Love You Christmas, my new novella in the upcoming The Christmas Laughbox, is in second-round editing right now.
One Night (Hand) Stand is done and even the audiobook is done — I’m waiting for Audible to set up the preorder link so readers can preorder.
I’m working on I Will Earn You, to finish Cam and Paigelynn’s story.
But then a pair of gingers decided to invade my brain.
Hamish popped up and said, “Aye, lass, let’s have a go.” He meant writing, folks.
Writing.
And Amy said, “The last thing I want to do is deal with my mother and a wedding. Screw this. We’re eloping.”
The result?
A new book. Yes, Shopping for a Highlander’s Elopement (there’s a mouthful…) is coming. Not sure when, but I’m deep into it now and having a ton of fun. I love Hamish’s sunny personality, and Amy’s grumpy default. Turning the whole “grumpy/sunshine” trope on its head has been a blast.
:)
In order to return to Hamish and Amy properly, I decided to go back and re-read their story, all the way back to Shopping for a CEO, where we first meet Hamish. Come along on this journey down memory lane with me.
If you’re wondering why this post is called “Part 1” it’s because emails are only allowed to be so long, and as I got into all these excerpts I realized I need a second email.
Stay turned for Part 2!
Here we go: Hamish and Amy, from the beginning.
[This is from Amanda’s perspective]
Over the course of the next hour, the following people arrive: Marie, Jason, Carol, Terry, Amy, Jamie from Outlander. Add in me, my mom, Andrew, Declan and Shannon and we are twelve total.
That’s right.
Jamie.
All right, not technically, but the man in the video screen—and the second-to-last to arrive—was a cool 6’2” or more, with bright green McCormick eyes and the threaded gold of a ginger-haired god.
A cousin god.
Turns out the Boston McCormicks still had some contact with the Edinburgh McCormicks and Declan asked Hamish to be a groomsman. In his native Scotland, Hamish is a rock star. Not because he’s a musician.
Because he plays football.
Or, as we call it here, soccer.
Which means Hamish is a nobody in Boston. He may have his face splashed all over the major newspapers in Europe and South America, but he’s a complete unknown in the U.S.
And he doesn’t seem to realize it.
He’s headed to New York City for a Sports Illustrated nude athlete photo spread after this dinner, then back for the bachelor party and wedding day. Marie’s eyes comb over him and it’s very clear she’s doing her best camera imitation right now.
Andrew still hasn’t arrived as the wine’s poured, the hors d’oeuvres are distributed, and Shannon tries hard to pretend she cares about McCormick tartan ribbons tied around the birdseed packets that people will throw as she and Declan leave the ceremony.
Marie won’t shut up about them.
I’m too preoccupied by Andrew’s absence to care.
“It’s all a bit much, aye?” Hamish says to Amy, who is giving him the critical once-over of a woman who knows she’s supposed to be impressed but most decidedly isn’t. His accent makes my panties melt. Maybe that’s why people in Scotland go commando when they wear kilts and skirts.
It’s the hot accent.
“What’s a bit much?” Carol asks. She looks like she needs a McCormick tartan handkerchief to mop up her drool as she looks at Hamish.
“The tartan.” The word tartan rolls off his tongue like it’s a cocker spaniel being sprung from a cage. “By the time the wedding comes, we’ll look like Nessie ingested a bunch of Highlanders and vomited everywhere.”
Carol laughs like that’s the funniest joke she’s ever heard.
“Hamish!” Marie exclaims, walking over and offering herself up to him for a hug like he’s a rock climbing wall and there’s a prize for reaching the top. “So good to meet you!” Her eyes are bright and excited as he pulls away from the embrace and she asks, “You’re a sports star in Europe, I hear. What position do you play? Shortstop?”
Hamish’s golden eyebrows turn down. “I play football, Marie.” Jason stifles a laugh.
“Oh. Tight end, then?” She cranes her neck around behind him to check out his tight end.
