Chapter 7
JANE
I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, trying to hype myself up.
“Come on, Jane. It’s just dinner. You survived Tropical Love and the reviews that came with it. You can survive a meal with your fake in-laws.”
My motivational speech is cut short by three sharp knocks on the door. Callum’s tense voice carries through the wood.
“Jane? My mother just arrived. Ten minutes early.”
Of course she did. Because apparently asking the universe for a few extra minutes to mentally prepare for a Scottish inquisition is too much.
“I’m coming!”
I smooth down my dress—definitely too elegant for a “family dinner” according to Callum, but honestly, if I’m going to die tonight, I might as well do it looking fabulous.
When I open the door, Callum studies me with an expression I’ve started to recognize as his version of concern. His brows are slightly drawn, his jaw tighter than usual.
“You remember our story?” he asks, like we’re about to infiltrate MI6 instead of going downstairs to eat.
“Let’s see,” I say, counting on my fingers. “We met at a work event in Los Angeles six months ago, it was love at first sight, we’ve been secretly doing long distance, and now we’re wildly in love. Did I miss anything?”
“Just the part where you don’t mention your… incident with that director.”
“Oh, you mean when I ‘lost my temper’ in public because a fifty-year-old man suggested I audition on his couch? That little detail?”
Callum pinches the bridge of his nose. “You know that’s not what I meant.”
“I know,” I sigh. “No embarrassing Hollywood stories, no inappropriate jokes, and definitely no mention that our marriage is a business arrangement with an expiration date.”
“Exactly.”
“Relax, Callum. I’m an actress, remember? Playing a role is literally my job.”
“Your last role was ‘woman crying in the rain’ in an antidepressant commercial,” he reminds me.
“And I was convincing,” I shoot back, nudging his shoulder. “Come on, Mr. Sunshine. Let’s go face the McGregor clan.”
As we descend the grand staircase—seriously, who needs that many steps?—my confidence starts to slip. The castle is intimidating during the day, but at night, with shadows flickering along stone walls and portraits that seem to follow you with their eyes, it’s downright terrifying.
“Your mother already hates me, doesn’t she?” I whisper as we near the drawing room.
“She doesn’t know you yet.”
“That is not a comforting answer.”
“My mother values tradition,” he says diplomatically. “She expected me to marry a well-bred Scottish woman with a family tree tracing back to Robert the Bruce.”
“Instead, you brought home an unemployed American actress whose greatest recent achievement is not falling into a mud puddle this morning.”
Before he can respond, we step into the drawing room—and the entire McGregor clan is waiting.
Maggie sits like a queen in an elegant tartan ensemble.
Keira lounges on the arm of a sofa, whisky in hand.
Lachlan is deep in conversation with a man I don’t recognize—probably Dougal, Callum’s right-hand man.
And at the center of it all, positioned like she was placed there for maximum dramatic impact, stands a woman in her fifties whose features mirror Callum’s—just sharper. Colder.
“Mother,” Callum says, stepping forward. “This is Jane.”
Isobel McGregor studies me like a particularly fascinating insect. I extend my hand with my brightest, most practiced smile—the one I usually reserve for skeptical producers.
“Hello, Mrs. McGregor.”
“Miss Carter,” she replies, her voice as warm as an arctic wind.
“Thank you for welcoming me to Castle McGregor. Callum has told me so much about this place—and your family…”
“Really?” she cuts in smoothly. “That’s interesting, considering he barely mentioned your existence until last week.”
And there it is. First direct hit.
I keep smiling. “Well, you know Callum. He’s very private when it comes to his personal life…”
“Not with his family.”
I feel Callum tense beside me. Thankfully, Maggie steps in.
“Isobel, you’ll have all of dinner to interrogate the poor girl. Let her breathe for five minutes.”
She winks at me, then nods toward Jamison. “I believe we’re ready to dine.”
Dinner is served in a dining room that looks like it belongs in Downton Abbey. A long oak table dominates the space, surrounded by chairs that have probably hosted generations of McGregors. Silver candelabras cast soft light across the room, and more stern-faced ancestors stare down from the walls.
I’m seated between Callum and Lachlan—which feels both reassuring and dangerous. Reassuring because Callum can step in if I crash and burn. Dangerous because Lachlan looks like he’s just waiting for that exact moment.
“So, Jane,” Isobel begins as Jamison serves us a rather mysterious-looking soup. “Callum tells me you’re an actress.”
The way she says actress sounds suspiciously close to con artist.
I take a sip of soup to buy time. It’s surprisingly good.
“Yes, that’s right,” I say with a smile. “Though I’ll admit, I’m no Meryl Streep.”
“And what films have you appeared in?” she presses. “Anything I might know?”
Callum clears his throat, ready to intervene, but I beat him to it.
“Unless you’re a fan of low-budget dramas and truly terrible movies, probably not. My most recent masterpiece was called Tropical Love, where I played a meteorologist who falls for a surfer during a hurricane. Trust me—it was even worse than it sounds.”
Keira bursts out laughing, and even Maggie smiles faintly. Isobel remains unmoved.
“I see. And how exactly did you meet my son?”
Panic rises in my chest. We practiced this. We rehearsed this. And yet suddenly my brain is as empty as my bank account.
“We met during one of my business trips to Los Angeles,” Callum says quickly. “At a professional event.”
“In a bar,” I blurt at the exact same time.
Our eyes meet. Pure panic.
“A hotel bar,” Callum corrects stiffly. “Where the professional event was being held.”
“Exactly!” I jump in, far too enthusiastically. “A very classy hotel bar. I was there because… well…”
“She was meeting a director about a potential role,” Callum supplies, trying to drag us back on script.
And that’s when my brain completely betrays me.
“Actually, I was working there as a waitress!” I announce brightly. “Between roles, you know—Hollywood can be rough.”
