Chapter 10
CALLUM
I watch Jane leave the room with Keira, and I can’t help but notice the way she tosses her hair back when she’s nervous. It’s a small tic I’ve picked up on since we met in Los Angeles, an unconscious gesture that betrays her vulnerability despite all her efforts to appear confident.
Once the door closes, I turn to Ewan, who’s watching me with a smile I know all too well. It’s the same one he wore at twelve when he found out I’d written a poem for Katie MacDonald, the baker’s daughter.
— What? I ask, even though I already know what’s coming.
— She’s entertaining, he replies, pouring himself another whisky. Not at all the kind of woman I imagined for you.
— You met her twenty minutes ago, fifteen of which she spent mortified after nearly ripping off my kilt.
— Fifteen very revealing minutes, he shoots back with a crooked smile. I like the way she handles embarrassment. Plenty would’ve burst into tears or run off. She faced it with humor.
I can only nod. Jane has a resilience that’s surprised me more than once since we met. She adapts, rebounds, turns disasters into stories.
— But more importantly, Ewan continues, leaning toward me, his expression suddenly serious, when were you planning on telling me you’d finally found the right person for your arranged marriage?
I freeze, my glass halfway to my lips.
— What are you talking about?
Ewan rolls his eyes.
— Callum, I’ve known you since we were five.
I’ve seen you fall in love twice, and both times you were a walking disaster.
You stuttered, got clumsy, wrote terrible poetry.
Right now, you’re yourself. Methodical, composed, rational.
That’s not how a man in love behaves a few days before his wedding.
And as if that weren’t enough, the rushed ceremony is a pretty solid clue.
You’re not going to convince me this sudden wedding has nothing to do with your father’s will.
I stare into my glass for a moment, weighing my options. Ewan is my oldest friend. If there’s one person besides Keira I can trust, it’s him. And yet every additional person who knows the truth increases the risk of my grandmother finding out.
Our initial search turned up nothing last year. I’d made my peace with it—at least until the countdown caught up with me and I decided to make that absurd proposal to Jane.
— It’s complicated, I finally say.
— Usually when a man says that about his relationship, it means he has a mistress or he’s secretly gay, Ewan remarks, sipping his whisky.
Since I know your exes and none of them reported adulterous tendencies, and considering you spent your entire puberty drooling over the MacDonald sisters, I’ll assume it’s something else.
I sigh, defeated.
— You’re right. It is an arranged marriage.
Ewan stares at me, impassive—then bursts into booming laughter that echoes through the small sitting room.
— By all the saints, Callum! So you actually did it? I thought that plan was dead and buried, but you went and found an American actress to play your hopelessly-in-love wife! Congratulations!
— Keep your voice down! I hiss. These walls have ears.
— And you brought her here, into hostile territory, without backup? That’s like throwing a lamb into a pack of wolves!
— Jane can handle herself perfectly well, I protest. And she’s not without support. Keira knows.
— Keira! he exclaims. Your sister, who finds it hilarious to put people in embarrassing situations for her own amusement? That support?
I grit my teeth, knowing he’s not wrong.
— Look, it’s not like we had a choice. The terms of the will are very clear: either I get married before I turn thirty-three, or the family business goes to Lachlan.
— Ah, your favorite cousin, Ewan says dryly. I hear he managed to lose fifteen thousand pounds on horse races in a single afternoon. I see your motivation.
— Exactly. I can’t let my family’s legacy fall into his hands.
Ewan leans back in his chair, studying me carefully.
— All right, motive’s clear. But why her? Why Jane Carter, specifically?
It’s a good question—one I’ve asked myself more than once.
I met Jane through a professional contact who assured me she was desperate to get away from Hollywood after her media scandal.
She needed money and a fresh start; I needed a woman willing to play my wife for a year.
On paper, it was a perfectly logical arrangement.
But there’s something else. Something in her direct gaze, in the way she’s both vulnerable and strong, that struck me from the moment we met.
