Unwrapping the Best Man

He gives me a nod as he pulls open the door and the cool night air greets me, sweeping over my skin and causing goose bumps to instantly prickle. I breathe it in, feel it soothe and calm. The air is so different here, so clear and crisp. I realise the doorman is waiting for me to move off before closing the door and I’m letting all the chill in by standing there. I shoot him another smile and promptly move off, my eyes sweeping over the grounds.

It really is beautiful, an idyllic retreat surrounded by nothing but rolling hillside strewn with heather that now gives off a dusky purple hew in the moonlight. The moat that runs around the four-turreted castle glistens black, white and grey. The clear sky above twinkles with a zillion stars that you wouldn’t be able to see in London. And straight ahead the stone-built bridge joining the castle to the mainland sparkles with fairy lights, the same fairy lights that have been used in the potted plants that mark out the driveway and were brought in especially for the wedding. There’s no way their delicate foliage would survive long in a Scottish summer, let alone winter.

And, in truth, I’m not sure I would either in nothing but this bridesmaid dress.

I shiver. But it’s not just the cold. It’s an awareness of him. He’s here, I know he is.

I don’t realise I’ve stopped walking until I sense movement to my left and that’s when I see him. I can only make out his silhouette leaning against the trunk of a very old tree, but I know it’s him. No one else has the same imposing frame, the same assured stance. He rakes a hand through the wildness of his hair and stares out at the water. Pensive. Reflective.

Have I driven him here? Or is there something else that’s sent him seeking the quiet solitude? Either way, I now feel like I’m trespassing, intruding.

I go to turn back and stumble on the gravel beneath my heel. ‘Oopsie.’

I clamp my hand over my mouth.

Oh, God, did I really say that out loud?

‘Caitlin?’

Busted.

Too late to go back now.

I straighten and turn towards him, tentative, sheepish. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you.’

‘No?’ Even across the distance I can imagine the amused spark in his eye, the one-sided slant to his lips that triggers a ripple of warmth through my lower belly. ‘Then what exactly are you doing?’

‘I... I thought I’d get some air.’ I raise my chin, shake out my hair—a force of habit since it’s pinned back—and close the distance between us. My smile is small, my pulse racing with every step. How can one man be this good-looking? This distracting? This overpowering?

I’m grateful for the chilling wind now as it suddenly picks up around us, blowing strands free from the twisted knot at my nape and staving off the inner heat.

‘You know the saying,’ I continue. ‘Great minds think alike.’

‘And you didn’t think to put on a coat?’

I take a leisurely tour of his body, his loosely knotted cravat, the navy waistcoat and Argyll jacket that strain over his frame and yet fit him perfectly. My journey slows as I take in the black sporran hanging low over his front, concealing, disguising...the navy and green tartan of his kilt that coordinates with his cravat and ends above the knee. Slower still, I take in the exposed knees, the black socks with the sheathed knife, and swallow before meeting his eye again.

‘I think we’re fairly even on the clothing stakes.’ I’m proud of how steady I sound.

He laughs, the surprising roar gruff and seductive as his smile spreads, the shake of his head sending a lock of hair curling over his forehead. ‘Fair point. So, you bored of Lauren already?’

I pause before him, close enough that if I were to reach out I could touch him, and I flutter my fingers against my hips. Oh, how I want to touch him.

‘Bored, no.’ I toy with what to say next. I don’t want to push him away, scare him off like I sensed I did in the ballroom, but... His scent travels on the breeze, flooding me with another rush of warmth, another hit of what I so desperately want, and I forget caution. ‘He’s not the man I’d rather be with.’

He pushes off the tree. ‘And I shouldn’t be the one you do.’

Damn it. He goes to move past me and I reach out, my hand gentle on his arm, the heat of his body seeping into my palm as he pauses, eyeing my hand. I can feel the ongoing debate in the tension under my fingers, see it in the pulse ticking away in his jaw, but I can’t stop this any more than I can stop my eyes from feasting on him.

‘I’m twenty-six, Jackson. I think I can decide that for myself.’

His eyes lift to mine, and I see it all. The darkness, the same torment I witnessed on the dancefloor...

‘What is it, Jackson?’ I squeeze his arm softly. ‘Just tell me.’

He’s quiet, still, and I frown as I lose myself in his eyes, desperate to understand. I’ve never seen Jackson pensive, troubled, torn between taking what he wants and...well, walking away. He’s all fun and games in the club, his club. He teases, he provokes, but there he has his rules.

Is he hiding behind them? Are they some kind of crutch for whatever this is?