Chapter 4
CALLUM
I hate Los Angeles.
Everything about it feels fake—from the plastic smiles to the palm trees that look like they were planted strictly for Instagram.
Even the sun feels excessive, as if it’s trying to compensate for a lack of substance by shining too brightly.
A lot like the people here, who pump themselves full of fillers and implants just to look more appealing.
I check my watch for the fifth time in ten minutes. She’s late. Of course she’s late. What self-respecting Hollywood actress would show up on time to a meeting—especially one that could determine the future of a multi-generational family business?
I adjust my tie and ask Max Bernstein’s assistant for another espresso, no sugar. I try to ignore the stream of young women passing behind the glass wall since I arrived. One of them giggles and points at me before whispering something to her friends, setting off another round of laughter.
Fantastic. Exactly what I needed—being the topic of conversation for a group of overly excited Americans.
My phone buzzes. Keira’s name lights up the screen, her smug smile practically taunting me before I even read her message.
Pain in the ass
So? Did you propose yet? Invitations sent?
I roll my eyes and type back quickly.
Hard to propose to someone who isn’t here. 28 minutes late.
The three dots appear almost instantly.
Pain in the ass
Already your first fight! That’s adorable. I love her already, my future sister-in-law.
Keira is enjoying this far too much. To her, the idea of her serious, structured older brother getting tangled up in an arranged marriage with an American actress is like Christmas, her birthday, and Hogmanay rolled into one—with a magical unicorn thrown in for good measure.
I’m still trying to come up with a response when the office door swings open. A woman steps inside, oversized sunglasses on, then stops short as if she’s just walked into hostile territory. Her gaze sweeps the room before settling on me.
Jane Carter is smaller than I expected. Her long brown hair is pulled into a messy ponytail, and she’s dressed in jeans, a white T-shirt under a leather jacket, and heeled boots that click against the floor as she approaches the table.
I stand, keeping my expression neutral despite the irritation simmering beneath the surface.
“Miss Carter, I presume?”
She removes her sunglasses, revealing sharp brown eyes that study me with surprising intensity.
“And you must be the desperate Scottish bachelor. Nice to meet you.”
The sarcasm lands fast and hard. My brows lift slightly.
“I prefer ‘pragmatic businessman.’”
A faint smirk curves her lips as she takes the seat across from me.
“Sorry I’m late. My Uber got stuck in apocalyptic traffic, and then the driver insisted on telling me how he almost landed a role in Game of Thrones.”
“Fascinating. Should I assume punctuality is a foreign concept to you?”
Her eyes narrow just a fraction. “Should I assume Scottish charm is an exaggerated myth?”
So. She doesn’t intimidate easily.
The assistant steps in, and Jane orders a coffee with so many specifications the poor woman has to pull out a notebook to keep up.
“…and just a hint of cinnamon—but not too much, okay?”
The assistant nods, slightly overwhelmed, and quickly exits.
“Do you always order coffee like it’s a chemistry formula?” I ask, unable to resist.
“Only when I’m about to discuss selling my freedom for a million dollars,” she replies without missing a beat. “Moments like that deserve the exact coffee I want.”
Her bluntness throws me off slightly.
“I see your agent explained the situation.”
“Oh yes. Great pitch. ‘Wealthy man seeks temporary wife to secure inheritance. Bonus: castle included, eccentric grandmother free of charge.’ I almost asked if there was a full script or if we were improvising.”
I straighten, already irritated by her tone. “If you find this so amusing, why agree to meet?”
Her coffee arrives, briefly interrupting the tension. She takes a sip, closes her eyes for a moment, then looks at me again.
“Because I’m in a professional mess, and disappearing from Hollywood for a year might be exactly what I need. And because, contrary to what you seem to think, Mr. McGregor, I haven’t accepted anything yet. I don’t make major life decisions without meeting the person involved.”
“Reasonable,” I concede. “What would you like to know?”
“Why me? You could’ve chosen anyone. Why specifically an American actress?”
A fair question. I take a sip of my espresso before answering.
“For several reasons. I need someone who understands the temporary nature of this arrangement, someone who won’t develop emotional attachments.
Someone used to performing in public while keeping their private life separate.
Ideally, someone with a compelling reason to leave the United States—and to do so quickly. Say… tomorrow.”
Her eyes widen in surprise.
“And how did you find me?” she asks.