“No—not American football. I play soccer.” His voice is filled with a frustrated resignation, as if he’s had this same conversation far too often for his liking.
“Point guard?” she tries.
Jason hands the poor Scot another shot and claps him on the back. “Just give up, man.”
“Americans,” Hamish mutters before downing the drink.
—
Hamish and Amy first interact here, though:
[This is from Amanda’s perspective]
“Would you help me get Hamish’s attention?” Andrew asks, the hand withdrawing quickly.
I pick up a bread roll and pull my arm back to throw it across the table, but Andrew’s faster.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Getting Hamish’s attention.”
“Are you drunk?”
“No,” I lie. I take the opportunity to really look at him. He has five o’clock shadow, a genetic trait that runs through the McCormick men even at noon, and his tie is loose. His eyes are floating in his head and he’s staring at my boobs like they talk.
“Are you?”
He ignores my question.
I put down the dinner roll and reach down, pressing my breasts together to form the Grand Canyon.
“Why Andrew, well fiddle-dee-dee,” I say in my best Scarlett O'Hara imitation. “How nice of you to drop by.”
Hamish is watching us from across the table and nudges Amy, pointing. “Is this a party trick in the U.S.? Do women actually make their breasts talk?”
She gives him a hard look. “No. Most of us just double-knot a cherry stem with our tongues.”
Hamish sprays a fine mist of what I now realize is Glenfiddich Scotch whisky all over his arm.
“I need to spend more time with my American cousins,” he mutters, eyeing Amy with renewed interest as she reaches for the maraschino cherry in her amaretto sour.
And promptly bites down, hard, on the fruit’s flesh, tearing it in half with her teeth.
Hamish flinches.
“Or not,” he declares.
—
And then there’s that booty call Hamish makes to Amy at 3 am the night before Declan and Shannon’s wedding:
[This is from Amanda’s perspective]
“Hamish is passing out shots right now? Before the wedding?” Shannon isn’t wearing her makeup yet, so she grabs the hem of Jason’s shirt and uses it to wipe her eyes. That closeness, that comfortable assumption that Jason will let her, sets my teeth on edge.
“The guys need a bit of the hair of the dog. Last night was brutal.”
“Last night?” Shannon has been living with Amy during the three days before the wedding, so she has no idea that the bachelor party went on for two nights in a row. I only know because Hamish called Amy last night, insisting that “Hamy and Amy” have a meeting to talk about proper hand positioning for the walk down the aisle.
And on other parts of her body.
A Scottish booty call at three a.m. is better left unmentioned the next day.
Amy rushes in, red-faced and fuming. She’s carrying her dress and wearing sweats, but her hair is clean and slightly damp. She has creamy skin, long, ringlet red curls, and bright blue eyes. Amy is the complete package: smart, emotionally secure, and gorgeous.
“How’s Hamy?” I tease.
Marie appears as if called by a spell.
“He’s an ass! A complete ass! The arrogance of that man!” But her red face is not from anger.
“Did he acknowledge the booty call?” I ask. Marie already knows about it, and Jason just left the room to check on the little boys. He scoops up Chuckles on his way out, holding the cat gingerly a foot away from his midsection.
“He says I made the booty call!” Amy wails.
“What?”
“He told me he was flattered, but he remembers receiving the call and that I’m cute, but not his type.”
“WHAT?” Marie, Shannon, Carol and I all roar with indignation on her part.
Hamish appears next in Shopping for a CEO’s Fiancee:
[This is from Andrew’s perspective]
“Andrew!” The Scottish lilt in his voice makes me smile. “So good to see you.” He claps his hand on Dec’s shoulder. “Already said my congratulations to this one, but he couldn’t really talk with the dog collar attached to his leash.”
Dec’s expression tells me this joke has been made before, many times.
“We can’t all sleep our way through Europe on a football tour,” I tell him with a wink.
“Ah, but it’s fun to try,” Hamish says with a deep, dirty laugh.
