Page 162 of My Fake Dating with the Grumpiest Highlander
“Dr. McLeod!”
I turn around.
Maggie McGregor cuts through the crowd with her cane, smiling like a queen surveying her kingdom. She’s wearing a shawl in McGregor tartan colors and an antique brooch that glitters in the morning light.
“Magnificent, isn’t it?” she says, gesturing proudly toward the organized chaos.
“It’s… uh, yes, I suppose.”
She laughs.
“Don’t look so horrified, my boy. The Highland Games are sacred. Tradition, honor, community.”
“And a tremendous amount of noise.”
“Obviously. How else are you supposed to honor your ancestors?”
She pats my arm affectionately.
“I need you helping direct incoming cars. Some of these idiots are parking in front of the stables and blocking everything.”
“I’m a doctor, not a traffic officer.”
“Today, you are whatever we need you to be.”
She walks away before I can argue, leaving behind the scent of lavender and absolute authority.
For the next two hours, I effectively become a traffic cop.
I direct SUVs toward improvised parking lots, explain to lost tourists where the bathrooms are, and stop Hamish from devouring the remaining floral decorations.
“Drop it!” I order while trying to tug a rose from his mouth.
He stares at me with blatant defiance and chews harder.
“Hamish!”
He swallows.
“You are insufferable.”
He bleats proudly, then trots toward another flower arrangement.
I sigh.
Even the sheep are challenging me now.
I run into Cameron and Connor unloading beer barrels with suspicious efficiency.
“Finn!” Cameron calls, waving me over. “Come help!”
“I’m supposed to?—”
“Come on, we need muscle.”
Connor snorts.
“Well. Relatively speaking.”