— She was available, I say at last, choosing the simplest answer.
— Available, Ewan repeats, clearly unconvinced. That’s all you’ve got to say about the woman you’re marrying the day after tomorrow? She was “available”?
— And qualified, I add. She’s an actress. She knows how to be convincing.
— Oh, I noticed her powers of persuasion when she nearly set the ballroom on fire with her “performance.” And by “ballroom,” I mean your crotch.
I rub my face, suddenly tired.
— Look, it’s temporary. One year, at most. Just long enough to satisfy my father’s will and secure my position at the head of the company. Then we’ll divorce quietly, she’ll go back to her life in Los Angeles, and I’ll continue mine here.
— A year sharing your home, your life, and your name with a woman you barely know, Ewan repeats thoughtfully. And your grandmother doesn’t know about the expiration date, I assume?
— Of course not!
Ewan takes a sip of whisky, then studies me over the rim of his glass.
— And you—what do you think?
— About what?
— The potential evolution of your relationship.
I let out a short laugh.
— It’s a business contract, Ewan. Not a fairy tale.
— Life has a strange sense of humor sometimes, he counters. And I have to say, for a purely professional arrangement, you two have remarkable chemistry.
— Chemistry? I repeat, frowning. What are you talking about?
— The way you look at her when she’s not paying attention. The way you rushed to help her when she fell. Your hand on hers just now…
— I’m playing my role, I say defensively. We have to be convincing.
— Of course, Ewan smiles, clearly unconvinced. That must be why your face turns red at the mere mention of your “arrangement.”
— It’s the whisky, I mutter.
— You’ve barely had a sip.
I set my glass down a little too hard.
— Jane is interesting—and attractive, I admit. But there’s nothing between us beyond clearly defined mutual interests outlined in a contract.
— A contract. How romantic, Ewan mocks. I’m sure Shakespeare is rolling in his grave with excitement.
— Romantic relationships are overrated, I shoot back. Look at what happened with Heather.
Ewan grimaces at the mention of my ex.
— Heather was an opportunist who saw you as a ticket to life in a castle. Jane seems different.
— Different how?
— More genuine. Less calculating. And definitely more fun.
I think of my conversations with Jane—her way of standing up to me, her humor in the face of adversity. She’s certainly different from any woman I’ve dated.
— Maybe, I concede. But that doesn’t change the fact that our marriage is temporary.
— If you say so, Ewan replies skeptically. But let me ask you this: did you include a clause in your famous contract for what happens if one of you develops real feelings?
I stiffen. Of course we included a clause for that. It was one of my first concerns—establishing a clear protocol in case of “emotional complications.”
— Naturally. It’s a standard precaution, I reply, a bit too formally.
Ewan studies me with renewed interest.
— Fascinating. So you anticipated that possibility. Now let’s see… Who are you protecting with that clause, Callum? Jane—or yourself?
— That’s ridiculous.
— Is it? You’ve always been cautious, methodical, forward-thinking. If you included a specific clause about feelings, it means you consider that risk real. The question is—for whom?
I hate it when Ewan does this, when he cuts through my carefully constructed defenses with a few well-placed observations.
— You’re overanalyzing, I say, standing to pour him another drink. It’s a simple business arrangement.
— You said the same thing about your jazz record collection, and yet you nearly cried when I dropped your Miles Davis vinyl.
— It was a limited edition!
— And Jane is a one-of-a-kind person, he counters. Careful not to confuse the container with the content, my friend.
I sigh, frustrated by his persistence.
— What do you want me to say, Ewan? That I’m secretly falling in love with the woman I hired to pretend to be my fiancée? That’s absurd. We’ve known each other for two weeks.
— What would be absurd is pretending it’s impossible for two people forced to share daily intimacy for a year not to develop real feelings.
— You read too many romance novels, I grumble.
— And you don’t read enough, he shoots back. Look, I’m not saying you’re in love. I’m just saying you should be open to the possibility.
