Two years ago, James Fraser lost his wife to the pandemic. She left him with four children, depression, and PTSD. He gave up on love a long time ago, and certainly isn't looking for it now.
Last year, Claire Beauchamp won a workplace harassment suit against Dougal MacKenzie. She remains strong, independent, and happily single. Who needs love when life is good?
Can two people brought together by a typo on a passport, a vindictive uncle, and sudden, unlooked-for, overwhelming passion find long lasting happiness? Through it all, there are secrets, but no lies.
Modern day AU with a twist. Apparently not for everyone, so please buckle up, and keep your arms and legs inside the ride vehicle at all times. Thank you for your cooperation.
NOW COMPLETE, and with CHAPTER TITLES! Thank you all so much for reading. Enjoy, my lovelies!
Chapter One - A Funny Thing Happened On My Way To The Office
I pull into my parking space in front of the Leoch building in an excellent mood. It is a fine Spring morning in Boston, I have a cup of coffee and a bagel in hand, I am a branch manager of Leoch Foods Inc., well paid, well respected, and, though I say it myself, well dressed.
I walk though the front door and greet Mrs. Fitz – our cheery, redoubtable receptionist, and then step blithely into the elevator that opens the very moment I walk up to it, as if by magic.
Life is so good, it's almost too good to be true.
And so, of course, it is.
Mary Hawkins, my secretary, comes up to me the minute I get out of the elevator, saying in a low voice, "M-miss Claire? Y-you have a visitor, m-miss."
"At this time of day? Who?"
She looks instantly highly uncomfortable, "H-him." She gestures vaguely.
I wrinkle my forehead in confusion, "Him?"
"Y-yes."
"Who is "him"?"
She gestures again, "Y-you know. Him."
My eyes go wide, "Him? He has the gall to show his face around here? After last year?"
"App-parently, miss."
"You've put him in my office?"
"Y-yes miss."
I hand her my coffee and the small bag containing my bagel. "Guard these, will you Mary?"
"Yes m-miss," she smiles, and walks before me into our office space.
I give a bit of a nod to most of the folks who say hello to me from the general office area, but most of my attention is on the clear glass wall of my corner office – behind which I can see the tall, imposing figure of my visitor.
My highly, highly unwelcome visitor.
I smooth the front of my skirt suit, and shake my curls back behind my shoulders, and walk boldly into my office.
I sit down behind my desk, turn on my computer, and do most of the rest of my morning set-up routine before I let myself acknowledge him, and even then I don't say anything – choosing instead to merely stare expectantly at him.
"Weel, an' a right good mornin' tae ye as weel, Ms. Beauchamp," he says, huffily.
"What do you want, Dougal?"
"Weel now. A polite good mornin' for a start. . ."
I clench my jaw, "Good morning. What do you want?"
His eyes twinkle, slyly, "Ah yes, ye'er always a businesswoman furst, a'course, Ms. Beauchamp, how could I ha' forgotten?"
"How indeed," I say flatly, "What do you want?"
"Weel now, tha's nae small question. Y'see it's this way. . ."
He launches into an over-wordy, and clearly rehearsed spiel, so full of flattery and flowery language it would be positively indecent to repeat it, but a few key phrases do stand out.
"My nephew. . ."
"Green card. . ."
"Really, all quite legal. . . "
"It would be a shame if. . ."
"The children, you see. . ."
"An' all because of a stupid clerical error. . ."
"Wouldnae need tae be any real inconvenience tae ye at all. . ."
By this point, I've had quite enough.
"Stop, stop, Dougal. . ." I sigh, "Let me see if I'm understanding you, okay?"
He shrugs, "Go ahead."
"Your nephew needs to get married in order to continue to live and work in the U.S. Right?"
"Aye."
"And, presumably, he wants to marry a woman, yes?"
"Indeed so."
"And due to a highly unfortunate clerical error, this marriage needs to happen within the next two days."
"Ye'er three fer three."
"So. . ." I rub my temples, "The first person – the first person – you thought to ask for such a massive favour. . . was the woman who won a workplace harassment suit against you last year?"
"Aye, a'course," he nods, "Ye'er the perfect choice."
"Now see, that's where you lose me. . ."
"Agch, come on – isnae it obvious?"
"Not to me, it isn't."
"Now then, las-," he checks himself sharply as he remembers the exact terms of our court settlement, "Ms. Beauchamp," he amends, "Don't ye see? That lawsuit means ye'er the last person in the world tae be marrying wee Jamie for convenience – an' ye most ceartainly wouldnae be doin' so as a personal favour tae me!"
My lips twist into a sneer.
"Correct on both counts. So why should I? Why would I? At all?"
He takes out his phone and taps it a few times, handing it to me once he's brought up the right picture, "Heer. Tak a look."
The photo is of a tall, red-headed, shockingly handsome man, sitting on a towel at the beach, grinning ecstatically into the camera while he plays with four little girls – the two larger of which have his long red curls, while the third has long brown braids, and the smallest - heartrendingly tiny – is almost impossibly blonde. They are all grinning at the camera too, even as they clamber all over his legs and arms.
"He's a widower, y'see," says Dougal, smoothly, "He's only in this country for his job, an' he only works at his job sae he can support his girls. Think of it as doin' them a favour, no' me, aye?"
I scoff, "As if I'd ever do you a favour."
"Precisely," he nods, and takes back his phone, "Sae will ye do it?"
I cross my arms and narrow my eyes at him. I'm still suspicious. He hasn't yet explained what he is getting out of all of this. And I'm sure he is getting something – Dougal MacKenzie isn't the man to go to any trouble for purely altruistic reasons, let alone this much trouble.
But the thought of that smiling, caring father, and his four loving, happy girls has touched me, I must admit. Dougal always did know how to play the sob story angle. In fact, if it hadn't been for a very canny judge, he might have had my harassment case against him thrown out of court. He came within a hair's breadth of it anyway.
But thankfully, the Honourable Geillis Duncan had seen through him, right enough. Just like I can now.
But, that man, and those girls – they aren't just a sob story. They're real, and in need. In need of something I can do.
I think again of those wide, joyous smiles, and that sweet-eyed, handsome face. . .
"Give me until lunchtime to think about it."
He shrugs, nonchalantly, "Aye, fair enough."
After he leaves, I retrieve my coffee and bagel from Mary, in a towering, despicable, horrendous mood.
Chapter Two - A Queen In Her Castle
As I walk up to the Castle Leoch location nearest my workplace, I'm not nervous.
Nope.
Instead, I'm thinking about the first time I'd heard of Castle Leoch – the day it won "Best New Themed National Restaurant Chain" from the Restaurateurs Guild Of America. I had been in-between jobs that day – had been in-between jobs for six weeks longer than I had planned to be, in fact – and such an up-and-coming business like Leoch caught my eye. No doubt they were still in the risk-taking stage of their business – the part where hiring a female with a masters degree in business management to an actual management position is not only allowed, it is encouraged.
Thankfully, my hunch had paid off for both of us, although, I'm glad now Colum had hired me to run the parent branch of Leoch Foods, rather than the Castle Leoch chain itself.
Running a restaurant chain at all has been hell the past few years. I can only imagine what running a themed restaurant has been like. . .
Probably like some unnamed circle of hell Dante never mentioned, where mariachi bands play nothing but Billy Ray Cyrus and the Baha Men on an endless loop, and the only thing to eat is Cup Noodle ramen and lime Jell-o, and the unit of currency is the word "moist". . .
I shake my head.
No. I'm not nervous AT ALL.
I told Dougal at lunch that I would not marry his nephew – not unless I could meet and speak to him first.
"And at least give him a chance to propose on his own," I'd said, "Poor fellow."
Dougal had agreed, only slightly reluctantly reserving the private dining room at the nearest Castle Leoch location for just two people tonight.
The two being me and this "wee Jamie" Dougal is so harping on. In between the bouts of lavish praise I don't believe a word of, I did manage to get him to tell me a few more facts, however.
This nephew's real name is James Fraser.
He has been a widower for two years.
His wife's name was Annalise.
What story we want to go with – how we met, how long we've been dating, why we decided to get married, all that – will be completely up to us.
After the green card interview, all deals are off – given a positive result from said interview, of course. We will then be free to annul or otherwise dissolve our marriage at any time we choose.
"Oh, and Leoch Foods will be paying any and all expenses I may incur from this scheme, Dougal. Up to and including a Vera Wang wedding dress and a honeymoon cruise to the Caribbean, should they be necessary. Are we clear?"
He had grumbled at that, but agreed.
And so, here I am, at the nearest Castle Leoch location, not being nervous.
I briefly consider going in by the service entrance, but quickly decide I want to see how the new socially distanced table layout is working. Fitting into the cultural and culinary gap between Medieval Times and Chipotle, Castle Leoch has always been far more flexible about seating arrangements than your average sit-down establishment, and far more open to delivery/no contact options than your average fast food or pickup place.