Behind him, I see Amy and Carol in a huddle around a tray of chocolates. At his words, Amy opens her mouth and sticks her finger down her throat. Carol bursts into giggles.
I see Amy’s well acquainted with Hamish.
—
Then good old Pam, Amanda’s mother who is an actuary and known for sharing delightfully detailed details, has something to say at the gathering:
[This is from Andrew’s perspective]
“Did you know that when a male bee mates, his penis explodes inside the queen bee and falls off? Gone forever!” Pam announces, raising her glass of wine as if in a toast.
A toast to male bee castration.
I’m not so sure she’s mother-in-law material, after all.
“Wasps, Mom,” Amanda pipes up. “Andrew’s not allergic to bees.” Like that matters. The woman is talking about insect penises. I don’t think we need to split hairs.
Or, uh...penises.
“You always entertain me, Pam,” Dad says, raising his glass to her. “Any other strange male penis behaviors you know about?” Dad winks at her.
Pam takes him seriously, screwing up her face in concentration. “The male octopus has a detachable penis. When he wants to mate, he rips it off—”
Every guy in the room just tightened his core and bent in a little, as if we’re all Venus flytraps and Pam stuck her finger inside us.
“—and she has sex with the detached penis. He regrows a new one.”
“I had a girlfriend I wish I could have done that with,” Hamish announces. “Would have made life easier.”
Amy looks at him with disgust. “Don’t you strain under the weight of carrying that ego around?”
“What?” he says, one corner of his mouth curling up with mischief. “Imagine the convenience of a detachable penis. T’would make the morning so much easier.”
All the men in the room nod.
All the women frown in confusion.
“And if you want to talk about carrying heavy objects around, if I had a detachable penis, t’would—”
She shuts him up by walking away.
—
And then there’s an argument over the dollar dance tradition:
[This is from Amanda’s perspective]
“Have you really never been to a wedding with a dollar dance?”
Dec and I shake our heads.
“Not since I was a kid,” Dad huffs.
“If you slip a hundred in that purse, will the bride give you a lap dance?” Hamish asks, clearly intrigued by this topic, leaning in as he pops back another shot, a hopeful grin on his face.
Amy smacks his shoulder. “You’re disgusting.”
“Oh, I’m disgusting? You’re the ones talking about hooring out the bride for a purse full of cash at her own wedding!”
“WH0RING!” Amy shouts. “It’s not wh0ring! It’s a lovely ceremonial dance that’s part of any normal wedding reception.”
Declan bristles. “Normal?”
“As if you can talk,” Amy shoots back. “Your wedding was anything but.”
“How would you know? You didn’t even attend,” Declan says.
Dude. Just...no.
“I, unlike you, attended all of your first wedding!” Amy shoots back.
Dec opens his mouth to say something, but Carol steps between them.
“Awwww, you did not just say that,” she says, her jaw tight. “You can’t pull that card on her. She had to work. You know—work. That annoying habit people in our class have.”
“Your class?” Dad snorts.
Amy and Hamish clash again in Shopping for a CEO’s Wife:
[This is from Amanda’s perspective]
Hamish is behind us, his voice unmistakable in the crowd. Carol’s enjoying herself, the stressed look she perpetually wears not making an appearance tonight.
Maybe it’s the wine soaking in, maybe it’s the absence of anything to do, but I’m starting to feel loose. Good.
More than good.
Amy keeps taking covert looks at someone behind me. If I were a betting woman, I’d lay odds on it being Hamish. Shannon and I share a knowing look.
Hivemind. She’s thinking the same thing.
“Remember that time Mom told you I had a date with a billionaire and you joked you were dating the leprechaun from Lucky Charms?” Shannon says to Amy.
“Yeah?”
“Wrong accent.”
Amy looks around the room nervously, eyes landing on Hamish, who obliviously drones on in conversation with Terry, the two talking intensely about football clubs in England and France.
“You think I want to date Hamish? Hamish McCormick? The man is a walking tabloid story.”
