He’s the biggest European football star to emerge since David Beckham, and a McCormick, to boot.
“That’s why I’m here, actually,” Hamish says, chugging a dark lager. “New product roll-out for a company based here in Boston, so I have meetings in the morning with my agent. Might be a seven-figure deal.”
“Pounds, or dollars?”
“Oh, dollars, aye? If it were pounds, I’d offer up my right stone.”
“Stone?”
He cocks an eyebrow. “You know. Balls.”
Ah. I get it. “Don’t give up the nuts too early in the process,” I say. “Hold out for eight figures.”
He grins, face splitting with a conspirator’s grin. His top teeth are impossibly straight and white, bottom teeth a bit crooked, his nose wandering off at an angle that says it’s been broken a few times. His hair is super short on the sides, a little longer on top, and he has the look of a freshly-manscaped guy unaccustomed to that kind of detailing.
“Nuts? Only Americans would pick such a wee thing to compare them to.” He laughs. “But I like your thinking. You’re a shark, aren’t ye, cousin? Maybe I should fire my manager and have you negotiate for me.”
“Not looking for a new job, Hamish.” Not to mention the pay cut would be enormous.
His laugh is bold and open, booming and unpretentious. “I’d imagine you have your hands full.” With that comment, he eyes Amanda. “Very nicely full.”
And he winks at me.
“Andrew!” Shannon says, coming in for a hug before I can decide how to answer Hamish. “How are you?” She smells exotic, a new perfume tickling my nose. Our embrace feels like hugging a sibling. None of the typical feelings stirred up when hugging a woman appear.
Good.
“I’m great. How was the honeymoon?”
Her face goes slack, just like Declan’s. “Fine.”
“Just fine? Shouldn’t a honeymoon be more than fine?” Hamish asserts with a leer.
“Would you like a rum-soaked truffle?” she asks, shoving a heavy silver tray right into Hamish’s navel, so hard he emits a grunt of surprise.
And then she walks away to chat with...my father?
What the hell happened on that honeymoon? Must be bad if Shannon’s avoiding the topic by choosing conversation with Dad.
“Was the sex that bad?” Hamish grumbles, looking at the tray of truffles that are now in disarray, perfect tops pointed down, scattered like drunken sorority pledges at an outdoor frat lawn party.
“Don’t say that anywhere near Declan if you like your teeth, Hamish.”
We share a grin and each try a truffle.
Rum. They’re rum truffles.
A hand strokes my ass, making me choke. Hamish’s hands are in view, so—
“Hey,” Amanda whispers in my ear. Her breath smells like cherry liqueur. “The candies are all filled with alcohol,” she says, blowing in my ear.
“You don’t say?” I snake my arm around her waist and start to think that maybe coming to this present-opening party wasn’t such a bad idea after all.
I’m glad I pushed her into coming.
“Is Gerald picking us up?” she asks.
“Of course. Why?”
“Then I don’t have to drive home? I can drink?” Her fingers roam a little more.
“You can do whatever you want, baby.”
She does a double take, dimples blooming on her cheeks like daffodils in late April. “You’ve never, ever called me baby before.”
“You’ve never, ever grabbed my ass in public before.”
“Last time we were here, it wasn’t exactly a pleasant situation between the two of us.”
“Tonight is definitely better,” I agree. Last time we were together here at Declan and Shannon’s place, it was the rehearsal dinner from hell. I was being stupid (I admit it), Dad had just been diagnosed with cancer, Amanda was being weird, and the night unraveled layer by layer, a train wreck no one could stop.
And, I’m reminded, we never did have sex in the walk-in closet where we fought and half made-up.
“Definitely,” she purrs, eating a decorated truffle from the plate Hamish has abandoned. He’s now chatting away with Shannon and Dad. I overhear words like Costa Rica and coffee exports and rainforests.
“You haven’t stabbed me in the neck with a fork even once tonight.”
“The night’s still young.”
“HAMISH!” Marie squeals, giving him a huge hug as she discovers him. “How was the photo shoot?”
He blinks hard, unsure what to do with a fifty-something yoga instructor hanging around his neck like a menopausal rosary. “Good,” he says, looking down at her.
“Naked, huh?” she chirps, peeling her hands off his neck. “I’ve seen that edition of Sports Illustrated before. Loved the guy on the Zamboni. What do they have you riding?”
Wink.
Before poor Hamish can continue breathing, Marie adds, “Can I get an autographed copy when they hit the newsstands?”
“Uh, sure,” he says, frowning.
“Just don’t sign on top of anything important!”
Hamish’s face turns to flames. He catches my eye.
Crazy, we mouth together.
“Shot?” I ask, pointing to the whisky.
“Hell, yes,” he mutters. “I’m supposed to send her a naked photo of myself, signed? Aren’t we basically related? She’s old enough to be me mam!”
“Welcome to America!” Amanda says.
“Welcome to Marie,” I add.