Page 37 of Highlands Summer Wedding

I was wary to even click the links, so I Googled myself…

“OH. MY. GOD!”

Max burst through the door, running shorts swishing, his hair dripping wet. His phone was already in his hand.

“They got us,” he said, voice tight. “At the restaurant last night. We’re oneverything.”

I tried to focus on the panic, not the way his shirt clung to his chest.

“What… why… why would they even care? I mean, we went to dinner.”

Max bit his lip. “Remember the little kiss…”

Of course I remembered the kiss. It wasn’t little. It was warm and close and over in a second—and I'd been thinking about it ever since.

I scanned the first article. “Cat Turner?”

“Uh. Yeah.” Max rubbed the back of his neck. “We should talk about that…”

“The gorgeous, intimidating actress fromIron Requiem,Falling with Grace, andCall Me Alice.”

He shifted his weight. “That’s the one.”

“You’re dating her?”

“No.” He answered quickly. “I mean, yes. I mean—” Max exhaled forcefully, then turned to me fully. “The contract says I am until after she does the press forThe Silent Orchardthis fall. We can break up officially before Oscar season—when I think she’s going to start dating someone with a nomination.”

I closed my eyes for a moment before speaking. “You’re fake dating a famous actress?”

“Officially, I’m real dating her,” he said with a grimace.

“So I’m the other woman—and now I’m tabloid fodder?” I swallowed hard.Breathe, Abby. Don’t forget to breathe.

“No.” He stepped toward me, shaking his head. “You’re the one who got away. The college girlfriend. My first love.”

I am those things.

I read through more articles; “mysterious woman” and “Highland fling” and “secret romance” jumped out at me.

“Why is this happening?” I demanded.

Max gave a half-hearted shrug. “Must’ve been a slow day for news. Or more likely, Cat’s people decided that our story wasn’t selling and wanted some publicity as they start rolling out trailers for the new film.”

“And where does that leave me? You signed an NDA, but I haven’t signed anything.”

“They reached out to you for a comment.” It wasn’t a question. His voice dropped. “Do you really want to talk to the press… about this?”

I threw up my hands. “NO! Of course not! Ugh.”

He hooked a thumb toward the kitchen. “Come get some coffee. There’s porridge.”

“You mean oatmeal?” I asked as I followed him out of the bedroom.

“I think this is actually porridge. I made it with a spurtle and stirred counter-clockwise and everything.”

I froze, aghast. “Are you insane? Whether it’s oatmeal or porridge, even I know you can’t stir counter-clockwise, especially in Scotland.”

“I thought youhadto stir it counter-clockwise,” he said, brow furrowed in confusion.