“So am I,” I mutter, bitter from the brief run into the building, eyes still half convinced they see the echoes of camera flashes. Draining my wine glass, I reach for the bottle on the table and perform a lifesaving refill. Maybe that’s a tad melodramatic. No one’s ever died from not having more wine.
But let’s not take a chance here.
Shannon holds out her wine glass, too, and motions for me to fill it halfway. James’ earlier musings about grandchildren were just that, then. Musings. Shannon wouldn’t drink if she were pregnant. And besides, she’d tell me if she were. She’s not capable of keeping a secret.
“You, Amanda? When did you turn into a manwh0re like Hamish McCormick?” Amy asks, just loud enough for others around us to hear.
And just as Hamish breaks away from Terry, grabs the bottle I was just pouring from, and ends up three feet away from Amy.
“Manwh0re?” He gives her wicked grin. “Is that an insult or a crown for me to wear? There’s a title I wouldn’t mind bearing.”
“If you don’t know the difference,” she retorts, cheeks blazing but jaw set with determination, “then maybe the rumors are true.”
“Rumors?” He finishes pouring the wine and hands the stemmed glass off to Terry, who is watching their conversation with amusement. “There are rumors about me?” A disingenuous, wide-eyed look complete with splayed hand over his heart follows. In that moment, I see a slight family resemblance to James, Terry, Declan, and Andrew. Nothing physical.
It’s the look of a McCormick going in for the kill. That must be etched in the family’s DNA going back to the Neolithic period.
Eye rolls abound, my own rolling like a hula hoop.
“You do nude athlete photo shoots for Sports Illustrated. You’re booked for a Bachelor special. You’ve scored more on social media than you have on the football field,” Amy retorts.
Terry lets out a mocking sound of shock. Might as well squeal Oooh, burn!
Hamish freezes, his fingers wrapped around the base of his beer turning white, his grin hardening into something slightly sinister as he looks at Amy as if seeing her for the first time. She bats her eyelashes sweetly, giving it right back. Two redheads locked in verbal battle.
If I were a betting woman, I’d give Amy 3:2 odds here.
Hamish leans across the counter, eyes burning, his smile stretching. “Ye made yourself ma unofficial scorekeeper now, have ye? Tracking ma love life and ma field performance. Well, now. I know ye can watch me on the field on television, but ye canna judge ma performance in the bedroom sae easily.” The Scottish accent comes out as he asks the question in a low, seductive voice, one that appears to work magic on Amy, who shifts her weight, taking a few steadying breaths before leaning in, matching his body language, giving nothing more.
But also giving no quarter.
“When there are more pictures of you reaching women’s goal lines than the opposing team’s...” Amy responds, finishing her incomplete sentence with a one-shoulder shrug and a smirk that dares him to argue.
“Jesus, woman, get yer sports terms straight. Goal lines?”
Amy waves a hand in an impressive display so dismissive I’d think she was James’ long-lost daughter. “Whatever.”
“Ye think that’s ma ratio of sex to football goals? Aye, ye’re an innocent, aren’t ye? Those pictures of me with women are but a fraction of the action.” His big green eyes narrow, then take her in from crown to toe, not bothering to hide his lingering gaze.
“Manwh0re it is, then.” Amy holds her own, cheeks flushing, eyes not backing off.
“I wear the title proudly. Does it come with a t-shirt? Ye Americans love to have t-shirts fer every occasion. Did ye get one when ye lost your maidenhood?” His grin turns appreciative.
“Your title comes with a twenty-eight-day supply of antibiotics, Hamish,” she retorts.
“A Scotsman discovered those, ye ken.”
Amy’s face goes blank, a ringlet of red slipping off her forehead as she tilts her head. “What? T-shirts?”
“Sir Alexander Fleming. Discovered antibiotics. Everything good in the world came from Scotland originally.” He winks at her. “If ye’d unclench a bit, ye’d know more about that.”
