  “G-e-r-t-i-e.”

  With a flick of the wrist, I’m done, handing the notebook and pen back to her. Lila tucks it away in her bag like a Fabergé egg. I don’t know why moving my hand across a piece of paper while clutching a pen holds so much value for people, but if it makes them happy, then I’m happy to do it.

  “Want a picture?” I ask as she looks me over, her phone already in her hand. Just then, Amy appears, looking intently about the area, checking the tables for something, her pretty face screwed up in confusion, brows knit together.

  “Amy!” I call out. “Need help?”

  “I left my phone here.”

  Being tall has its advantages. I spot her mobile two tables away and reach it before she does, surprised to find it unlocked when I press the home button.

  “No code?”

  “No need, until now.” She reaches to snatch the phone from my hands, but my height really pays off in moments like this.

  Holding it aloft, I type my number in her contacts, labeling it That Guy You Would Call.

  Then delete it. If I put my contact in there, then she’s warned when I ring her. I like to retain the element of surprise.

  “What are you doing to my phone?” she asks with suspicion as Lila watches us with the same keen interest as the caterer at my Sports Illustrated shoot.

  “Improving it.”

  “You better not have deleted anything!”

  I don’t know this woman other than meeting at the first rehearsal dinner. Amanda and Andrew got shitfaced that night and had some kind of fight, and Amy’s mother made it clear she not only knows nothing about football, she knows nothing about baseball, hockey, basketball, or likely anything not involving drool and sex toys.

  Amy Jacoby isn’t special. She’s just someone I am stuck with by circumstance.

  So why am I enjoying teasing her so much?

  With a loud humph worthy of my mother after discovering that my younger brother Darren yet again used the last square of toilet paper and failed to put a new roll on the rack, Amy storms off.

  Lila leans toward me and asks, “Angry girlfriend?”

  “Me? Have a girlfriend? Nae.” I squint and watch as Amy runs off, propelled by sheer self-righteousness. “And if I did, wouldna be her.”

  “Looks like you two have some chemistry.”

  “Like ammonia and bleach mixed together, maybe.”

  The face Lila makes cracks us both up, but her words ring through me. Chemistry?

  My phone buzzes. I look down to find a text from Andrew’s executive assistant, Gina. She’s been handling the details of tonight’s bachelor party.

  The limo leaves at 6:30 for the party. Dress is business casual. Please wear a shirt.

  I see word has gotten around.

  Lila walks over to a table and fixes chair covers while I deal with Gina.

  I text back, Shirt it is. And only a shirt.

  That’s not what I meant! Gina replies.

  The cat doesna wear pants in the wedding. Why can’t I go without? I reply with a grin.

  Ha ha, she answers. I’d much rather see you without pants than Chuckles!

  Gina. I’ve met her once before, the woman who talks as if every sentence out of her mouth were a question. I half expected her texts to be the same way.

  Wonder if she’s like that in bed. “Oh, my God? I think I’m coming? Do that thing again with your tongue? No, there?”

  A bedmate worth his mettle could get her to the point where every word out of her mouth as she comes is a statement. That poor woman needs all the uncertainty banged out of her.

  Wonder if I should give her a go?

  Will I see your lovely face at the wedding? I venture.

  Three dots appear. Then disappear. Then appear.