As it turns out, Scottish food travels well. Meal kits and deliveries have skyrocketed in the past two and half years, putting serious strain on our haggis supply chain for the first time since I've been working for them.
And, as it turns out, staged recreations of famous Scottish battles, including kilts, bagpipes, fake blood and real horses, make for one rip-snorter of a popular YouTube channel. In fact, I had just spoken to Angus Mhor – Castle Leoch's performances coordinator – a few days ago, to look into expanding our YouTube presence with two or three "behind the scenes" channels, featuring some of the more popular characters from the shows.
As I cross the main floor on the way to the private dining room, I see this evening's claymore wielding chieftain has just reached the climax of his performance, shouting something utterly incomprehensible in Gaelic before charging headlong into simulated cannon fire. The rapt audience cheers heartily – making quite a din, despite the tables being so much more widely spaced than they would regularly be.
That's good, I think to myself. We're at capacity on the ground, and with such spirited performers like that in our employ, is it any wonder Angus told me Leoch's entertainment branch currently has three separate offers to do Netflix specials?
That whole running with your eyes wide open into certain disaster thing is quite compelling, I must say.
I blink.
Oh. . . right.
Yeah.
I settle myself for a second before I go into the private dining room. There's no reason this has to be a certain disaster. No reason at all.
I fling the door open.
Jamie is pacing around near the window that looks out over the performance area, visibly almost as nervous as I definitely do not feel.
He jumps as soon as he sees me, running to my side, and extending a hand.
"Ms. Beauchamp?" he asks, almost pitifully eager, "I'm sorry, but Dougal didnae tell me your full name. . ."
I reach out to take his hand, "Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp," I say, confidently, "And I'm glad to hear Dougal has been keeping my name out of his mouth."
The energetic and almost disturbingly handsome young man in front of me blushes to nearly as dark a red as his hair, "James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser."
And then, our hands touch. Briefly, but firmly. His skin is hot and dry, but he is trembling a little bit.
I tell myself that's why I feel an electric pulse thrill through my fingers at his touch. Of course, that's it. That must be it. That must be the reason why a sweetly painful warmth jolted though my arm and has now settled in my stomach, radiating a sudden aching, a hungry neediness all the way to my toes.
"Shall we sit?" he asks, cupping my elbow, and gesturing to the table.
His words are warm honey, poured over soft, fluffy pancakes, and covered in rich, melty butter.
I trace the outline of his lips with my eyes, and wonder what his tongue would feel like, gently caressing against my own. . .
I'm suddenly having trouble breathing.
"Y-yes," I say, absently, "And order us a whisky. A large one."
He grins boyishly at that, and this time my heart stops working as well as my lungs.
Okay.
Okayokayokay. . .
Now I'm nervous.
Chapter Three - Getting To Show You
"So that's how wee Bree had ta get her first haircut," Jamie chuckles, "An' a'course none of the girls have been allowed ta have bubblegum in the house ever since."
I smile easily into my bread pudding. Jamie has turned out to be a far better storyteller than his uncle ever was, and I have highly enjoyed his many and varied tales of life with four young girls. Almost as much as I have enjoyed my meal.
Which I did like, as usual – free access to the Castle Leoch kitchens being one of my favourite perks on this job – but nothing about it was anywhere near as luscious Jamie's frankly intoxicating presence.
"Care for another dram?" he asks, gesturing with the bottle. His voice is low and smooth, full of quiet, lyrical dignity, and rich, rolling "r's".
"Mmm, please." I hold out my glass, eager for more of the mild single malt he ordered for us. I've been sipping on it throughout the meal, and it accompanied the minced beef pies, cheesy broccoli, and mashed buttered turnips excellently.
Now to see if it goes equally well with dessert. . .
The cuff of Jamie's jacket brushes the sleeve of my dress as he reaches over to pour my drink.
I pull away a little bit, and take another bite of bread pudding, desperately trying to ignore the sweet, tingly sensations spreading all over my arm from that point of contact.
Contact? What contact? We didn't even touch that time.
What on earth is wrong with me?
I've never been this aware of a man before. . .
"Weel now," he says gently, pouring his own drink, "Ye've listened very prettily ta me natter on and on about my girls, but we both ken they arenae why ye'er here-"
"Oh, but aren't they?" I interrupt, "I mean, I highly doubt being forced to move to Scotland would hurt any of you very much – so I assume your wish to stay here is for their benefit, for the most part, and therefore, my involvement – ultimately – is really only for their benefit as well, right?"
He blinks, mouth still open in the middle of a word, "Hphh, weel, I suppose tha's one way ta put it. . ." He muses, "Really it's only this clerical error, y'see," he pulls his passport out from his hip pocket and presents it to me, open to the relevant page, "Which makes it so's I cannae stay here past midnight this upcomin' Friday, unless I'm married."
"Which is nonsense," I say, sharply, "Since you're working, and well established, and your wife died in this country." I gentle my voice considerably, "May I. . . ask how?"
"The first wave of the pandemic," he sighs, voice slow and rough with the kind of grief the whole world was feeling then, "She was still low after having given birth ta Joanie eighteen months before, an' a virulent 'flu like that jus'. . . took her. There wasnae any warning, an' we didnae get ta say goodbye – no' properly. Two days in the hospital, an' no visitors allowed. . ." he trails off, lost in the bleak injustice of it.
The hollowness of his voice, and empty look in his eyes wring a sympathetic pang from my heart. The true-hearted widower, devoted to his children and the memory of lost love. . . was there any more patently romantic figure in all of Western society? I mean, other than sparkle-skinned vegetarian vampires, of course. . .
I take a sip of my whisky, and tell myself to stop being such a fool.
"I'm so sorry, Jamie. Sounds like you've had a terrible time."
"Aye, it wasnae easy there for a bit. An' what with one thing an' another after that. . ." he shifts uncomfortably in his seat, "I feel such an edjit. . ."
"Surely not. . ."
"Oh, aye – I let the girls' passports lapse, y'see. So if I'm deported, it'll be six months or so before they could join me in Scotland."
"Oh," I say, realizing, "But that's not legal Jamie – they can't separate you. That new law, wasn't this sort of thing exactly what it was all about?"
"Weel, maybe that would apply ta Sally an' Joan, but Faith an' Bree were born in Scotland, so that just adds a whole other layer ta it – an' who can say how long the official machine would take, untanglin' such a mess?"
"Surely you could tell the passport office about the clerical error – try to fix the problem in that direction, I mean. Or maybe you could apply for emergency child passports. You must be in fairly good standing overall, surely you'd qualify for those? In fact, I think families in your position automatically qualify for them now."
He sighs deeply, "Ye aren't wrong, Sassenach, but ye really hit on something when ye said I wanted ta stay here for the girls' benefit," He twirls his glass slowly, and takes a contemplative sip, "Y'see, Colum wants me back in Scotland – he's aiming ta train me up ta take his place in the company. But I don't want ta be a CEO – nor anything close. I'm happy doing what I do – it gives me time ta spend with the girls, and doesna stress me out too much." He gives me a sidelong glance, "An' since you'r you, I'll tell ye this too – Dougal has his eye on the CEO spot, an' will do jus' about anything ta keep me in this country, away from Colum."
"Ahhh, so that explains it!" I exclaim, "I was wondering why he cared so much about you."
"Mmph. He doesna. No' really," he shrugs, "But with the situation so tangled, and the deadline so close, we agreed that me getting married was much the simplest way – provided that the woman was willin', a'course."
There is a long pause. I lean back in my chair.
"And so, here we are."
"Aye. Here we are."
Silence falls again.
I think of the three relationships I've had that might be classified as romantic. Tom Christie, my highschool boyfriend, had made out with me behind the gym, and taken me out to dinner and to movies, and had taken me to the prom, but dropped me like a rotten potato the minute I refused to put out. Then there was John Grey, the first boyfriend I had in college, but he was deeply in the closet, and liked me specifically because I refused to put out. When he finally found a boyfriend, I had rebounded into the arms of Frank Randall, and spent two months feeling deliciously naughty over making out with a professor. That was until I realized he was such a deathly dull human being he actually thought inviting me to his office so we could research his family tree together made for a good date.
I was out of there the minute I realized he was being literal when asked me to "collate some documents", not euphemistic.
I had dedicated myself to my career after that, deliberately choosing it over the traditionally expected domestic life. Of course, I never gave up my personal life - I've made lots of friends over the years, both male and female, and been on lots of dates. But since Frank, I've never been out with anyone more than once, and there's never been more than a handshake or a peck on the cheek to say goodnight. It isn't that I don't want more – it isn't that I can't handle more. It's only that no man I've ever been out with has inspired a connection deep enough to convince me more would be anything worthwhile.
I look over at the richly curling auburn hair and deeply glimmering blue eyes of the man so prosaically asking me to marry him, and a shiver runs up my spine.