“Unclench! I am unclenched! Just because you -- ”
He stares openly at her breasts as if looking for something specific. “Nah. I dinna see it.”
Amy crosses her arms over her chest. “See what?”
“Your t-shirt for losing your virginity. Guess you don’t have one. Hmmm. Wonder why not?”
He winks and turns away, walking across the room, leaving Amy a sputtering mess.
“That man – I – what did he -- ”
“He’s a jerk,” I say, sympathetic, yet I can’t help myself. I’m watching his a$s like my eyes have become a paparazzi drone.
“You and Hamish seem to be hitting it off!” chirps Marie, who appears out of nowhere, as if she has radar for anytime her daughters interact with an eligible bachelor. “Imagine the gorgeous redheaded children you two could produce!”
Amy’s eyes ignite. I’ve never seen blue turn orange so fast.
“Shut up, Mom.” Carol humors Marie. Shannon manages her mother with a simmer.
Amy stands up to her.
“I’m just saying, there are worse men in the world.”
“I seriously doubt that, Mom. He just insulted me.”
“What? Hamish? What did he say?”
“He questioned my virginity.”
Marie frowns, her fake eyelashes unyielding, making her look like she has two fringed black cocktail stirrers attached to her lids. “You mean, in a bid for marriage?”
“What?”
“Men only ask about your virginity if they think you’re marriage material.”
“It wasn’t like that. At all.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“Are you a virgin?”
“MOM!”
As I find these scenes (and laugh ma arse off reading them), I realize good old Hamish gets invited to EVERY gathering where there’s drink. Huh.
But this next scene, from Shopping for a Billionaire’s Baby, is a baby shower, so…
[This is from Shannon’s perspective]
“Hamish!” Dad’s call of surprise makes James light up and walk toward the door.
I look at Mom, who is walking past with a Bundt cake covered in strawberries and lemon sauce. My stomach growls. I swear the baby moves toward the cake, as if drawn to sugar magnetically, my organs rearranged so he can get closer to the sweets.
“You invited Hamish, Mom?”
“What? He’s family. James mentioned he’s in town before some modeling gig in New York.”
“Does the guy ever actually play soccer anymore?” Amy tosses in. “All he seems to do is preen for the camera for big paychecks.”
“Shhh,” Mom chides as the big Scottish ginger, two generations removed from James but a very healthy representative of the Old World branch of the McCormick clan, walks in with a big smile and a small, wrapped box in his hands.
“Declan! Shannon! Congratulations are in order!” Dec takes the box in one hand, shakes Hamish’s big hand with the other, and I’m suddenly enveloped in auburn hair and the scent of woodsmoke and salt. I’m on my tiptoes, the baby bulge making this hug really uncomfortable.
“Oh, my. That’s a big belly!” he says, pulling back gracefully, righting me fast. “I’m so sorry, Shannon. But look at ye! Aren’t ye a glowing mum?”
“Thanks.” I look at the gift. “You didn’t have to.”
“Of course I did. I was raised properly. You always bring a blessing for a new baby.” He kisses my cheek and looks at Dec with a wink. “Good for ye, keeping the generations going. We don’t have any bairns yet in ours, but we’ll have to start keeping up with our American cousins.”
A dog collar jingles and soft fluff brushes against my ankles, coming to a halt at my feet. The dog’s eyes tip up under a fringe of white tied back with a little green bow.
“Aye! Who is this?” Hamish asks as Dad offers him a beer and Mom comes back, cakeless.
The baby moves himself back into non-sugar position.
“His name is Chuffy,” Mom says. “He’s our new puppy.”
“Come again?” Hamish’s eyebrows, a slightly deeper auburn than his hair, shoot up, eyes widening with a confused and slightly mortified look to them.
“Chuffy. You know. Like the UK word,” Mom replies, deeply pleased with herself.
Hamish chokes slightly on his beer. “Excuse me? The UK word?”
