Chapter 16 #2
— Haute couture and practicality rarely go hand in hand, I say, desperately trying to maintain normal conversation while every brush of his fingers feels like a line of fire across my skin.
— Almost done, he murmurs, so close I can feel his breath against my neck.
The final button gives, and my dress loosens slightly at the back. His hands linger for a fraction of a second—barely there, but enough to steal my breath.
— There, he says, stepping back.
I turn slowly to face him, clutching the front of my dress to keep it from slipping. Our eyes meet, and the intensity in his gaze hits me like a physical force. His usually clear eyes seem darker somehow—deeper.
— Thank you, I whisper.
— You’re welcome, he replies just as quietly.
We stand there, suspended in a moment thick with tension neither of us is ready to name. My heart pounds so loudly I’m certain he can hear it.
— I should… I should go change, I say finally, breaking the silence.
Something that looks like disappointment flashes across his face, but he simply nods and steps back again.
— Of course. Take your time.
I retreat into the bathroom, closing the door perhaps a little too quickly. Once alone, I brace my hands against the sink and stare at my reflection.
— Get it together, Jane, I mutter to myself. It’s a professional arrangement. You’re an actress. Play your role without getting emotionally involved.
But as I slip out of my dress and into the silk pajamas I chose for tonight—elegant, but decidedly not seductive—I can’t stop thinking about that moment beneath the floral arch. When Callum’s lips touched mine.
That kiss.
That kiss that was supposed to be brief and formal—but turned into something entirely different. Something dangerously close to real passion.
Was it real?
Or just an outstanding performance by a man determined to convince his family our marriage is legitimate?
I shake off the thought and finish getting ready. When I return to the bedroom, Callum has changed as well. He’s now wearing flannel pajama pants and a simple T-shirt that—despite its simplicity—looks unfairly good on him.
— I thought you might want a drink, he says, gesturing to the opened champagne. To celebrate the success of our day.
— Gladly, I agree, sitting on the edge of the bed. We’ve earned it. I think I shook so many hands today my wrist could qualify as a percussion instrument.
He hands me a flute and sits at a respectable distance beside me.
— You were remarkable. The whole village is charmed by you.
— Including Hamish, I tease. I think he’s going to ask to sleep at the foot of the bed like a loyal dog.
— Don’t give him ideas. He’s fully capable of sneaking in here during the night.
We laugh together, and some of the tension fades. It’s one of the things I like most about Callum—despite everything, we always find common ground in humor.
— So, I say after a sip of champagne, how does it feel to be a married man?
— Surprisingly… normal, he admits after a moment. Even if our union is unconventional, the legal formalities are the same. I’m officially responsible for your well-being in the eyes of the law.
— Oh, what a burden, I tease. Lucky for you, I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.
— I know, he says, suddenly serious. That’s one of the things I admire about you.
That catches me completely off guard.
— You admire things about me?
— Several, actually, he says, holding my gaze. Your resilience in the face of adversity. Your humor in uncomfortable situations. Your ability to adapt to a completely foreign environment. And, of course, your way with Hamish—which is a valuable skill in the Highlands.
I laugh, but his expression stays serious—almost tender. The charged silence returns.
— About what happened today, he begins.
— Yes? I whisper, my heart picking up speed.
— The kiss. Under the arch.
— Oh. That, I say lightly.
He turns his glass in his hands, clearly searching for the right words.
— It wasn’t exactly what we planned.
— No, I admit softly. It was… more intense.
— It was convincing, he says.
— It’s my job to be convincing.
— Of course, he replies quickly. You must be used to on-screen kisses.
I shrug.
— They’re usually far more technical than romantic. Head positioning, camera angles, that kind of thing.
— I see, he says, taking a sip. And how do you kiss when it’s not for the camera?
The question catches me completely off guard.
— Excuse me?
Callum flushes slightly but doesn’t look away.
— I’m just curious about the difference between a camera kiss and a real one. For educational purposes, obviously.
— For educational purposes, I repeat slowly, a smile forming on my lips. Are you trying to get yourself kissed, Callum McGregor?
— I’m asking a purely theoretical question, he insists, though his eyes say otherwise. As a man married for less than twenty-four hours, I feel I should be informed of these nuances.
I set my champagne flute on the nightstand, suddenly very aware of my breathing, of his proximity, of the electricity between us.
— It’s a complex question, I say, turning slightly toward him. I think a demonstration would be more effective than a long explanation.
Something ignites in his gaze—desire, surprise—and it gives me the courage to continue.
