Highland Wedding - A CHICK LIT ROMANTIC COMEDY (SAMPLE ONLY)

Yes, a Thousand Times Yes

 "Yes!" Jack punched the air, surprising the people around him who jumped back in alarm.

"Yes what?" I piped up. We'd found a spot in the field's edge which wasn't so crowded. This year's Highland Games hadn't drawn in as many people as last year's event—graced by the presence of one of the biggest reality TV stars in the world—but it was still popular. From where we sat, I could see the tops of heads as dancers competed on the stage and the queue that snaked all the way around the park as people waited to see Psychic Josie, international medium consulted by all the stars. (As she herself put it.) From time to time, the bagpipes sounded. Earlier that day, the local pipe band marched down the High Street to start the games, and a few of them hung around piping tunes for the dancers and hammer throwers.

"The results are in!" Jack showed me his phone. As a long-time resident of Lochalshie, Jack held a long-standing record as best caber tosser in the area. And, as I often told him, the best looking caber tosser. Disloyal of me to say so, but the competition wasn't high. Every other contender fell out of the ugly tree and hit all the branches on the way down. A shockingly judgemental and horrible thing to say, which was why I never said it out loud.

Jack's screen showed the Lochalshie WhatsApp group—the first and often the only source of up-to-date news for the Lochalshie area. Angus had sent out a rude message questioning the accuracy of the result but was one hundred percent certain the village's biggest tosser had won.

"I've regained my pride," Jack said. "First again."

Last year, he didn't win—distracted thanks to his pursuit of me. He was back in the game this year. The sun caught the red in his hair and made it gleam. I fell in love with Jamie Fraser's far more handsome and younger brother, and I still tingled when I looked at him. The Games competitors all looked the part—kilts, Timberland boots and tight tee-shirts. Biased I know, but no-one wore a kilt better than Jack. He had the knees to carry it off. And the biceps to show off a skin-tight black tee shirt, and the calves that displayed socks to full adv—

"Gaby?"

I snapped too. Tempting as it was to sneak off home for a little tumble, we were committee members. Our job today was to help organise the Highland Games and ensure everything ran smoothly.

I ruffled his hair. "Good," I said. "I only date winners." Whispered, "Sleep with".

He laughed at that and leaned over to kiss me, a tiny peck on the lips that took me back to our first kiss on this same day one year ago. Once upon a time, Gabrielle Amelia Richardson lived in Great Yarmouth with her boyfriend of ten years who was, not to put too fine a point on it, a douche bag. Chance took me here—the village in the middle of nowhere—when I signed up for cat-sitting services. As a fanatical Outlander fan, I'd been delighted to discover the village contained Jack, Jamie Fraser's (better-looking) double. We didn't hit it off at first, but the path of true love never does run smooth as the cliché goes. When we got together months later, it was all the sweeter for the wait.

And what a year I've had.

"What's the prize, oh champion tosser?" I asked Jack. "One thousand pounds?"

It was last year and in my head, I'd already spent the money starting with a long weekend in a luxury hotel somewhere in the city where I rediscovered retail therapy and the two of us romped on a bed we didn't have to make afterwards.

"Ah... ten pounds and a wee dod o' shortbread."

Oh well. Last year's generous prize donation was a one-off. Though it seemed cheeky to force the prize-winner to make his own bloomin' prize this year. Yes, my boyfriend not only tossed cabers with aplomb, he was a dab hand in the kitchen. His shortbread had won the best bakery entry overall in the village's version of the Great British Bake Off, which had taken place earlier this afternoon.