“Chuffed! You use it all the time over there. ‘I’m so chuffed!’ means you’re excited. I watch a lot of British television. So when we got Chuffy, he was so excitable! So excited about life.” Mom gives the dog an adoring look. Chuffy licks his penis.
“Marie, do you know what ‘chuff’ means?” Hamish asks, clearly assuming that only he knows the answer.
“Sure. I just said so. It means excited.”
“Well, now, ‘chuffed’ does, sure. But ‘chuff,’ itself, means something verra different.”
Amy leans in, suddenly part of the conversation.
“What does it mean?” she asks.
“It’s another word for vagina,” Hamish answers her directly.
The sound of soda spewing out of Amy’s mouth is only rivaled by the sight of her spraying all of it on Hamish’s chest, which–given his height–is about even with her face.
“Oh, my God!” I gasp, grabbing napkins to hand to the poor guy, who is, oddly enough, grinning madly at Amy.
“I’m sorry,” she says as she chokes and laughs.
“It’s fine,” he says. “I’m used to being the one suddenly spraying women with fluids, so it’s a nice turnabout.” Wink.
Mom is frowning at poor little Chuffy. “I don’t understand. Chuffy is all about being excited.”
“Trust me, Marie, it works either way. When men see a vagina, they get plenty excited,” Hamish says, flashing a wicked grin at Amy.
Amy punches him in the shoulder. “You’re so vulgar.”
“It isna vulgar to speak the truth.”
“For some reason, it is when it comes out of your mouth.”
“A hint, Amy, because perhaps you don’t know this: men don’t come out of our mouths.” Wink.
“You are a sick bastard.”
“I’m a sick one? Yer mother named yer house dog after a vagina.”
“Is that an insult? Like your mother smells of elderberries? Is that the Scottish equivalent of Yo Momma jokes?”
Hamish sniffs the air, then goes slowly toward Amy’s neck, inhaling with a sensual intention and a smirk that soon turns to a smolder I can’t watch because it’s too intimate. His slow, deep breath sets my nerves on fire, so I can only imagine what Amy’s going through as he says, “I dinna know about that, but you smell just fine. More than fine, in fact.”
“Quit flirting with me.”
“Ye think this is flirting?” He doesn’t move back, his nose an inch from her neck, body hovering over hers with a masculine intensity that takes over the room. “Oh, ye wait. When I decide to flirt with ye, Amy, ye’ll ken.” I expect him to wink, but he’s serious, his gaze on her and only her, the moment getting hotter by the second.
“So I named my dog Vagina-y?” Mom interrupts, breaking the spell as Amy huffs off and leaves me alone with a six-foot plus walking hormone and a mother who is coming to grips with the fact that her little white puffball of joy has been given a hideous name.
By her.
“Ye did, Marie.” Hamish starts laughing. “Does he answer to it?”
“Yes.”
“Then too late. That’s his name.”
“I didn’t even get the sex right!” Mom wails. “Chuffy doesn’t even have a vagina!”
“Mom. It’s fine. Only people from the UK will know,” I assure her. Naming sentient beings carries so much responsibility. As I rub my big belly, I think about the name Dec and I are considering for this little boy. What if we pick one that means something horrible, or is utterly silly in a different culture or language? Mom can’t even get a dog’s name right. How am I supposed to do this for a human being?
“That’s true. You know, I did have a second-favorite name,” she says, musing. “Maybe we could switch to it.”
Amy returns, drinking a glass of wine and scowling.
“What’s that?” Hamish asks politely.
“Fanny.” Mom brightens up.
“Jesus fooking Christ,” Hamish says with a shudder, walking away without another word.
“What?” Mom asks Amy, utterly puzzled.
“You are never allowed to name anything again.” Amy grabs a cookie, glances in the direction Hamish just went, and frowns.
Watch for Part 2, coming later today or tomorrow. Can’t get enough Hamish and Amy!
Ohmigod…I laughed so hard my dog thought I was having a seizure or something. Now I need to go back and read all my Shopping series again. Thanks so much!
I so neede the laughs this brought today!