Just a Highland Fling

Prologue

There is nothing less attractive than a man playing the bagpipes, which quite frankly is a tragedy.

I mean, the getup is hot. Kilts that cut off at the knees, showcasing lovely calves, strong muscles, sometimes a little hint of sinewy thigh.

And the stance: the tender cradling of the bagpipe under those brawny arms. It melts something inside you.

Makes you think, Huh, maybe this guy has nurturing instincts.

Maybe he would cradle me that way. It’s the perfect blend of strong and soft.

Swoony in a gruff, almost accidental way.

But then it starts. The initial jarring drone that burns your ears, followed by the absurd, almost cartoonish puffing of the cheeks.

Though I suppose I don’t really have time to ponder the anti-aphrodisiac effect of bagpiping at the moment.

Right now, I have bigger things to worry about.

Namely the fact that the middle-aged white woman who had been walking down the aisle of this little church at a slow, stately pace is now standing frozen halfway to the altar.

The violinist continues playing, but the bride doesn’t move at all. From where I sit in the back row, I catch a couple exchanged glances between the folks lining the pews.

“Maggie,” someone hisses, but Maggie doesn’t move.

Since her back is toward me, I can’t see her face, but I can sure see my father’s.

His brows are furrowed, and the light overhead highlights the deep grooves in his forehead.

His lips move, but he must be speaking softly because I can’t make out what he’s saying.

He takes a half step away from the altar, his hand outstretched toward Maggie, a bewildered expression on his face.

And that’s when Maggie bolts, pivoting on her heel and barreling right back up the aisle in a blur of frothy lace and tulle.

A chorus of gasps is released all at once, but it’s my father’s voice I hear chief among them.

“Maggie! Wait!”

But Maggie doesn’t listen. If anything, she runs faster. She’s almost all the way out of here when her red-rimmed eyes latch onto mine. It only lasts a millisecond. A quick, barely there acknowledgment, but it makes my gut twist. A sour taste fills my mouth.

And then she’s gone, flying out the kirk doors. My father follows only a few feet behind her, running toward the exit, still calling out her name.

People all around me are getting up, craning their necks, a flutter of motion on every side, but it’s the bagpiper chasing after my father who catches my attention.

His kilt swings around his legs, and his broad chest swells with exertion.

All thoughts of Maggie and my father slide out of my brain.

This man has height and width in spades, and his pitch-black, perfectly wavy hair whips around his face as he races past me.

My heartbeat doubles, then comes to a roaring stop when his brown eyes pin me with a bone-chilling glare.

“This is your fault,” he whisper-yells at me on his way out of the church, his arm pointed accusingly in my direction.

And I can’t even argue with him.

It absolutely is.