Chapter 17
CALLUM
There are moments in life when you wonder how you ended up here. For instance, right now, I’m lying in bed, stiff as a board, next to my brand-new wife—who is pretending to be asleep—in a room so quiet you could hear a pin drop… or, in my case, the deafening thud of my own heartbeat.
The wedding reception ended barely an hour ago.
A perfectly orchestrated evening, exactly as expected with my grandmother in charge.
Delicious food, heartfelt speeches—including Ewan’s particularly mortifying one, where he saw fit to recount the story of my first drunken disaster at sixteen—and plenty of dancing.
Jane was radiant all night, charming the guests with her wit and ease, dancing the Scottish reel with a grace that made it seem like she’d been doing it her entire life, even though I know for a fact she mostly learned how to avoid kilts during her lessons.
And now, here we are. Husband and wife. Legally bound. Sharing the same bed on our wedding night.
Our wedding night, which—according to our contract—absolutely does not involve consummating the marriage. And yet, we kissed. A certain part of my anatomy is very aware of that fact.
Jane shifts slightly beside me, her light perfume drifting through the space between us.
She’s wearing a silk pajama set—simple, elegant—that stands in stark contrast to my usual T-shirt and flannel pants.
I briefly considered investing in something more appropriate for the occasion, but that would have seemed… presumptuous.
Since we slipped into this king-size bed exactly twenty-seven minutes ago—yes, I’m counting—we’ve maintained a careful distance between our bodies. Not so close as to suggest inappropriate intentions, not so far as to feel hostile. A perfectly calculated, professionally appropriate distance.
Professionally appropriate. On a wedding night.
The absurdity of it would probably hit me if I weren’t so aware of every tiny movement she makes, of the rhythm of her breathing—which absolutely gives away the fact that she’s awake.
And it’s not like we didn’t kiss before getting into bed.
We just quickly agreed it wouldn’t be appropriate to go any further.
Which is how we ended up like this—lying rigidly apart in our marital bed.
— You’re not asleep, I say at last, unable to endure the silence any longer.
— Neither are you, she replies immediately, confirming what I already knew.
— I thought you’d fall asleep instantly after everything…
— And I thought you’d be knocked out by all the whisky your cousin Lachlan forced on you.
I can’t help but smile in the dark.
— Lachlan tried, but I’ve built up a tolerance after years of enduring his invented traditions.
— Unlike me, Jane sighs. I think I accepted every drink offered to me tonight. It’s a miracle I can still form coherent sentences.
— You were remarkable tonight, I admit softly.
Despite myself, my mind flashes back to our kisses—and my body reacts.
— Even when I tripped during the traditional dance and almost took your grandmother down with me?
— Especially then. The look of pure terror on your face was priceless.
Jane laughs, a soft, melodic sound in the darkness.
— I saw my life flash before my eyes. “American actress accidentally murders McGregor matriarch during Scottish dance.” That would’ve made a great headline.
— My grandmother is tougher than she looks. She was rock climbing into her seventies.
— Why am I not surprised? That woman is superhuman.
Another silence settles between us—less tense now, but still charged with something electric.
— I can’t believe we actually did it, Jane says finally. We’re married. Officially. Legally.
— With paperwork and everything, I confirm. The performance has officially begun.
— It was different from what I imagined.
There’s something in her voice I can’t quite place. Hesitation. Maybe a question.
— Different how? I ask, turning my head slightly to try and make out her expression in the dim light.
She’s quiet for a moment.
— I don’t know exactly. More real, maybe? When I was little, I imagined marrying Prince Charming in a princess dress. Then I grew up and decided marriage was an outdated institution I’d avoid at all costs.
— And now here you are, married to a Scottish man you barely know.
— Life has a strange sense of humor, she agrees. But what I mean is… despite the unusual circumstances of our arrangement, today felt…
— Beautiful? I offer when she trails off.
— Yes, she whispers. Beautiful. Genuine, in a way… despite everything.
— I know what you mean, I murmur.
I feel her turn toward me, her body now facing mine, though still at that carefully maintained distance.
— I’m sorry, Jane.
— For what?
I swallow, then force myself to say what’s been circling my mind since we got into bed.
— Those kisses weren’t professional, I admit, my voice rougher than usual.
— No?
— No.
The silence that follows crackles with tension. My skin feels hypersensitive, aware of every inch of air between us.
— You know, Jane says after a moment, breaking the silence, you could argue that now that we’re legally married, Article 7, subsection B is a little…
— Restrictive? I suggest.
— I was going to say ridiculous, but restrictive works too.
I swallow hard.
— Jane… what exactly are you saying?
I hear her breath hitch slightly.