Callum nearly chokes on his soup.
Silence crashes over the table.
Isobel looks like she just bit into a lemon. Keira is visibly fighting laughter. Maggie watches me with renewed interest.
“A waitress?” Isobel repeats slowly. “My son met his future wife while she was serving him drinks?”
“Not exactly,” Callum cuts in. “Jane is joking. American humor.”
“No, no,” I insist with a wide smile. “It’s true! I spilled gin on his shirt. A very expensive shirt, actually. It was mortifying.”
Isobel turns a horrified look on Callum. “You never mentioned a gin incident.”
“I preferred to keep that to myself,” he says tightly.
“It was a defining moment for us,” I continue, unable to stop now. “Callum was so kind. Most men would’ve made a scene, but he just smiled and said he didn’t even like the shirt.”
“Callum? Kind about a ruined shirt?” Lachlan cuts in. “We’re definitely not talking about the same man.”
The look Callum shoots him could probably kill at ten paces.
“It was different,” I say, placing my hand over Callum’s in a soft, affectionate gesture. “I saw another side of him. It meant a lot.”
“Fascinating,” Maggie murmurs, her sharp gaze moving between us. “And what happened after this… gin incident?”
“We talked,” Callum says, regaining control. “Jane is a very interesting woman.”
“And he asked me to dinner to make up for my clumsiness,” I add. “A total gentleman.”
Jamison chooses that moment to clear our soup plates, giving Callum a chance to breathe—and shoot me a look that very clearly says What are you doing?
“And when exactly did all this happen?” Isobel continues.
“About six months ago,” we say in unison.
At least we’re consistent on that part.
“Six months,” she repeats slowly. “And you never told me, Callum. Not a word about this woman.”
“As Jane said, I’m private about my personal life.”
“You announce you’re marrying a stranger a week ago and call that private?”
“I wanted to be sure before introducing her,” he says—but even I can hear how thin that sounds.
Sensing he’s about to combust, I jump in again.
“The truth is, things were complicated at first. Long distance, ups and downs. It’s only recently that we realized how… um… right we are for each other.”
The hesitation is small, but I know Callum notices.
“And what made you realize that, Jane?” Maggie asks, her eyes never leaving my face. “What convinced you my grandson is the man for you?”
I pause, setting down my fork, taking a sip of water. I didn’t prepare for this.
I could give her a cliché. Something straight out of a rom-com.
But somehow, I know that won’t be enough for her.
“I went through a difficult time recently,” I say quietly. “In Hollywood. The kind of situation where you learn very quickly who your real friends are—and who aren’t.”
I surprise myself with the honesty in my voice.
“Callum was… steady. Solid. He never doubted me. Never questioned my side of the story. He offered support without expecting anything in return.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I feel him looking at me.
“And the way he talks about his family,” I continue, glancing around the table, “about the Highlands… there’s so much love there. Even when he pretends to be annoyed.”
A soft laugh escapes me.
“I realized I wanted to be part of that world. His world. I know it sounds fast. Maybe even a little crazy. But sometimes… you just know.”
Silence follows—but this time, it’s different.
Maggie studies me with something close to approval. Even Isobel seems momentarily thrown.
Jamison arrives with the main course, breaking the moment. Plates of something… brown are set in front of us.
I stare at it, trying to identify what I’m looking at.
“Haggis, Jane!” Lachlan says cheerfully. “Do you know what it’s made of?”
“Lachlan,” Callum warns.
“What? She should know what she’s eating.”
He turns to me, clearly enjoying this.
“It’s a mixture of sheep offal—heart, liver, lungs—mixed with oats and spices, traditionally cooked in the animal’s stomach. Delicious, right?”
My stomach flips. Organs. In a stomach. Who decided that was appetizing?
“It’s a national dish,” Callum says quietly. “You don’t have to—”
“No,” I cut in firmly. “I’m excited to experience Scottish traditions. All of them.”
I cut a piece and bring it to my mouth.
I’ve eaten strange things for roles—bugs for a survival commercial, fermented seaweed for a shipwreck film—but nothing prepared me for this.
And yet… after a brief internal scream (THAT’S LUNGS, JANE), I realize—it’s not bad.
“It’s delicious,” I declare, determined. “Spiced, but in a really good way.”
“Mistress Finley makes the best haggis in the Highlands,” Maggie says proudly. “Her family has prepared ours for three generations.”
“Then it’s an honor,” I say, bravely taking another bite.
The dinner continues like that—shifting between tension and unexpected moments of ease. I adapt as best I can, considering I’m eating sheep organs while being interrogated like a suspect on CSI: Highlands.
“And your parents, Jane?” Isobel asks as dessert—something with cream and raspberries—is served. “What do they think of this… sudden marriage?”
“My mother is thrilled,” I say easily. “She’s always had a weakness for British accents.”
“Scottish,” Callum corrects automatically.
“Scottish,” I amend, patting his hand like I’m soothing a grumpy child. “She’ll be at the wedding. My father, though… he hasn’t been in the picture for a long time.”
My voice shifts slightly on that last part. The first completely true thing I’ve said all evening.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Maggie says sincerely. “Family is everything.”
“That’s what I’ve learned from Callum,” I say softly. “It’s one of the things I admi—”
A loud crash followed by an indignant bleat cuts me off.
Every head turns toward the dining room entrance.
There, standing like a woolly conqueror among the shattered remains of what used to be an elegant porcelain centerpiece… is Hamish.
“Hamish!” Maggie exclaims.
The sheep—completely unbothered—struts into the room like he just got promoted to chairman of McGregor & Sons.
Pure panic spikes through me.
I hate farm animals.
“Don’t move,” Callum murmurs. “He can be unpredictable with strangers.”