I've never felt a deep connection to a man. . . until now.
"Well," I say, softly, "I'm willing."
He smiles thinly, "So, the fact that I have four children doesnae bother ye?"
"No."
And truly, it doesn't. I've always loved children. My choice not to have them up until now was personal, not ethical. Four girls sounds like a lot - no doubt it will be a lot. But, this thing I feel for Jamie. . .
Some part of me just knows - in this case, the effort will be worthwhile.
However. . .
Perhaps it's time to see if this connection I'm feeling runs both ways.
I give a mischievous smirk, and meet Jamie's eyes squarely, "Not unless it bothers you that I'm a virgin."
Chapter Four - I Like It Like That
The silence between us is long and profound.
Jamie's eyes widened at my statement, but otherwise he doesn't react. Which in itself is impressive, really. I've used my virgin state more than once to successfully frighten off certain kinds of over-interested dates – it's the perfect scare material for the sort of men who are instantly turned off when you suggest an encounter with any kind of meaning to it. Jamie though, is taking it as well as anyone ever has – merely looking at me with an unblinking disbelief that slowly morphs into confusion, and from there, into wonder.
How?
The word is written across his face, so clearly there's no need for him to speak it.
"Oh, not that I'm ignorant, of course, or anything near to it," I say cheerfully, "I'm hardly a nun. I've done everything but the deed, with more than one man, and myself, thank you very much."
He finally opens his mouth to speak, but it still takes a few seconds for his words to emerge.
"Lass, I dinnae. . . I never meant. . . I never intended – I never thought that ye. . . that we, I mean. . ." He looks around awkwardly, and then, with gentle, tentative earnestness, he puts a hand on my shoulder, "Claire. Ye've kent me less than a day. An' with the ceremony ta happen in two days at the latest, I never expected ye ta. . . Christ, Mary and God above. . ." He puts his head in his hands, "I'm making a right bollocks of this, aren't I?"
I reassuringly pat the top of his head, "No, quite the opposite, really. I'm sorry Jamie - I usually only spring that on men I want to scare off. . . But I'm glad to see you don't scare that easily."
He looks up at me, "D'ye want ta know the truth?"
"Always."
"When I asked Dougal for help finding someone, I was expecting him ta produce some sort of dry, uninteresting secretary, or a plain, passionless manager type – someone more interested in her ledgers and Leoch's stock price than in helpin' a random stranger wi' his personal troubles." He leans both elbows rather heavily on the table, "I was expecting all this ta jus' be a straightforward business proposal, with us exchanging our signatures two days from now, an' then spending just enough time together after that ta pass the green card interview in a few weeks. An' then an annulment in a month or two, wi' the whole thing forgotten by this time next year."
I nod sympathetically. That's pretty much what I had expected too. Or rather, had somehow dreaded. . .
"T'was all goin' ta be so simple, so easy. . . so. . . " he gestures vaguely, "emotionless. . ."
"So uncomplicated."
He looks at me intently, "Exactly."
My stomach clenches, "And now?"
"Now?" he huffs a laugh, "Uncomplicated went out the window the second ye walked in, Sassenach."
I give him a slightly dubious glance, "That's the second time you've called me that. I know what it means, you know. . ."
He waves a hand, half in apology, half in dismissal, "But I like the differentness of ye, Claire. Whatever Dougal was thinkin' last year, he had ta have been plain daft ta have even tried it." He leans towards me, and puts a hand down softly next to mine, "The second I saw ye I kent ye were no' ta be meddled wi' – neither yer mind, nor yer person, nor yer emotions. Ye'er special, mo nighean." He brushes his fingers up against mine, "Unique. Too good for a dry, businesslike marriage – an' far too good for a foolish auld mug like me. . ."
My stomach unclenches, and swoops dizzyingly at his touch. I desperately want to grab his hand, and slide our fingers together to a frankly obscene extent. . .
Then his words register, and I blink.
"Wait - did you really just tell me I'm not like other girls?"
"I. . . suppose I did."
"Wow," I say, grinning, "That should feel awkward. And cliché. And horribly, horribly flat."
He looks down at our still touching hands, and then back up to my eyes, "But. . . ?"
"But. . ." I run my fingertips over the ridge of his knuckles, and down the back of his hand, thrilling to the warmth of his skin, "I can't explain it. Not sure if I want to. . ." I meet his gaze, my heart leaping at how frighteningly easy it would be to get lost in those fathomless blue eyes, "I'm completely under your power, James Fraser. . . and happy to be there."
He nods, a somber look hardening on his face, and he scowls down at the table. Then he jerks himself upright, shoves his chair backwards, and is suddenly on one knee before me, gently clasping one of my hands in both of his.
"If we do this, we'er goin' ta do it right."
He fishes a plain silver ring out of the pocket of his coat, and proffers it to me, "Claire Beauchamp, will ye marry me?"
I present my left hand to him, and he slips the ring onto my third finger.
"Yes," I say simply.
We have our stories yet to settle, a wedding to plan, green card interviews to prepare for, and we have to meet each other's families, not to mention who knows how many other laborious and complicated things that may yet get in our way. . .
But now. . .
Right now. . .
I'm not quite sure how the kiss started, or which of us started it, but his mouth is warm and delicious, he smells like whisky, his hands are in my hair, my fingers are digging into his back. . . and for the briefest, most infinite of moments, the entire outside world doesn't matter.
Chapter Five - Well That Escalated Quickly
I keep my eyes closed for several long seconds after his lips leave mine, needing the space that darkness gives me, and the separation it puts between us. Desperately, I try to reconstruct at least a fragment of the woman I was before I walked into this room.
It has only been a couple of hours, but it has been at least three lifetimes too, and I've lost track of exactly who I am. . .
If I open my eyes, I'll have to speak to him.
I've never fallen in love at first sight before. I have no idea what to say.
But my arms are still wrapped around him, and he's so big and solid and warm, and his wide, dry palms are still braced behind my jaw, warming the tips of my ears. . .
The imprint of his mouth is still tingling across mine. If I licked my lips I could taste him.
Presumably, I'm going to have to say something.
And, very likely, it would be wise to say something other than "Oh god, I love you, I love you so much, I didn't know it was possible to love anyone like this, please god never stop kissing me," over and over and over – which is all I feel like saying at the moment.
Come on Beauchamp! Get it together!
If I could face down Dougal MacKenzie, a man I despise, then I can face up to Jamie Fraser, a man I definitely do not.
I take a long, slow, deep breath, and tentatively peer up at him.
And it turns out I don't have to say anything at all.
He's wearing such a soft, sweet, wondering look. The kind of look that doesn't demand answers, or any conversation, only asks that the moment be experienced.
Well. That sure is something, isn't it?
He holds my glance just as gently as his hands are cradling my head, almost like the touch of even my eyes is precious to him.
Something warm starts in my bones. Something that feels remarkably like. . . trust.
Then he rests his forehead against mine, and slides his hands down around my shoulders, holding me closer.
I lean into him, blinking slowly, as though wrapped in a hazy, blissful dream, full of fragrant flowers, swaying trees, and distant, misty sunsets. . .
All of which makes it a highly inconvenient time for me to realize that neither of us have actually said "I love you" yet. . . and that he may not in fact feel the same way I do at all.
He said I was better than a dry, businesslike marriage, and that whatever we do, we were going to do right – but he hasn't actually said that our marriage will be more than that, now, has he?
One earth-shattering kiss and a really good hug do not a relationship make. They don't even promise that there will be a relationship.
We met less than three hours ago. We know very nearly zilch about each other. And we're getting married in two days time.
My glowing dream evaporates in a burst of good, solid practicality, and I just barely manage to keep myself from dying of embarrassment.
My arms fall limply to my sides.
Right.
Where were we?
"Well," I say, with a false brightness that is all too obvious, "We have a story we need to invent, don't we?"
He looks quite confused for a second or two, poor fellow, but mercifully he lets the moment pass.
"Aye, I suppose we do."
"No 'suppose' about it – we have to come up with something thoroughly plausible." I pull my phone out of my pocket and start making notes, "How we met, why we met, why no one saw us meet, why no one has seen us together until now, how long ago that was, why we started dating, how long we've been dating-"
"Whoa, whoa, lass," he puts a light hand on my wrist, "One thing at a time, aye? An' let's start easy – is it at all likely that we met because of work?"
"I don't know – is it?"
"Weel, I ken ye'er branch manager over here. Colum is yer direct superior, aye?"
"Pretty much. Technically I answer to the board of directors, but Colum has all of them nicely tamed. Apparently I'm in good with Colum ever since I didn't badmouth the company during the lawsuit last year – but I haven't tested the connection. Mostly I just want to live a modest life and be left alone. . ."
He chuckles a bit, "I ken the words of yer wee court order, Sassenach. T'was all over the papers at the time."