— I’m saying we’re two adults, in a bed, on the night of our wedding. And no one is watching to make sure we follow every clause of our contract.
My heart is pounding so loudly now I’m sure she can hear it.
— That would be a violation of our agreement, I point out weakly—more out of habit than conviction.
— Technically, yes, she concedes. But we already violated the spirit of the contract with those kisses.
Before I can stop myself—before I can think—I close the carefully maintained distance between us. My face is now inches from hers. I can make out her features in the faint light filtering through the curtains—her wide eyes, her parted lips.
— Yes, I breathe. And that’s exactly the problem.
And then I do the thing I’ve been wanting to do since we got into bed.
I kiss her.
Jane responds instantly, her hands sliding into my hair, her body pressing against mine.
Time seems to suspend as we explore this new territory—this intimacy we’d forbidden ourselves. Her fingers slip beneath my T-shirt, touching bare skin, and a shiver runs through me. I trail kisses along her jaw, down to her neck, savoring the soft sound that escapes her lips.
It’s as if a dam has broken, releasing weeks of tension and unspoken attraction. My hands move over her curves through the silk of her pajamas, memorizing every line. Her skin is warm beneath my touch, and I find myself wanting more—far more than our contract allows.
Jane murmurs my name against my mouth—part question, part invitation. Her hand drifts lower, brushing over my chest, my stomach… stopping at the edge of my waistband.
That brief moment of hesitation snaps me back to reality.
What the hell am I doing?
I pull away abruptly, breaking the embrace, leaving her breathless and confused.
— I… I can’t, I stammer. I’m sorry.
— Callum? What’s wrong?
There’s something in her voice—a mix of confusion, disappointment, maybe even hurt—that hits me straight in the chest.
How do I explain this? How do I put words to the storm of conflicting emotions tearing through me?
— It’s not… it’s not you, I say awkwardly, aware of the cliché. It’s me. It’s… complicated.
— Try anyway, she says softly. I think I deserve an explanation after that.
She’s right.
I sit up, turning my back to her.
— This wasn’t part of the plan. Our arrangement was clear. Clean. Defined. And now everything is… messy.
— Welcome to real life, Callum, she says, a blend of warmth and irony in her voice. Feelings are rarely neat and orderly.
— Mine always have been. Until now. I’ve always known exactly where I was going, what I wanted, how to get there.
— And now? she asks gently.
— Now I don’t know, I admit. If we cross this line, nothing will be the same. Our contract, our arrangement—everything changes.
— Would that be so terrible?
Her voice is barely above a whisper.
— I don’t know—and that’s exactly the problem, I say, dragging a hand through my hair. I’ve never been good at improvisation, Jane. I plan. I organize. I anticipate. That’s how I function.
— And yet you kissed me without it being on the schedule, she points out.
— That was a mistake.
The words come out harsher than I intend, and I hear her sharp intake of breath behind me.
— A mistake, she repeats flatly.
— No—not like that, I try to correct. I mean… I lost control. I acted on impulse without thinking about the consequences.
— And what terrible consequences would those be, Callum? she asks, anger creeping into her voice. That two people who like each other share a moment of intimacy? That our marriage of convenience turns out to be less artificial than expected?
— And then what? I shoot back. We have a contract with an expiration date. In a year, you’ll go back to Los Angeles—to your career. That’s what we agreed.
— Plans can change.
— Mine don’t, I say firmly—even as something inside me rebels against the words. I have responsibilities. Commitments. The family business—
— Oh, of course, the family business, she cuts in, sharp with sarcasm. Wouldn’t want Callum McGregor putting feelings ahead of a balance sheet.
That stings more than it should—because there’s truth in it.
— I’m sorry, Jane. I can’t…
I get out of bed, unable to stay there another second without risking everything.
— Where are you going? she asks, her voice suddenly softer—almost vulnerable.
— I need to think. I’ll sleep in another room tonight.
— Callum…
— Good night, Jane.
I leave before she can say anything else. Before I can change my mind.
In the dark, silent hallway of the castle, I try to steady my racing thoughts.
What is happening to me?
How did I lose control like that?
My entire adult life, I’ve lived by rules. By plans. Carefully structured outcomes. I built my career, protected the family business—all while keeping a firm grip on my emotions.
And now an American actress with sharp wit and a disarming smile has shattered every certainty I had… in a matter of weeks.
The worst part?
I don’t regret the kiss.
I regret stopping.
And that is exactly what terrifies me the most.
Because if I give in to this—if I admit these feelings are real, and deep—then everything changes. Our arrangement becomes something real. With risks. Uncertainty. Vulnerability.
And I’m not sure I’m ready for that.
Or maybe… what scares me even more… is the possibility that I am.