Page 20 of My Fake Dating with the Grumpiest Highlander
I check my phone again. The message had been fairly alarming.
UNKNOWN
Medical emergency at McGregor Castle. Elderly patient. Possible cardiac symptoms.
Exactly what I need after rescuing a mud-covered woman who thanked me by telling me to go to hell.
I grimace at the memory of our less-than-friendly exchange.
Brilliant, Finn. Truly brilliant. Saving someone’s life only to insult them afterward is exactly the kind of thing that’ll improve your reputation around the village.
I push open the car door and step out, medical bag in hand. The rain has eased into a persistent drizzle that turns everything into varying shades of damp gray misery. My shoes crunch against the gravel as I head up the driveway.
Before I even reach the steps, the front door opens.
A man in his sixties wearing a flawless dark suit stands in the doorway. Tall. Ramrod straight. Silver-gray hair perfectly combed into place. He has that calm, neutral expression only professional butlers seem capable of mastering.
“Dr. McLeod, I presume?” he says in a composed voice.
“That’s right. I received a call about an emergency.”
“Indeed. Mrs. McGregor is expecting you. I’m Jamison, the butler. If you would follow me.”
He steps aside to let me enter, and I walk into a hall that looks more like a museum than a private residence. A monumental staircase rises before me, the ceiling stretches several stories high, and stern portraits of dead people in formal clothing stare down from the paneled walls.
You do not belong here, Finn.
I shove the thought aside and focus on the task at hand.
Elderly patient.
Cardiac symptoms.
That’s what matters.
“Mrs. McGregor is in the sitting room,” Jamison informs me as he leads me through a hallway filled with objects probably worth more than my annual salary. “She insisted on receiving you there rather than in her bedroom.”
“She’s able to move around?”
“Oh yes. Mrs. McGregor is remarkably robust.”
There’s something in his tone.
A subtle note I can’t quite identify.
Amusement?
Irony?
We stop in front of a dark wooden door, which Jamison opens ceremoniously after knocking once.
“Dr. McLeod, ma’am.”
I step inside and discover a surprisingly cozy room despite its size. A fire crackles in the hearth, spreading welcome warmth through the space. Green velvet armchairs sit around a dark wood coffee table.
And seated in one of those armchairs is a woman around eighty years old watching me with piercing blue eyes.
Maggie McGregor.