I wave my notoriety away, "Never mind all that. I'm a branch manager for Leoch Foods. Okay then. So what do you do? Up until now, I didn't even know for sure you worked for Leoch. . ."
He shrugs, a bit vaguely, "I'm head meal designer over in R&D."
"Oh really?"
"Aye. I've personally developed at least fifty percent of Castle Leoch's menu, an' it was my idea we start selling meal kits when the lockdown happened."
I smile. I've made liberal use of Leoch's meal kit delivery service over the past year and a half, ever since I fell in love with their signature slow-cooked creamy chicken stew. I've only just eaten, and still my mouth waters at the thought of it. . .
It takes a minute for my brain to catch up with the rest of me.
"Oh. Oh, wait. . . so that means. . . you're Alex MacKenzie? The chef who writes all the instruction cards?"
He smiles a bit ruefully, "Aye, that's my nom de plume - or nom de cuisine, more like. Colum insisted that Leoch needed ta present a united MacKenzie front for marketing purposes." He shrugs, "I remain unconvinced it's necessary. But it's two of my middle names, so why not?"
"Why not indeed?"
"So, how did ye ken that name of mine, lass?"
"Oh, I'm one of the official in-house testers for our meal kits. And I buy them quite often too." I grin, "Your meal instructions have taught me the right way to fry an egg, and how to sear a steak, and make mashed potatoes from scratch, and poach fish, and make chicken noodle soup, and, oh! - dozens of things!"
He jerks back a little, surprised, "Christ Sassenach, ye couldnae do any of that before?"
"Well, I could open tins and heat stuff up over a campfire, and pour hot water into dehydrated food packets, of course," I shrug, "But besides making the best hot dogs and sausages, and a truly smashing cup of coffee – even if I do say so myself - that sort of cooking didn't really teach me how to do much of practical everyday value. You see, there's really no point in learning how to make a proper omelet when all you have to work with is boiling water, dehydrated eggs, milk powder, and tinned mushrooms."
His nose wrinkles in barely restrained disgust, "What were yer parents thinkin' of, Sassenach?"
I shake my head, "Not my parents – my uncle Lambert." I smile affectionately, "We all call him Lamb, though. He was an archaeologist. He took me on one of his digs almost every summer during my school years. Egypt, Jordan, Syria, Greece, Crete, even Israel – I've been all over the Ancient Near East. Mother and dad said it would be educational – and it was, of course – just not terribly classy when it came to the camp grub." I smile into the rush of fond memories, "But other than that they were beautiful experiences, and I'm glad I had them." I pause, and just let myself remember for a bit. "Lamb's retired now – and he lives with my parents, so you'll get to meet him."
"Aye. I look forward ta it."
"And you can develop a dish called 'Uncle Lamb's Stew', and I'll make it for him, and everything will be right under heaven. . ."
He smiles indulgently at me for a second, but then his expression morphs into something far more contemplative.
"Weel now, tha's an idea, isn't it?" he asks.
"What is?"
"For our story, lass. You came down ta the R&D building one night, for whatever reason, I was workin' late, an' that's how we met. I made ye my world-famous cranachan-"
"Mmm. I do love a good cranachan. . ."
"Naturally. A'course ye do - ye'er a woman of eminent good sense," he tosses his head and smiles with a highly amusing false hauteur.
I can't help but chuckle.
"Are ye laughing at me, Sassenach?" he presses a hand to his breastbone in mock offense.
"I most certainly am!" I reply.
His face sobers quickly, and his eyes gentle into something quietly earnest, "Weel. . ." he muses, "Tha's promising."
After a few seconds, I pull my eyes away, afraid that if I look at him too long, I'll find myself helplessly kissing him again.
I clear my throat, though rather unconvincingly, "Well, go on then – what happened after you made me your world-famous cranachan?"
For answer, he leans arrogantly on the table, smirks in a most unfairly attractive manner, and says in a broad, purring Scottish drawl, "An' t'rest is hestory."
And heaven help me, I almost believe it.
"We. . ." I lose my voice for a frustrating second or two, ". . .we had better be a little more specific than that. . ."
We spend the next hour or so coming up with ideas, ironing out details, making plans, booking flights, and taking full advantage of Dougal's promise to fund the entire venture.
At last, we sit back, savouring the final two nips in our bottle of whisky.
He gives a long, deep sigh, "We'ev accomplished so much in such a short time I ought ta feel accomplished Sassenach – but all I am is tired."
"Mm," I hum, and pass a hand over my eyes, "I hear that. Let's leave the rest of the heavy lifting for tomorrow, okay?"
"Ughh," he moans, "Tha' means packing. I hate packing."
I lightly swat his knee, "It's for your wedding, silly. Suck it up."
"Oh, I ken, I ken. . ." his face brightens suddenly, "Will ye help me? Tonight?"
"Jamie, I don't think-"
"Jus' with the formal clothes, a'least? I'm hopeless wi' tie pins and cufflinks an' all the vital fripperies like tha'. They need a woman's touch. . ." he looks at me pleadingly, "Please? Jus' ta get it ovar wi'?"
"Jamie. . ." I sigh tiredly, feeling myself beginning to weaken. . .
But before I can continue the thought, he gives a distinctly Scottish grunt, has finished his drink, called an Uber, slipped on his outdoor jacket, and has extended a hand to me.
"C'mon lass. Let me show ye my home, aye?"
Trembling a bit, I finish my own drink, and then, very slowly, I put my hand in his.
Chapter Six - Red Flags, Orange Crush
I keep expecting the Uber ride to get awkward. Like one or the other of us will finally realize that we've shared too much between us far too fast, or that there's only the slimmest chance even half of our plans will work at all, or simply that we're two strangers in a third stranger's car, and isn't that weird?
But the awkward feelings never come, chased away by our easy, friendly chatter. We talk about food, and sports, and household chores we like and don't like, and which vegetables taste the weirdest after being frozen, and our childhood fears, and our favourite animals, and how cool it would be to live on Mars.
A tiny, distant part of my brain is utterly flabbergasted at how easy this all is. I wasn't even this friendly with Joe until that semester we both took way too many units and ended up pulling a frightening number of all-nighters at the same Starbucks together. We had known each other well enough to speak to before that, but The Semester From Hell was when we became a team. He's HQ, and I'm LJ, and together we are Double Stuff.
Don't ask me to explain – because I quite literally can't.
All I know is this – once you stay awake for 36 hours, subsisting on Fair Trade chocolate, BBQ potato chips, and green tea kombucha, shit gets weird. But, once you see someone's "awake for 36 hours" face, and decide to be friends anyway, weird is okay.
And that's how I feel with Jamie. Sure, this is weird – all of it is weird. But, with him, for some reason, weird is okay.
And then we're pulling into his driveway, and he's paying the driver, and I realize the trip went so fast I haven't even noticed my surroundings until now.
It looks like he lives in a nice part of town – with the streetlamps illuminating fences and trees and little gardens all up and down street. Everything looks clean and quaint, and almost stereotypically American.
I smile a bit at my too staunchly ingrained British sensibilities. I was born here, but my parents raised me to be English, and nothing else. Fortunately, I had Lamb too, and I absorbed a good bit of his philosophy of scientific pragmatism as well. I usually try to go with whatever works the best in any situation, and if I turn out to be wrong, well, no harm no foul – I just alter my ideas and try again.
Jamie comes up next to me, having said a few extra words to the Uber driver, and guides me by the elbow up to his door. There is the chink and rattle of keys, and then we're standing side by side in the warm, stuffy dark of a hallway.
"Porch light s'broken," he murmurs, and shuffles his way over to a nearby table, and clicks on a little orange-shaded lamp.
In this new rush of warm light, his hair shines even more richly red than before, and with a little sigh, I lean against the wall, slightly tipsy with the thought of running my fingers through those curls, thoroughly mussing them – and then delicately brushing them back from those clear blue eyes of his, and with one fingertip tracing the line of bone above his brows, down his temple and across his cheek, to end in the little dip in the softly curved bow of his lips. . .
"Has anyone ever told you you're beautiful, Jamie?" I murmur unguardedly.
His eyes snap to mine, "No' unless they were tryin' ta. . . extort somthin' from me. . ." He comes up close to me, and gently takes my chin in his hand.
"Not even your wife?"
He clicks his tongue, "Mm. No. Y'see, Annalise was so wee – such a tiny, delicate, exquisite creature, it hardly mattered how I looked – I always seemed a great lumbering brute next ta her. . ."
He leans on the wall behind my head, slowly inching our faces closer.
"Oh?" I breathe, and slide one hand up his chest and curl my fingers around the solid joint of his shoulder, "A wonderfully big, strapping man like you – and no one has ever genuinely told you you're pretty?"
He shakes his head, so close now his nose briefly brushes mine, "An' ye'ed bettar be careful, Sassenach."
"Oh really?" I bring my other hand up, and slip it behind his neck. My fingers thrill at the touch of his clean, smooth skin, and the workings of the sinewy, heavy cords of his throat, "And why is that?"
