of plaid making Lucie swoon. That or the heat of a sultry June evening, the close conditions, the thick odor of roses and melting wax, or the tight, uncomfortable clothing.
As the voices up in front droned on, Lucie used her bouquet as a block so she could reach inside her kilt and give her waistline a good scratch.
“Aaah,” she breathed. More dirty looks. Well, good grief, it wasn’t her fault if Steffi’d stuck them all in these silly outfits. So she was marrying a guy named Mackintosh. So his family owned golf courses and resorts with goofy Scottish names—all “Bonnie Brae” and “Glen Loch Laddie”—all over Chicagoland. Did that mean Steffi had to dredge up kilts and tams and bagpipers out the wazoo just to marry the guy?
Apparently.
Lucie’s nose began to tickle. Uh-oh. Sneeze coming on. She tried her best to stifle it into her bouquet, but that made her inhale half a rose petal, and the sneeze came barreling out with a loud “ha-ha-ha-chooooo!”
Oops. A rustle ran up and down the wedding party, and she felt her cheeks flush with warmth.
Par for the course, Steffi stamped her tiny foot, smacked the maid of honor with her bouquet, and demanded, “What was that? Who did that?” Nobody answered her, but they were all craning their necks. Even the best man turned back to see who’d made the rude noise.
The very, very cute best man. Lucie managed a weak smile.
His name was Ian. Even though they hadn’t been introduced, she still knew that much. He was the groom’s brother, practically a twin, and every single one of the fifteen bridesmaids had had her eye on him since the festivities began. He also looked a heck of a lot better in a skirt than she did.
He caught her eye, sending her a wink—bless his gorgeous heart—and then he turned back to the waning moments of the ceremony like everyone else.
Nice legs. Lucie’s smile widened behind her bouquet. What a picker-upper to have someone like Ian Mackintosh wink at her. But, for now, she’d just have to content herself with the view and speculating on what he might be wearing underneath that thing.
“Absolutely nothing,” she whispered, feeling a little tingle run down her spine at the very thought.
Guys like Ian—all dark good looks and arrogance sculpted into a dynamite package—would rather die than wear briefs or boxers under there. That seemed like a given. But she’d love to check it out, just to be sure. What would the petulant bride do if her half sister dropped to her knees and crawled up to the altar to peek under the best man’s kilt?
But she didn’t. No, she was good. She stood where she was, and she didn’t sneeze or scratch or faint or peek or any of the other things she wanted to do.
Finally, blessedly, they got to the end of the ceremony, and the bagpipes geared up for a recessional that rattled the rooftop in the tiny chapel. Steffi and Kyle, the bride and groom, swept down the aisle, with Steffi looking triumphant and Kyle every bit as cute as his brother. Trying not to feel envious of her half sister, Lucie waited her turn to make tracks as well. As she hung back in position number thirteen, she found herself singing something under her breath, but it wasn’t remotely what the pipers were playing.
No, it was “Happy Birthday.”
“Happy birthday to me,” she hummed defiantly, linking up with Baker Burns, her counterpart groomsman, to shuffle slowly out of the chapel. She’d known Baker forever, but not even he had remembered that today was her birthday. Lucie lifted her chin and kept on humming. You only hit the big 3-0 once, after all. Steffi’s wedding certainly wasn’t her first choice for a proper celebration, but Lucie would make do.
“Having a good time?” Baker asked, pitching his voice loud enough to be heard over the bagpipes. “Are you singing something?”
He really was a nice man. Except for a thinning hairline, he was exactly the same sweet boy who’d offered her his seat on the bus on the way to seventh grade.
But she didn’t want to confide today’s humiliating facts, not even to Baker. She’d just keep it to herself that she was turning thirty in about two hours and not one solitary soul had remembered.
“It’s nothing,” she told him. “Just glad to be out of that church. Phew.”
Not that it was any better outside in the still, humid air. Perspiration trickled inside her stiff white blouse, making her feel damp and sticky. She’d done her best to smooth her thick, wavy red hair into a neat bun, as per Steffi’s instructions, but she knew little wisps were curling around her hairline and tendrils had escaped at the nape of her neck. In short, she was a mess.
“So where do we go from here?” she asked Baker. “Please tell me it’s someplace with really potent air-conditioning.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you weren’t listening when Ginetta gave out the orders?”
“Sort of.” Actually, she’d tuned out most of it. But she did remember that Steffi and her mother, the hard-as-nails Ginetta, seemed to have this whole wedding party choreographed to within an inch of its life.
“Do not pass Go,” Baker continued, mocking Ginetta’s snobby, nasal voice. “Do not collect two hundred dollars. Just proceed straight over to the Inn.”
“Oh, right.” It was all coming back to her now. No dawdling, no receiving line. Just hurry over to the reception, sit down, be quiet, and await further instructions.
As the wedding procession navigated a short path from the chapel to the main building, a castle-like structure called the Highland Inn, Lucie held onto Baker’s arm. The worn pavement was uneven, and the last thing she wanted to do was topple over and embarrass herself even more.
Looking up as they turned the corner, she caught her breath. It had rained earlier in the day, creating a soft mist around the Inn’s stone turrets and balconies, making it look as if it had been plucked from the Scottish highlands and set down intact in the Chicago suburbs.
“It’s lovely,” she whispered.
“Would it dare be anything else?” Baker asked wryly.
The Highland Inn was the finest golf resort in the senior Mr. Mackintosh’s empire, and so the natural, rent-free choice for Steffi’s wedding. Lucky Steffi. Except she should’ve left it as is, instead of adding all the over-the-top Scottish nonsense. As they ducked inside, they were hit in the face with cascading plaid fabric, tons more candles, and bowers of red and black roses arranged in rows to look as if they were—you guessed it—plaid. And, of course, the ever-present pipers wailed away.
As everyone filed in, kilt-clad waiters guided them to their assigned seats. “Them, too?” Lucie whispered. “Is there anyone here not in a kilt?”
Lucie thought of herself as a free spirit, but this was too much, even for her. All they needed was the Loch Ness monster rising up from the punch bowl, and the evening would be complete.
“You’d think somebody would’ve stopped Steffi from going so nuts with this stuff.” Grimly, Baker adjusted his own tartan, but his knobby knees were still visible. Poor Baker didn’t have the legs for it.
Meanwhile, the ballroom was a beehive of activity, with wedding guests trying to squeeze around the clustered tables to find their wee plaid place
