“You arrogant piece of work,” I say, moving closer to Hamish, truly ready to slap him. “You bet on me?”
“Ye made it easy.”
“I am not easy!” Out of the corner of my eye, I see Shannon approaching, her face changing to confusion as she spots Hamish. It's impossible to miss him, a redhead standing a good four inches above most people in the crowd.
Big and burly, with a model's good looks and a professional athlete’s body, he's becoming the face of more and more sports-related products. In America, nothing makes you more famous than hawking a consumer product.
The more popular, of course, the better.
The fact that he's a fairly obscure Scottish Premier League player–obscure in the U.S., that is–doesn't seem to matter. He's hot and swoony, an attractive human commodity to promote other commodities.
“Never said ye were. Just that ye made it easy, pet.”
“Don't call me that!” I shout.
Shannon catches up to us, moving next to me just as my date does the same.
Davis reaches for my arm, hand on my elbow, leaning in. He whispers, “Don't make a scene.”
Something in Hamish's expression hardens and I realize, with a sinking feeling, that I noticed the microscopic shift because I track him.
“I'm not making a scene.” I point to Hamish. “He started it.”
A lascivious grin from Hamish turns into something deeper as Shannon frowns.
My sister and I are nothing alike. We got different genetic code from our parents that makes me have Mom's blue eyes and Dad's thick auburn hair, while Shannon has light brown hair and Dad's brown eyes. She’s full-figured, and carries herself with a feminine sweetness people mistake for naivete or weakness.
Unlike me, Shannon has no ambition. I don't say that as an insult. Happy in life, she's all about her close circle of family and friends. I don't mean that she isn't a hard worker–she is–or that she doesn't have good ideas–she does.
It's drive that Shannon lacks.
Marrying Declan McCormick, son of the self-made billionaire James McCormick–founder of Anterdec, one of the biggest corporations in Boston–was Shannon's smartest move in life.
Of course, love had everything to do with it.
Now she's vice president of Grind It Fresh!, the regional chain of coffee shops that Declan bought for her as a wedding gift (hello? billionaire husband...), but she's slowly reducing her hours at work because she wants to be at home with my niece.
And soon, I suspect, more kids.
Shannon's here to support me on my big day graduating with my MBA, a day that celebrates hard work and determination, but she's also here to be my friend.
Something just set her off. And it takes a lot to piss off Shannon.
“Davis,” she says through gritted teeth, “what did you just say to Amy?” Her happy energy shifted to seething contempt so quickly, I do a double take to make sure I haven't confused her with our other sister, Carol, who hasn't earned a bachelor's degree on paper but has a life experience Ph.D. in Righteous Fury.
We're standing in a cluster–Shannon, Davis, me, Hamish, and Hamish's friend, who has his hands on his hips and fidgets like a little kid stuck in a dentist’s waiting room.
Hamish watches Shannon with glee.
“Aye, Davis. What did ye just say to Amy?” he inserts.
“I told her not to make a scene,” Davis says confidently, looking around. “You, of all people, should understand,” he adds with a quiet grin to my sister, expecting an ally.
“Me? I should understand?” she says back with a deadly, flat expression. Whoa. Declan's taught her a few tricks.
“You're experienced in business. You're a McCormick. Making scenes leaves the impression that one is unstable.” Davis is so matter-of-fact, he might as well be reciting a passage from a management textbook.
One of Hamish's eyebrows flies up, tongue rolling under his lower lip.
“Who would think that, Davis?” Shannon asks with a head tilt he erroneously takes for agreement.
And suddenly, I get it.
Internal groaning commences.
Davis looks nothing like my sister's ex-fiancé, Steve Raleigh. Speaks nothing like him. Is the polar opposite of Steve in so many ways–politics, food choices, movie selections, life goals.
But he's tone policing me. Telling me not to stand up for myself. And in that sense, he's no different.
Which makes this whole mess worse than I thought.
Because now I have to thank Hamish for kissing me.
Hamish
I'd have kissed her without Harry's stupid bet, but it sweetened the pot.
Amy's mouth was more than sweet enough.
Was it brash? Aye. Should I have done it? Naw, but she kissed me right back, so fiercely and with an enthusiastic all-in that made it clear I wasn't breaking any of her boundaries. So I did it.
And her twee boyfriend didn’t like it.
I've nothing against the man. Or, at least, I didn't, until he made that comment.
What's so wrong with making a scene? Scenes are just the result of being yourself. If other people watch, then that's on them.
Davis hasn't answered Shannon's question.
“And what's wrong with being seen as unstable?” I ask, unable to help myself. “Is there a medal ye earn at the end o' yer life for being stable? Sounds boring, Davis.”
He snorts and shakes his head but says nothing.
Which means he's either a coward or a prig.
Or both.
Shannon gives Amy a sad smile and says, “Code Raleigh.” I've no idea what that means, but it can't be good, given the way Amy's face falls.
Tension affects people in different ways. You see it after losing a match, the changing room a sweaty, oily soup of disappointment and blame. But some people can't handle direct confrontation. They live on the margins, passive-aggressive and snide, unable to say what they mean and mean what they say.
I'm not one of those people.
“I think,” I say, loud on purpose, turning a few heads, “that we're here to celebrate Amy's great accomplishment. I never finished university, ye know.”
Something gleams in Davis's narrowed eyes. Amy edges an inch or two away from him, the movement subtle. Shannon takes a deep breath and searches the crowd, likely trying to find my cousin, her husband.
The billionaire.
“Went for a year, but football was ma future,” I continue, Davis's look turning to barely-concealed scorn.
Ah! No. Open scorn now.
“The best future!” Harry calls out with a clap. I'd damn near forgotten he was with me.
“Why are you here, Hamish?” Amy asks softly, looking up at me with doe eyes. Vulnerable and quieter, she's more grounded now. Less angry.
Searching for answers.
“It's a long, funny story, but it boils down to girls and football.”
Her face sours. “Of course it does. Everything with you boils down to girls and football.”
Harry barks out a laugh and gives me a hearty clap on the back.
“No' this time,” I say with a wink. “This is literally girls and football.” I let out a sigh. “Fine. Girls and soccer. There's a big clinic at Amherst College here in town, and I've been coaching the nine-year-olds, along wi' promoting the program.”