"Ye'el. . ." he pauses, and swallows noisily, "Ye'el be givin' me a swollen head. . ."
I can feel the breath of his whispered words now – tiny puffs of warm air against my waiting lips.
"Well? There are worse things. . ."
His mouth is just sinking against mine when a loud, reproving voice rings out -
"Jamie!? Ye're home very late."
He sighs – I feel his chest heave – but he manages not to make a sound. We both turn, and a small, brassy blonde, with wide, accusing eyes has just entered the hallway from the still dark portions of the house.
"Yes Laoghaire," he says, curtly annoyed, "I said I might be. An' did I no' make it clear I preferred ta be called Mr. Fraser?"
A twisted, haughty, and creepily possessive look crosses her face, "Awright then, Mr. Fraser," she drawls suggestively, "I hardly thought ye were serious – ye still call me by my furst name, after all, an' what wi' us havin' been childhood sweethearts-"
"I was nine," he interrupts her sharply, "An' ye were five. An' I dinnae even remember the incident ye speak of myself. Miss MacKenzie."
A dark look comes into her eyes, and she just barely holds back a sneer.
Finally, she looks at me. Briefly, coldly, and altogether suspiciously.
"Sae whoo is this then?"
"This," Jamie growls, triumphantly taking my hand, "Is my fiancé."
A cascade of emotions completely overtake her, and she stands there, rooted to the spot, utterly speechless.
I admit I enjoy the sight a good deal more than I really should.
"B. . . b-but. . ." she starts, but Jamie sweeps past her into the main rooms of the house, and catches up her arm to pull her after him.
I follow, at a slightly more deliberate pace.
I see him snap on two lights, and scoop up a small paper booklet that obviously contains checks. Then, he forcefully pulls her around, and makes her face him.
"I dinnae answer ta ye in this, Miss MacKenzie," he catches her eyes and continues, very deliberately, "In this, nor in anything else."
Swiftly, he sits down at a desk, clicks a pen, and scribbles out a check. Then he pulls out his wallet and extracts a few bills. He hands them to her, along with the check, with an air of utter finality.
"Thank ye for watching the girls. I assume evarything went well?"
She takes her pay and nods, curtly, but says nothing.
"Good. There's an Uber waitin' for ye. If there's any cash left over, use it ta tip him. An' say hello ta Mrs. Fitz for us, when ye get home, will ye?"
Jamie gestures in clear, lordly dismissal.
Laoghaire's eyes tighten, her teeth grind, and she makes two fists, but then without a word she whirls, stomps out of the house, and slams the door behind her.
Chapter Seven - Everybody Has A Past
"So, you've been breaking hearts since you were nine, have you?"
I speak lightly, and all at once the air between us is clear again.
Jamie smiles, "Nah, Laoghaire's jus' a kid. I only hired her ta babysit in the furst place as a favour ta Mrs. Fitz – she's her granddaughter, ye understand. It can be difficult ta find a proper job these days, after all."
I snort softly, "True, but that's no call to impose an unwanted crush on your employer. . ."
"Aw, ye think she has a crush?" Jamie waves his hands dismissively, "S'nothing compared ta Geneva Dunsany's."
Involuntarily, my eyes go wide.
"Geneva Dunsany? Who on earth is Geneva Dunsany?"
"My first stalker."
"Your. . . hold on. . ."
I collapse onto a convenient nearby couch, and lean my forehead in my hands.
"Okay. Let's back up a step, here. Your FIRST stalker?"
Jamie nods.
"Just how many have you had?"
"Officially? Wi' restraining orders an' all? Three."
Well now, that's a stunner, for a start.
"My god, Jamie. Three? Most people go through life without one."
He shrugs a little, "Aye, weel. Isnae my fault."
"Christ, Jamie, I didn't mean to imply it was – just. . . just. . ."
I gesture vaguely, at a loss for words.
Confidences like this. . . they aren't part of the plan. . .
"Geneva had an impregnation mania, an' fixated on me ta be the one ta father her bairns. Didnae matter how often I refused her, so we ended up in court. It wasnae how I wanted it, but. . ." he gestures ruefully, "She ended up dyin' in childbirth nine months later. Dinnae ken who the father was."
I just shake my head.
"Aye, t'was quite a distraction during the first year of college. I did well ta pass my exams that semester."
"I bet you did."
He sighs, long and deeply.
"An' then there were Jack Wolverton and Duke Sandringham. So-called leaders of my college fraternity."
I catch a note of dark bitterness in his tone, and there is a very long pause. He contemplatively taps two fingers against his thigh, as though debating how much to tell me.
"Jack's currently in Wentworth, doing life without parole for murder, an' Duke ended up in the Ardsmuir Hospital For The Criminally Insane."
I blink. Several times.
"Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ," I breathe.
"Aye," he smiles thinly, "I'm lucky ta be alive. An' doubly lucky ta be able ta only call them my stalkers, no' my rapists."
A pit opens up in my stomach, and I shiver with the horror of it, "Oh my god. Jamie!"
"Aye." He pauses again, then gives a wry half-smirk, "I didnae pass my exams that semester."
I chuckle, slightly frantically, "I certainly don't blame you. . ."
"But a'tennyrate – what's a silly crush from a distant cousin when compared ta that? I was goin' ta let the lass crush on me all she liked, jus' so long as she respected my boundaries an' took good care of the girls."
I raise my eyebrows, "Was?"
He meets my eyes earnestly, "Of course was. Now, not only has she crossed the lines I put down, she's also insulted my wife."
He stands up, and reaches out to me. It takes me a second or two to realize he not only wants me to go to him, he means me when he says 'wife', not Annalise.
I step into his arms, and lean my head on his chest. His arms go around me, strong and gentle and warm.
"An' I willnae stand for any such thing, Claire," he whispers into my hair, "No' while I'm yet alive ta prevent it."
His breath is hot against the top of my head.
"This wasn't the kind of conversation I was planning on having with you tonight, Jamie," I mutter into his jacket, "Rather the opposite, really. . ."
"I ken, I ken," he pets the back of my head soothingly, "I'll go ahead an' choose my cufflinks myself if ye'ed' rather go on home now. . ."
I look up at him, "No. Now it's the bloody principle of the thing. I'm going to pick out your cufflinks now, or die trying," I say, solemnly, even though I can't keep my lips from twitching at how ridiculously melodramatic I sound.
Jamie looks amused too, his eyes twinkling, his mouth soft and slightly open.
But before I can begin to imagine kissing him again, he's leading me up the stairs to his bedroom.
I look around me appreciatively. He's obviously not a neat freak, not by any means, but he manages to keep things livably tidy, so far as I can see. There are a few scatters of toys and clothes here and there, and a few stacks of books and magazines where they maybe shouldn't be, but everything smells nice, and I don't automatically feel the need to wash my hands after touching something. Rather a miracle in a house with four children under ten, I have to say.
The bedroom itself still shows signs of feminine occupation – fancy pictures on the walls, a delicately gilded vanity table with jars of creams and powders still in evidence, and vases of silk flowers arranged atop a pastel-painted vintage armoire – but most of the signs of actual recent use are clearly male – a towel draped over the back of a chair, socks and t-shirts tumbled carelessly into the same half-closed drawer, the bed rumpled and unmade, with a single, solitary pillow set at the exact middle of the headboard.
It's all pretty much what I expected to see. Which is comforting, in its own way.
Jamie retrieves a small carved wooden case from a shelf inside the walk-in closet, and deposits it on the corner of the bed, gesturing for me to come take a look.
"I'll need a set of cufflinks, a tie pin, a kilt pin, an' a shoulder brooch." He opens the case, "Pick whatever ye like. I'll go get my kilt, so ye can match wi' it. . ." He disappears back into the closet.
I'm surveying his admirable collection of cufflinks when he returns, and drapes the long piece of tartan cloth over the edge of the bed. "Here ye are," he says.
I immediately find the soft grays and blues appealing, in a way I find hard to describe. It looks. . . homey. Warm and inviting, and simple, without being childish.
I pick a pair of silver cufflinks set with freshwater pearls, a matching tie pin, a mother-of-pearl kilt pin, and a large silver oval shoulder brooch, engraved with Celtic knots in the shape of leaves and thistles.
When they're all laid out on the thick piece of wool, they look. . . at peace. Like they were meant to be there. I nod. Not bad.
The soft smile on Jamie's face tells me he agrees.
Slowly, his smile fades into a serious, contemplative mask. Then, he goes over to the vanity table and extracts something from the jewelry box there.
He comes back offering a hand to me, something concealed in his large fist.
"Ye'el need 'something auld', will ye no'?"
I reach out my own hand, and he puts a heavy, coiled string of pearls in my palm, which then unfolds into a long, glimmering rope of pale, creamy beauty like I've never seen before. They're baroque freshwater pearls – none of them are perfectly round – but the play of colours and light across them. . .