— If you’re truly interested in this purely educational lesson.
— I’m a strong advocate for continued education, he replies, his voice lower now.
My heart pounds as I move closer. He’s still seated, looking up at me. I take his glass and set it beside mine, then, with deliberate slowness, place my hands on either side of his face. His skin is warm beneath my fingers, a faint roughness where his stubble is coming in.
— The main difference between a movie kiss and a real one, I murmur, my lips inches from his, is the intention behind it.
His eyes stay locked on mine—intense, vulnerable.
— Show me, he breathes.
— In a movie kiss, the intention is to appear authentic—for the camera, for the audience. Everything is calculated, controlled, precise.
My thumbs brush lightly over his cheekbones.
— But in a real kiss…
My voice trails off, my focus completely captured by his mouth, by the unbearable tension between us.
— Yes? he prompts, barely audible.
— In a real kiss, the intention is to connect, to communicate without words, to…
Instead of finishing, I close the distance and press my lips to his.
He freezes for a fraction of a second—surprised, despite everything—then his arms wrap around my waist, pulling me closer.
This kiss is nothing like the one beneath the arch. There’s no audience, no performance. It’s just Jane and Callum—everything we are, everything we’re beginning to feel.
His lips are soft but sure, his hold firm yet careful. One of his hands slides up my back, tangling in my hair, and a shiver runs through me.
When we finally pull apart, breathless, I keep my eyes closed for a moment, savoring the dizzying sensation.
— That was… Callum starts.
— A very educational demonstration, I finish, opening my eyes to meet his.
What I see steals my breath all over again—desire, yes, but also tenderness, uncertainty… as if he’s discovering something new and precious.
— Are there other lessons you’d like to give me? he asks, his voice rougher now.
A smile tugs at my lips.
— That depends. Are you a good student?
— Top of my class. I learn very quickly, he replies, pulling me toward him again.
This time, he takes the lead, kissing me with a confidence that melts me against him. His hands roam my back, leaving burning trails even through the fabric of my pajamas. Mine explore his shoulders, his chest, savoring the firmness of his muscles beneath my touch.
When we break apart again, we’re both breathless, flushed, eyes bright.
— I think we’re moving beyond education, I whisper.
— You’re right, he agrees. We’ve entered the realm of advanced research.
I laugh, and he joins me, our shared laughter creating an intimacy I never expected. It feels like, in just a few minutes, we’ve crossed an invisible line—turning our practical arrangement into something far more complex… and potentially wonderful.
— Callum, I say softly, suddenly serious. Where is this going?
He takes my hand, his thumbs tracing soothing circles in my palm.
— Honestly? I’m not sure. It wasn’t in our contract, that’s for certain.
— No, I agree with a small laugh. I distinctly remember a clause about “no emotional complications.”
— Article 7, subsection B, he says with a faint smile. “Both parties agree to maintain a professional relationship and avoid any romantic attachment that could complicate the planned dissolution of the marriage.”
— You memorized the contract? I ask.
— I drafted it, he reminds me. I pay attention to details.
— So technically, what just happened…
— Is a violation of Article 7, subsection B, he confirms. But as a competent lawyer, I can argue there are mitigating circumstances.
— Really? And what might those be, Counselor McGregor? I ask, feigning seriousness.
He leans closer, his face inches from mine.
— The contract failed to anticipate that my temporary wife would be this captivating, intelligent… and irresistible.
My heart stumbles in my chest.
— Those are very mitigating circumstances indeed, I murmur.
— However, he continues more seriously, I think we should proceed with caution. We’ve known each other a short time, and our situation is… unique, to say the least.
— You’re afraid I’m confusing physical attraction with something deeper? I ask, a little defensive.
— No, he says simply. I’m afraid we both might confuse the forced intimacy of our situation with something deeper. And I’m even more afraid… that it’s not confusion at all.
That answer disarms me completely. For a man known for emotional restraint, Callum has just shown remarkable vulnerability.
— So what do you suggest? I ask quietly.
— I suggest we keep an open mind. Take the time to really get to know each other—beyond the terms of our contract. And allow ourselves to see where this goes, without putting too much pressure on it.
— That’s surprisingly reasonable, I admit. And very measured for someone who just kissed me like his life depended on it.
He smiles—and that smile transforms his entire face, making him look younger, more open… and dangerously attractive.
— I’m capable of both passion and reason, Jane Carter-McGregor. That’s what makes me such a complex and fascinating Scotsman.
— And modest, too, I tease.