Page 161 of My Fake Dating with the Grumpiest Highlander
Then I remember that’s exactly what I always do.
Run.
I set my mug in the sink with a sigh and decide to go outside.
The moment I step out, chaos slams into me.
Cars have invaded every inch of the castle grounds, parked across every available patch of grass. Men in kilts unload clan banners I’ve never seen before. Women carry coolers and crates of supplies. Children sprint around screaming at the top of their lungs.
And in the middle of all of it, Hamish trots proudly past with a floral garland hanging from his mouth.
“No, no, no!” Fergus, one of the castle employees, yells while chasing after him. “Those flowers cost a fortune!”
Hamish speeds up, clearly delighted with himself.
I shut the door again.
Too late.
Someone knocks immediately.
I open it to find Jamison standing there, immaculate as always despite the surrounding disaster, a walkie-talkie in hand.
“Dr. McLeod. Mrs. McGregor requires your immediate presence.”
“I’m supposed to supervise the medical station, not?—”
“The medical station won’t open until nine. Until then, we require all available hands.”
He hands me the walkie-talkie with a smile that isn’t really a smile.
“Welcome to the Highland Games, Doctor.”
Thirty minutes later,I still haven’t managed to fight my way through the human tidal wave to reach the castle, and instead I’m hauling metal barricades across the grounds.
Around me, men twice my size lift the same barricades like they weigh three pounds. I’m already sweating.
“A little farther left!” someone I don’t know shouts.
I shove the barrier.
It doesn’t move.
“Left!” the voice repeats.
“That is what I’m doing,” I growl through clenched teeth.
A guy wearing a red-and-black kilt strolls over, grabs the other end of the barricade, and shifts it effortlessly with one hand.
“Like that,” he says with a patronizing smile.
I turn, searching for Mary.
She’s supposed to be managing the animal pens somewhere on the east side of the estate, but spotting her in this crowd is impossible. The castle is crawling with McGregors I don’t recognize, rival clans yelling cheerful insults at each other in Gaelic, and musicians tuning bagpipes at deafening volume.
This is hell.
Or at least a loud, folkloric version of hell.