I've never been unduly impressed with diamonds or sapphires or the like. But these. . .
These. . .
Their thick, smooth surfaces beg to be touched, to be worshiped, and I run them through my fingers, entranced.
"Jamie. . . I. . . I couldn't possibly. They're too beautiful."
Too much the woman who came before me. Too much Annalise.
He shakes his head, as though he knows my thoughts, "No, mo nighean. They were my mother's, and her mother's before her. They are meant for my wife – whoever she may be."
With that he takes my chin in his hand, and together we finish the kiss that we had barely started before Leoghaire interrupted us.
After we finally pull apart, he hums against my cheek, "There's a guest room next door, Sassenach. Please stay. Meet the girls before we catch our plane."
I shake my head, not without regret, "No. We have a plan, Jamie, and we need to stick to it. We've already done enough tonight that goes against the plan. I'm going to meet the girls after you have had a chance to prepare them, and after I have had a chance to prepare for them. Not all at once first thing in the morning after waking up in a strange bed."
He looks mildly disappointed, but nods anyway, "Aye, ye'er right. An' ye have ta pack yer own things too, a'course."
"Yes, there is that, but I've also got a lot to arrange at the office tomorrow – there's about a billion things that need to be put on hold – and I've got to get someone to feed my cats, and I have a business lunch I can't put off, and I have to pick up that dress I ordered. . . and that's all before we meet up at the airport." I sigh heavily, and lean my head on his chest, "Adulting, am I right?"
He huffs a laugh. "Aye, ye'ev got that right. A'least let me call ye an Uber?" he asks, his phone already in his hand.
I nod yes, and tell him my home address.
A very few minutes later, he drops a kiss on my knuckles, and hands me into the back of the car as though it were a royal carriage.
I cradle the pearls in my hand all the way home.
Chapter Eight - Vegas, Baby
I've been in rather a wide variety of airports in my time. From Cairo, to Izmir, to Istanbul, to Rome, to London, to Los Angeles, to Boston - and there is one thing I can honestly say – mostly, they are all the same. Unpleasant little packets of land with ugly buildings all over them, filled with impatient people, food vendors with magnificently hiked prices, and far, far more noise than any reasonable Human can adequately anticipate.
But the Las Vegas airport is different in one distinct, though not entirely surprising way.
It is the only airport I've ever seen, anywhere in the world, that has more slot machines than candy kiosks. In fact, the entire airport might as well be a casino – albeit a casino with rather more uncomfortable seating than is generally standard, and rather more non-Keno related announcements over the PA than might be expected.
At 2 AM, all of this is just enough of an unexpected occurrence to make my extremely tired brain shut down entirely.
I'm unsure how Jamie gets us from the exit gate to baggage claim, and I'm even more unclear how we got from there to an Uber, and from there to our hotel, but here we are, and here I am – swathed in an enormous white duvet, plopped into the embrace of a huge leather couch, and sipping a homemade whisky hot toddy whipped up by Jamie himself. Slowly, inexorably, I begin to feel the peace of all creation, and the blessed possibility of unconsciousness finally starting to creep into my soul.
I've never been able to sleep on airplanes. And I didn't sleep much the night before. So when you consider that our flight left at 10 PM, our journey took about seven hours, and then factor in the time difference, that means. . .
That means. . .
I just barely register my empty toddy mug clunking onto the floor as I fall into the world's most blissful sleep.
When I open my eyes again, all I can see is the crisp white cotton cover of the gloriously squashy feather pillow under my head. I yawn luxuriously, and gleefully punch it out of my way, so I can look around me.
And the honeymoon suite of the Highland Glen Hotel and Casino is more than worth looking at. It is perhaps the most jaw-dropping blend of incredible luxury and thoroughly ridiculous kitsch I've ever witnessed. And yeah, that's saying something.
There are at least half a dozen full sheepskin rugs, hugely fluffy, scattered around on the dark hardwood floors. The glass-topped coffee and end tables near me are all made from deer antlers, and crammed with brass candelabras, fancy blown-glass lamps, pewter beer steins, stacks of leather-bound books, and unopened bottles of single malt. More deer antlers hang from the two-story timber-beam ceiling, the collective tangle of them supporting a few dozen tiny lamps, in chandelier fashion.
The wall behind me has been papered in the most flamboyant red and green tartan imaginable, and hung with gilt-framed scenes of hunting and fishing. In between these are huge stuffed deer heads, mounted trophy fish, whole rows of tam o' shanter caps of various tartans, and about a dozen randomly placed shelves holding brass trophy cups, shadow boxes full of hand-tied flyhooks, fancy tobacco pipes, engraved shot glasses, and small framed sepia photos of people in fishing gear holding fish, and people in hunting gear holding guns.
In front of me is an eight-foot wide gas fireplace set into a simply massive stone surround. Twelve feet wide and at least fifteen tall, this pier of stacked, seemingly uncut stones really is the center of the room, looking like nothing so much as the rubble spoil that used to come out of Lamb's more rocky excavations. Above the brass fittings of the fireplace, there are two brightly coloured fishing poles, displayed crossed like swords, and above them, three bagpipes, displayed peacock-like with their pipes fanned upright. Which would be impressive enough, but there are more fishing poles above them, and bagpipes above them, ascending in alternating rows - row upon row - all the way up the craggy wall of rocks.
To one side of this monstrosity of a fireplace surround is an enormous oval dining table, encircled with heavy, tartan upholstered chairs, and hung over with another deer antler chandelier.
And to the other side is yet more rock, this time forming a water feature that cascades down into the stone-surrounded depths of the largest in-room hot tub I've ever imagined, much less seen. I can only see half of it from here - the other half extends into the other half of the suite.
Wonderingly, I shake my head. The online photos hadn't looked anything like this – though, granted, those were of the standard rooms, not the honeymoon suite. . .
But still. . .
I mean, there's over the top, and then there's over the top.
I've only seen the first half of what is to be our home for the next three days, and already the effect is of a brass-studded, tartan-encrusted, gilt-edged, antler-bristling, stone-rubble nightmare - like the Madonna Inn, but re-imagined by Groundskeeper Willie.
And yet. . . somehow, the whole thing works. It sounds insane, but it holds together. It's madness, but it's coherent madness. It's three parts utterly ridiculous, two parts confusing, equal parts truly astonishing and deeply mortifying. . . but somehow. . .
Somehow I can't help loving it.
Well. If nothing else, that's Vegas for you. . .
I decide to embrace it.
I throw off my enfolding duvet, and go in search of some breakfast.
Shuffling around the heavy oak table, I get my first look at the second half of the room.
This side of the fireplace is just as ridiculous, with alternating rows of claymores and crossed Scottish flags decorating it up to the ceiling, but this half of the suite is truly dominated by THE BED.
I can see the capital letters in my mind as I think the words.
THE.
BED.
I've never seen a bed this big – forget King size, is there an Emperor size? And it isn't just big, it's massive. There are flipping stairs to get in and out of it, and the turned wooden posts at each corner look big enough to be sections of telephone pole. The curtains and canopy are the same gaudy red and green tartan as the wallpaper, but mercifully the four duvets folded at the foot, the clean expanse of fitted sheet, and the veritable snowdrift of pillows at the head are all crisp, perfect white.
Or rather, three folded duvets. It's quite clear now where Jamie got the things I've been napping on.
And speaking of Jamie. . .
There's a big bar and kitchenette filling the corner next to the hot tub – where I assume Jamie had made my toddy from earlier – but he isn't there now.
No, he's sitting in the bubbling, gently steaming water of the hot tub, shirtless, cradling a glass of whisky in one hand, eyes closed, his head leaned back against the stones.
He looks so wonderful sitting there, so relaxed, so perfectly free. . . and god does he look hot. Bits of me start twitching at how incredible he looks. If I thought he was beautiful before, that did not adequately prepare me for seeing his naked chest.
Pale skin, flushed with the warmth of the water, and dusted over with a dark sprinkling of deeply auburn curls, his tiny nipple buds sparkling from condensed steam, just begging to be licked. . .
I must make some kind of noise, because he blinks his eyes, and grins over at me.
"Oh good, ye'er awake. Ye'ev got ta try this wee pool, Sassenach." He groans and stretches, long and luxuriantly, like a cat.
My heart nearly stops at the sight and sound of it. Oh god, the sounds he makes!
Certain parts of me stop twitching, and start liquefying.
The Plan, Beauchamp. Remember The Plan!
Basking in the godlike noises and ogling the touchable muscles and edible skin of my soon-to-be husband isn't part of The Plan.
The Plan is we're going to get married, and move in together, and pass the Green Card interview, and be good friends to each other, and see where we are in six months.
