Page 68 of Blindsided
He’s not even smiling.
In fact, he’s frowning.
I look behind me to see if there’s someone else he could be shooting daggers at, maybe an old local flame that he hates? But there’s no one near me. The women have already abandoned me for their men, and now I’m left standing in the grass by myself while Mac gawks at me like I’m the Loch Ness monster.
My belly swirls with nerves as I hustle over to where he stands at the head of the table, passing all the happy couples and ignoring the guys who were talking to him.
I come face to face with him and rush out, “I’m so sorry. I thought you’d think this was funny.” I push my hands into the pockets of my dress and look over nervously to our friends watching the scene unfold with sympathy in their eyes.
Christ, what have I done?
I glance back at Mac who’s eyes are roving over my dress like it’s made of blood and gore. His nostrils are flared, and his entire body is standing ramrod straight as he crushes the plastic cup of whisky in his fist.
“There was fabric left over, and I was feeling crafty,” I ramble, my voice high-pitched and uneasy. “I must have blacked out while I was making this, though, because clearly it’s too much. And I must have blacked out while I was putting it on today and matching my stupid lipstick to the red tint because clearly, I realise now that I look ridiculous.”
Mac’s friends begin to back away slowly only furthering my panic.
I step closer. “And the new heels I bought to match the dress pinched my toes, so I’m wearing my wellies instead because I had no idea Scotland would be this muddy. But honestly, I should have taken that pain as a sign that this was a bad, bad idea. I’m probably breaking some sacred Scottish tradition or something. I should have asked you first because clearly, it’s not funny, and it’s way too much. Way, way too much.”
“It’s not too much,” Mac croaks, his voice deep and gravelly.
“Sorry?” I pant, barely catching my breath from the anxiety shooting through me.
“It’s not too much,” he says again, his gaze lifting from my dress. His eyes are intense on mine as they swim with an emotion I don’t think I’ve ever seen on Mac’s face before. He steps forward, coming within centimetres of me, and a hard, sharp flash of desire overwhelms his expression. “In fact, it might not be enough.”
And then, he reaches out, cups the back of my head with both his big hands, and pulls my mouth to his.
When our lips touch, I squeal softly in protest, my hands splaying out against his broad chest because all of our friends are watching. And these guys I don’t know. And bleddy hell, maybe half the village of Dundonald.
What is Mac doing? We’re not kissing-in-public friends. We’re supposed to be keeping our arrangement a secret! We have an end date, and if he’s kissing me in front of all of our friends, this is going to get very complicated!Maybe I want it to get complicated.
But then Mac catches my lower lip between his teeth, parting my lips before his tongue reaches out to touch mine, and my focus narrows. Suddenly, everything else around us and all my thoughts disappear, and the only thing that exists in this world are his lips and mine.
I don’t know how long we stand there in our matching tartans kissing like our lives depend on it. It feels like hours and seconds all at the same time. It’s too much and not enough…just like my dress.
Eventually, an obnoxious whistle breaks through our little bubble, and we pull apart to the riotous catcalls of the people around us. Mac’s eyes refuse to leave mine as he ignores our friends and tenderly strokes his thumbs along my cheekbones with a smile that makes me weak in the knees.
I don’t know if I’m smiling back at him or not. I think my jaw might still be on the ground, but I do know that what I’m feeling inside my chest is utter, sublime happiness.
“I knew it,” Allie says, disrupting our embrace and grasping my arm to pull me away. “You’ve been acting weird, and this is why!”
I roll my eyes as the girls swarm me, and the guys swarm Mac. They clink their cups of whisky to him, and you’d have thought we just got engaged by the way they’re all going on and on about how happy they are for us.
Are we an us?
Are we a couple?
I suppose Mac and I should have a talk.
Before I have a chance to pull Mac aside, a gruff voice calls out in the distance. “Is that my wee Macky home at long last?”
Our focus turns to a man walking up the grassy knoll. My jaw drops because if I didn’t know better, I’d swear it’s the grandfather Jack Bartlett fromHeartlandstriding right towards us.
The man is tall and broad and kitted out in the Logan tartan. His hair is white and unruly, and he’s sporting a thick caterpillar mustache across his upper lip. Alongside him is an older couple and a young woman who I recognise instantly as Mac’s parents and his sister.
“Grandad!” Mac exclaims, leaving the guys and jogging towards them.
His grandfather cups Mac’s face and stares at him for a moment before pulling him into his arms for a back slapping hug. He ruffles Mac’s hair playfully before Mac turns to embrace his mother, sister, and father. The five of them stand there talking for a moment before Mac turns and leads them up to our group.