— Why? To complicate an already complicated situation?
— No. So you don’t miss something that could be real.
I swirl the whisky in my glass, watching the amber liquid.
— Jane has her life in Los Angeles. Films to shoot, a career to rebuild. I live here, I run the family business, I have responsibilities to hundreds of employees. Our worlds are completely different.
— Different worlds meet all the time, Ewan says philosophically. That’s what makes life interesting.
— And sometimes impossible, I add.
— Nothing is impossible for a McGregor. Isn’t that what your grandmother always says?
I smile despite myself.
— You’ve got a point.
A comfortable silence settles between us. Ewan has always had a way of pushing me to think beyond my self-imposed limits, of making me consider possibilities I would otherwise dismiss.
— You like her, don’t you? I ask finally.
— Jane? Of course. She’s refreshing. And I genuinely think she could be good for you.
Something tightens in my chest, though I can’t quite explain why.
— How can you be so sure after one meeting?
— Scottish instinct, he replies, tapping his nose. The same one that made me choose you as my best friend twenty-five years ago, despite your unhealthy obsession with alphabetical order and Excel spreadsheets.
I laugh, grateful for the lightness.
— Speaking of Excel, I need to finalize the ceremony planning. Grandmother invited half the Highlands, and the other half will invite themselves.
— Always so romantic, Ewan sighs. At least promise me you’ll enjoy tomorrow’s excursion. Show her what you love about this place—why it matters to you. Not Callum the businessman, but the one who used to marvel at the stars when we camped by the loch.
I nod slowly.
— I can do that.
— And if you could avoid mentioning contractual clauses for at least a few hours, that would be ideal.
— I’ll try, I mutter.
— One last thing, Ewan adds, getting to his feet. If you ever decide this marriage isn’t just a temporary arrangement—
— That won’t happen, I cut in.
— But if it did, he continues, ignoring me, just know I’ll be here to stop you from ruining everything with your excessive pragmatism.
— I don’t need a matchmaker, thank you very much.
— Oh, you absolutely do. Without me, you’d probably be married to your laptop.
With that, he heads for the door but pauses before stepping out.
— You know what your problem is, Callum?
— I have a feeling you’re about to tell me whether I want to hear it or not.
— You plan your life so much, you forget to live it. Sometimes the best things are the ones you never planned.
And with that remark—far too accurate for my liking—he leaves the room, leaving me alone with my thoughts and three fingers of whisky.
I stare at the fire crackling in the hearth, replaying our conversation. Ewan sees things that aren’t there. Jane and I have a clear arrangement, well-defined boundaries. I am not developing feelings for her.
Of course, I admire her resilience. I appreciate her humor. And yes, there’s undeniable physical attraction—I’m a man, after all, and she’s incredibly attractive. But to talk about deeper feelings? That’s absurd.
I’m not an impulsive man who confuses desire with love. I know exactly what I’m doing, and falling in love with Jane Carter is definitely not part of the plan.
And yet… the image of her face when she fell this morning—her wide, startled eyes, her flushed cheeks, her clumsy hands trying to fix the damage that brushed dangerously close to my cock… That image refuses to leave my mind.
I pour myself another drink, determined to chase away these inappropriate thoughts. I have a wedding to organize, a grandmother to satisfy, and a business to save. There’s no room for emotional complications.
The whisky burns pleasantly down my throat, but it does nothing to dispel the unease Ewan planted in me.
Tomorrow, I’ll take Jane to see my favorite place in the Highlands.
Only because Ewan suggested it—and because it fits our cover.
Not because I want to share that special place with her.
Certainly not because I’m looking forward to seeing her expression when she discovers the wild beauty I’ve always loved.
At least, that’s what I try to convince myself as I drain my glass and head for my office, my refuge of logic and reason, far from the troubling questions my best friend stirred up.
It’ll just be an outing. A simple break in the wedding preparations. Nothing more.