Neither of us can deny our attraction to each other, so we agreed not to try. But The Plan says it doesn't matter if we're married or not, we are going to let our feelings develop naturally. A kiss here and there, sure. Flirting? Absolutely. Sleeping in the same bed. . . very probably can't reasonably be avoided. But no hanky-panky until we've given it some time.
Six months is time enough for this level of attraction to develop naturally, right?
Right?
So why does it feel so natural now?
"Maybe later," I grunt, voice still gravelly from sleep, "What time is it?"
He reaches over to his phone, lodged safely on a shelf in the rock a few feet away from the water.
I nearly whimper at the sight of his damp curls brushing the great, solid curves of his shoulders. . .
The Plan, Beauchamp. Keep your mind on The Plan.
"S'jus' gone ten AM, Sassenach. An' the wedding's no' until two," he puts his phone down and settles back into the water, "There's no rush."
Delayed-action adrenaline finally jolts through me.
"No rush?" I nearly squeal, "What's the matter with you? Four hours is barely enough time!"
I run my hands through my hopeless mess of curls, "Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ! Where is my garment bag?"
He nods at the huge door in the wall behind the oval dining table, "In there."
As I leap for the door handle, his words follow me, "Mine's there too – mind ye don't mix 'em up!"
I slam the door on his great roar of a laugh, and begin to search through the bathroom, frantically preparing for my wedding day.
Chapter Nine - By Hook Or By Cook
I smile a bit as I place the last shimmering little clip into the curls now artfully piled atop my head.
Well – hopefully artfully piled. I have been in a bit of a rush this morning. . . I turn my head this way and that, studying the effect in the mirror.
I am inordinately proud of these little clips. Shaped like tiny seashells, and covered in pale turquoise rhinestones, they are my 'something borrowed' and 'something blue' all in one, and I'd only had to vaguely hint that I was going to a formal function before Mrs. Graham was practically begging me to take them.
I was next door giving her my keys, so she could take care of Adso, Rabbie and Stuart, when she'd asked me why I was going away. I've asked her to look after my cats a few times before, but never on quite such short notice, and never in the middle of the week. At the barest hint that I might be dressing up or going out, she became effusive in her generosity. She's always after me to be dating, to find a man - "Or a woman, of course, my dear, I know how things are these days." - and "settle down". I've never gone so far as telling her that I am fairly well settled in our little apartment building, and really have no need or desire to date more than I currently do, because she always follows up such a comment with a cheery - "It's all written in your hand, my dear! A long life, a loving partner, and lots of children – Fate, you know! But you'd better be about it soon, or you won't have time!" And then she always winks, and I get this weird feeling that she knows more about my future than I do.
I always shake the feeling off, though. Ridiculous. But it does add extra zest to my having got these clips from her without her knowing what I really wanted them for.
I deliberately leave a few curls free at my temple, and then hold up my little fascinator cap, so I can position it to the best advantage. It's a tiny thing, really – the main body of it no more than 5 inches across, but it's frilly and fancy and I love it. It's made from pale grey felt shaped like an abalone shell, complete with an artistic row of holes, and topped with a few ridiculously long white feathers that curl up in a crisply elegant narrow fan. At the base of these is a fluffy sphere of black down, subtly iridescent, and in front of them both is a puffy little white tulle bow that manages to imply something veil-like without being anything of the kind.
I position it just right, and pin it to my hairdo with my vintage black-pearl headed hatpin.
I glance at the screen of my phone – 12:11.
Not bad. That's a shower, a shave, my hair, my makeup, my underclothes and my cap done, all in just over two hours.
Not bad at all.
I pull on the huge fluffy bathrobe provided, and go out into the main room, by this point so thoroughly ravenous I'd even resort to eating. . .
I stop in front of the big oak table.
Oatmeal.
There is a shockingly lavish breakfast laid out before me, the main ingredient of which appears to be oatmeal.
I hate oatmeal.
"Ye'er hair is quite bonny Sassenach," Jamie says cheerily, bringing a large pot of coffee from the kitchenette to the table, "Sit in an' enjoy. Ye've got great timing – I was jus' about ta come an' tell ye I'd got it all ready."
I look down at the orange juice, toast, poached eggs, bacon, strawberry jam, butter, cream, runny honey and porridge, and my jaw drops. "You. . . made all this?"
He looks mildly offended at my surprise, "Aye. A'course I did. I'm a chef, mo nighean."
"But – we're at a hotel!"
"Aye. A hotel in Vegas tha' thinks if they put enough claymores an' bagpipes on the walls they c'n call the place Scottish." He shrugs, and pours me some coffee, "A'least Castle Leoch is a classy place."
I raise my eyebrows at that.
"Weel, classy enough," he amends, "It's themed an' all, but if ye jus' want a proper plate of haggis, neeps and tatties, and a mug of ale, ye can get it. No frills attached, no overdone cheesy tut required."
"Whereas here?" I ask, amused.
"Whereas here," he gestures disparagingly at the room-service menu, "I'm no' entirely sure I'd trust the fish and chips, let alone the rumbledethumps."
I giggle a bit. The Scots term for bubble and squeak has always made me laugh.
"So, instead of room service, you went shopping for groceries on your wedding day?"
His expression twists up into a full-face grin, "No, I had groceries delivered on my wedding day, Sassenach. Totally different thing. An' besides, I'd much rather pay a delivery boy for fresh oranges an' organic rolled oats than be taking any chances on dodgy Scotch pies and highly questionable bacon stovies."
"Oh no, not dodgy Scotch pies," I say, deadpanning.
He rolls his eyes, "Every dish has little toothpick Scottish flags in, if the pictures are anything ta go by. An' the menu actually says "eggs fried in whisky butter". He shudders, "Nevar thought I'd see the day I'd find whisky unappetizing, but. . ."
I grin, "You want to know something?"
"What's that, Sassenach?"
"I actually kind of like it here."
I sit down, and begin to spread jam on my toast, enjoying the mildly stunned look on his face.
Suddenly, he throws his head back, claps his hands, and lets out a great roar of a laugh, "Ah, ye really are something else, Sassenach." He shakes his head and smiles at me, "If ye dinnae mind it being a terribly overdone sort of Scottish Disneyland, this place isnae so bad, I suppose. But one of these days I'm goin' ta show ye the real Scottish Highlands. An' after that, this place'll be nothing but a particularly gaudy memory ta ye, I promise ye that."
I chuckle around my toast, "I did know what I was doing when I booked this place, you know. I didn't expect it to be quite this bad, but I was booking a room at a Vegas casino, Jamie – not signing us up for an international cultural tour." I take a bite of my poached egg, "As if I ever once thought this was an accurate depiction of Scotland," I scoff, "One of the tam o' shanters in the other room is of neon pink and purple tartan – even I'm fairly certain that's not traditional."
He snorts, "That's the first non-traditional piece of tut ye noticed-"
"No – it wasn't," I interrupt, "But the point is – the silly kitsch is everywhere you look around here." I sigh, and brace a hand against the table, "I work for Leoch Foods, Jamie. I know the difference between an accurate reproduction and a dumb caricature. But when it comes to dumb caricature, I find this place weirdly charming in its own way. I mean," I gesture all around us, "Vegas, am I right? It's definitely its own thing, whatever else can be said of it."
"Weel, I cannae argue wi' that, mo nighean," he takes a long drink of orange juice and changes the subject, "Ye arenae eatin' yer parritch, I see. . ."
Shit, he noticed. . .
He's a Scottish chef, Beauchamp. No duh he noticed.
I shrug uncomfortably, "I've never liked most-"
"Then I insist you try it," he says, forcefully, "My parritch isnae like most. If ye try it and dinnae like it, I'll never say a word on t'subject again, I promise ye. But jus' this once – I insist."
For a father of four, I might have expected his voice to have gone into the coaxing, pleading, condescending tones parents use with children while he says this, but no. He is conversing with me adult to adult, professional to uninitiated amateur.
It is this, much more than his insisting, that leads me to take a tentative bite or two.
He's right that it isn't like most oatmeal – the whole rolled grains have been toasted and boiled just right so that the texture is more like soft, fluffy rice than the usual thick, gloopy sludge I was expecting.
And after I add enough cream, butter, honey, and dried cranberries, I even concede that I don't object to the flavour.
"But it'll never be my favourite, Jamie, I'm sorry."
He shakes his head, "Nothin' ta be sorry for, Sassenach. I only wanted ye ta try it. My parritch is a point of pride wi' me."
I smile indulgently, "Well, you can be very proud then. You're the first person who has ever gotten me to eat more than exactly one spoonful of oatmeal in my entire life. Which means it's by far the most phenomenal oatmeal I've ever encountered, bar none. But this," I take a huge bite of bacon, "This's wha I pref'r. An hash brawns." I quickly chew and swallow, "Hash browns with cheese. And HP sauce." I hum, remembering some of my favourite breakfasts, "Mmm. And spinach and mushroom crepes on special occasions. . ."
"Point taken, Sassenach," he grins, and takes his own bite of bacon.