“My assistant conducted research. Your recent scandal suggested you might benefit from time away from the spotlight.”
A flush rises to her cheeks, equal parts embarrassment and irritation.
“So you specifically looked for a disgraced actress. Charming. I’m flattered.”
“I looked for someone whose interests align with mine,” I correct evenly. “A mutually beneficial arrangement.”
“A marriage of convenience. Very romantic.”
“Romance is not a requirement,” I reply. “Clarity and mutual understanding are.”
She leans forward, resting her elbows on the table. “Then let’s talk about those terms.”
I slide the folder from my briefcase and place it between us.
“It’s quite straightforward. We get legally married, you move to my family estate in Scotland, and we maintain the appearance of a normal marriage for approximately one year.
After that, we divorce discreetly, you receive the agreed payment, and we go our separate ways. ”
“And during that year?” she asks, arching a brow. “Am I expected to play the perfect little housewife? Make breakfast in an apron and smile sweetly while you go off to work?”
Her sarcasm is starting to grate.
“You would be expected to attend family and business events, interact convincingly with my relatives, and, more generally, avoid drawing attention to the artificial nature of our arrangement.”
She takes another sip of her coffee, studying me over the rim. “And your grandmother? My agent mentioned she’s… sharp.”
“Maggie is stubborn, not unkind. If we are convincing, she will have no reason to question us.”
Jane lets out a soft laugh. “You’ve never worked with actresses, have you?”
“I fail to see the connection.”
“We can spot fake emotions from a mile away. It’s literally our job. And if your grandmother is as perceptive as you say, she’s going to test us. Constantly.”
She isn’t wrong, which is precisely what makes it irritating.
“We’ll be prepared,” I say curtly. “And I don’t intend to lie to her about the arrangement itself—only about its duration.”
“And the living situation?” she asks, more directly now. “I assume I won’t be sharing your bedroom.”
I clear my throat. “Of course not. You’ll have your own private suite in a separate wing of the castle.”
“A private suite in a castle,” she repeats, amused. “You do realize how cliché that sounds? Like I’m about to become the mad wife locked in an attic somewhere.”
“I assure you we no longer keep madwomen in attics. The last case dates back to the nineteenth century, and it was merely a misunderstanding regarding inheritance rights.”
Her laugh this time is spontaneous, lighter than before. “Was that a joke, Mr. McGregor? I thought Scottish humor was limited to throwing logs in kilts.”
“It’s called the caber toss, and it’s a highly respected traditional sport.”
“Of course. Just like drinking whisky at eight in the morning is probably a ‘cultural practice.’”
Despite myself, I feel the corner of my mouth lift. “Only on rainy days. Which, admittedly, accounts for about three hundred days a year.”
She studies me with renewed curiosity. “You’re less robotic when you smile.”
“And you’re less irritating when you’re not insulting my country.”
She nods once. “Fair.”
A brief silence settles between us—less tense this time, but charged in a different way. She flips through the contract, pausing now and then to read more carefully.
“A million dollars,” she murmurs. “To play the perfect Scottish wife for a year.”
“That is correct.”
She looks up, suddenly serious. “And if I fail? If your grandmother doesn’t believe us? If this whole thing collapses?”
“Then I lose the family business,” I reply evenly. “And you return to Los Angeles earlier than planned, with compensation proportional to the time you’ve fulfilled your obligations.”
“Lovely. No pressure, then.”
“Pressure is part of the arrangement.”
She closes the folder and crosses her arms. “Why are you so determined to keep this company? You’re young, educated—you could build something else. Why fight this hard instead of letting your cousin take over?”
“Lachlan,” I say, my jaw tightening. “And it isn’t just a company. It’s my family’s legacy. My great-great-grandfather started it in a barn. My grandparents turned it into an international business without sacrificing tradition. My father devoted his life to it.”
I stop, surprised by the edge in my own voice.
Jane watches me quietly. “Your father?”
“He passed away. Car accident.”
Her expression softens. “I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.”
She nods and looks back down at the contract. “So, if I understand correctly, you need to be married before your next birthday to inherit?”
“That’s correct. My father believed a McGregor shouldn’t lead alone. That it takes two—partners.”
“That’s almost romantic,” she says lightly. “In a slightly outdated, patriarchal sort of way.”
I roll my eyes. “Thank you for the sociological commentary.”
“You’re welcome. Free of charge.”