We finish our food in highly companionable silence.
Chapter Ten - First Look
Jamie is just gulping back the last of his coffee when he takes a look at his phone.
"Mmm. Almost one. Jus' time enough fer me ta shower an' change." He gets up, pausing next to my chair, "Where d'ye want yer wee garment bag then, mo nighean?"
"On the bed," I say, finishing up my orange juice, "And thank you for breakfast. It was grand."
"Even though ye dinnae like parritch?" he digs a teasing elbow into my side.
"Oh, especially because of that," I tease back, and get up to clear the table.
"Weel, ye ken it keeps ye regular, Sassenach."
I jolt to a stop, nearly dropping the stack of dishes I'm holding, "What?"
"The dietary fiber," he says, eyes wide and innocent, "It keeps ye good'n regular. S'one reason ye English are so uptight, historically. Too many of ye'ev nevar had a good clean shite."
With this, he plants his fists in his hips, like Superman imparting some timeless wisdom of the ages.
I just manage to hold myself together long enough to tumble the dishes into the sink, but then I shamelessly collapse into helpless laughter.
"Oh. . . oh Jamie," I giggle and gasp a bit, and peer at him through streaming eyes, "What. . . oh," I bite my lip and try to get myself under control, "Oh god help me! Jamie! Dietary fiber? Really? You have to be the first straight man I've ever heard mention the stuff, let alone care how much of it is in his diet!" I laugh heartily some more, then finally sigh, and look about me, trying to track down a kleenex. I spot a whole box of them built into the side of the kitchen counter and remove one so I can dab carefully at my mascaraed eyes.
I takes a few more seconds for me to notice the silence between us.
"An' who said I was straight, then?" says Jamie, a split second before the quiet becomes uncomfortable.
My jaw drops, and now the silence is uncomfortable for entirely different reasons.
"Uhhhm. You did? When we talked about our genders and sexualities two nights ago?" I crinkle up my forehead, suddenly doubting my memory, "I mean, a lot has happened in two days, and I can't pretend to remember every word we've said, but I could swear you said cis/het/mono. . ."
"Ye ken bi is a thing, do ye no'?"
"Of course I do, Jamie – and it isn't het!"
"No – it isnae." He raises an eyebrow, "Would that be a problem for ye, then?"
My discomfort coils up in my stomach, transforming into suspicion.
"Not if you are, no. But that you didn't say – yes, it probably would be." I look at him hard, "But you aren't, are you?"
There is another small pause, but then he grins, and shakes his head, confirming my suspicion, "Nah. I'm het. But my sister Jenny is bi, and she's been after me practically m'whole life ta remember that bi-erasure is a thing."
I smile at him, all the discomfort between us relaxing back into our easy camaraderie. Jamie has mentioned his sister and brother in law and their three kids more than once in the two days I've known him.
"That it is. . ."
"Aye. It's been 'specially hard on her since she married my best mate. She's always havin' ta say ta folks - "My marrying Ian doesnae make me any less bi, ye ken". Drives her mad."
"Folks?" I say, raising an eyebrow, "Your parents, I take it?"
"Aye, she usedtae haveta tell mam. But also Ian's parents too, an' more than a few people around the village."
I nod in understanding, "My best friend from college is bi. He ended up in a het relationship too. He says it's like wearing two masks at the same time, and any group he happens to meet only acknowledging one of them. Either way, he feels cut in half a lot of the time." I shrug, "I may be het myself, but I get the frustration."
"Aye," he heaves a sigh, "Weel. . . I could stand here talking ta ye all day, Sassenach, but. . ."
I wave at him in mock fury, "Get out of here you renegade! Go! What are you doing standing around when there are things to do? Chop chop!"
He chuckles, and retreats into the bathroom.
He comes out a few seconds later with my garment bag, which he drapes gently over one side of the bed, but he doesn't speak to me while doing so. I can hear the sink running, and little puff of steam came out with him. He quickly goes back inside.
I finish clearing the table, and wash my hands before going to put on my wedding dress.
I'm drying my hands on the blue and orange tartan dishtowel when it strikes me, and not for the first time, just how remarkable this man I'm marrying really is. Even in superbly uncomfortable circumstances, I can't deny the pull between us. It's like an instinct. Like something that's always been there, recognizing its long-lost other half.
It's true I barely know him – two days ago I didn't know he existed. . .
No, no, that's not quite true.
I've known Alex Mackenzie for nearly two years. I've liked and respected him too.
But this man, whose name I've only half-known, is rapidly becoming more than half my heart.
Every hour, nearly every minute since I realized I loved him, I have wanted to say it – to shout it – to scribe it on every wall and street and solid surface for miles around – I love you. I love you, James Fraser. Forever and ever, to infinity and beyond, I love you. I love you more than space, more than time itself. . .
I don't know how I'm going to get through the next few days without saying it.
I love you.
The words echo through my mind as I unzip my garment bag.
Tenderly, I remove the pale cloud-blue satin underdress, and the lacy gray silk net overdress, and lay them out on the bed, ready for me to put on.
The satin is my 'something new'. I've had the net overdress for several years, but I've never worn it with a dress of a colour lighter than itself. Usually, I wear it with black, or dark navy blue, so the soft, pearly shimmer of the gray silk shows up to best advantage.
I slip into the pale blue satin, and twist to zip myself up. There's a floor-length mirror on the wall near the bed, and I settle my skirts in front of it, turning a bit to study how it fits me. It's just a touch tight over my hips – the waist being perhaps an inch too long before the skirt flares out, but all in all, not bad for a dress bought online less than a day ago.
Far from not bad, actually. Pretty impressive, more like.
I go over to my phone, determined to leave a 5 star review and a nice comment for the online vintage store I bought it from.
I'm just finishing doing so when a few ideas for my lists occur to me, and I scroll through my phone to add them to my notes.
I scan through the lists contemplatively. I shake my head - this will never be enough. "Lists" though. . . that's quite right. Right in the medieval sense, of course. As in lances, and the tiltyard - the place where two personalities went crashing into each other with shattering force.
I put my phone down. There's nothing I can do about that right now.
I drape the grey net over the blue satin, pleased to note the subtle shine of both is retained, and that the fine, lacy design does not at all resemble fishnet stockings – which this look sometimes can, if the colour pairings aren't right. I turn once more while I button the net around me, making sure it falls correctly into all the drapings of the satin skirt.
Satisfied, I fasten Jamie's pearl necklace around my neck, and take a step back to survey the overall effect.
I don't look like a traditional bride, that's for certain. But subtle blues and grays and pearly shimmers aren't so far out of line that I think any eyebrows will be raised.
I smile, pleased. I have always been adamant that it is incredibly stupid and wasteful to buy a wedding dress that you'll only wear once, and my plan ever since high school has been to get something like this – something I not only could wear ordinarily, but would wear, at any formal function. I've pushed myself with it a bit – I don't often go for pastels of any kind, preferring dark, elegant colours for business, and bright, flowery or geometric prints for everyday - or solid fire-engine red when I'm feeling particularly feisty. But – I make a grotesque face in the mirror - I like this too. Soft and subtle. Everything Vegas is not. Everything I am not, if I'm being honest. . .
A pang of worry slices through me. Can I do it? Do I have it in me to be enough, to be the person he - they will need me to be? I've never been a wife before. I've never been a mother before. How. . . ? How do I. . . how will I. . .
"Christ, ye'er bonny," a soft, awed voice comes from behind me.
I smile past my self-doubt, "Not Christ. Just me."
Then I turn, and see him.
Now, I have always known that the full Highland regalia is an impressive look – I've seen it look impressive on old men – and it doesn't matter how bent, crusty, ill-favoured, toothless and mostly blind they may be, the proper clothes of a proud Scot sit nobly upon them, not like armour, but like a second skin, resplendent, alive – real.
On Jamie – he being neither old nor bent, crusty, ill-favored, blind or toothless – it looks like a costume only a king would wear. Magnificent isn't even the word.
Stunning.
Unbelievable.
As I look him up and down, I notice his plaid is pinned around him with the brooch I chose, and suddenly I am part of his splendor – an equal participant in it, both the beauty, and the responsibility carried behind it.
Then, I meet his glowing blue eyes, and I everything I thought I knew evaporates into history.
We have yet to say our vows, and neither of us has even said 'I love you' out loud. But, in this moment, we are married.
In a split second it's irrevocable – done, finished. Fate has closed the book.
It's forever now. For better or worse.
"We should go, mo calman geal," he says, reverently, "The limo is waitin'."
He offers me his hand, and I take it, threading my fingers through his, needing to feel his touch.
We are in the back of the limo, more than halfway to the chapel, when the realization overtakes me, stealing into my soul like the rose-gold light of a summer dawn.
I have to hold back tears at the beauty of it. At the shining, immortal truth of it.
I no longer have any reason for self-doubt, because there's two of us now.
