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

Yes, a Thousand Times Yes

"We'd better make our way over there," I said, "so you can have your picture taken receiving the prize." And then upload it onto the village website and Facebook page. If it's not on social media, it never happened right?

The Games were almost finished. The crowds had drifted away, and the stall holders were packing up. I'd seen plenty of people carrying bags brandishing the names of local companies—those selling soap, candles, hand-knitted jumpers, food and everything else artisan and craft-sy. Jack's stall advertising his authentic Outlander (ish) tours of the Highlands had taken sheet-loads of sign-ups to his mailing list, which promised a good start to next year's tourist season.

We picked our way over the field. Torrential rain the week before had turned it into a quagmire. The sun came out today and the day before, making them the best ones of the summer so far. A miracle. The quagmire was due in part to building work going on nearby. The Highland Games took place in the large greenfield area next to the Royal George hotel. It had been bought last year by a company determined to expand. And the field was under threat. Next year, we'd need to find somewhere else to hold the games.

"Jack!" Angus waved us over. He sat at a table in front of the roped off area for the actual games. Kids mucked about, trying to turn off the smallest of the tractor tyres. A few of them managed, which was more than can be said for me. I tried Highland Games once—the result a broken windscreen on an expensive car.

"Fancy a go at the tug of war?" Angus said, standing up. I had to strain my neck to look up at him. He was also a Rugby prop—a truly terrifying prospect to face. No wonder he also doubled up as a bouncer at our local pub.

Jack squeezed my hand. "Nah... Gaby and I were going to head home and—"

Ooh, just what I'd been thinking too! But Angus butted in.

"New team put themselves forward. Calling themselves The Royal George champions."

Rivalry between the Lochside Welcome and the Royal George, the two pubs that book ended the village had always been fierce. This year it was worse than ever. The expansion of the hotel threatened the Lochside Welcome—our favourite pub. The George never bothered with the tug of war. This year they must be trying to prove something. Honours were at stake.

Jack turned to me, eyes glinting. Often, I had to pinch myself. My mind would feverishly run through his many plus points. Red-head! Red-head with lovely knees! Jamie Fraser or rather Sam Heughan look-a-like but better... Then, I'd give my mind an internal ticking off for being so shallow and make myself list the good points that didn't relate to his appearance. Kind! Maker of fantastic shortbread! Considerate! Fun to be with.

... and a-may-zing between the sheets.

We'd seen little of each other the past week. It being August, the tourist season was in full-swing and Jack left most mornings at sparrow's fart, not returning until nine or ten o'clock at night. He was off tomorrow and we'd planned to sneak away from the games early and... catch up.

"You go," I said, prodding him forward. "And make me proud."

He and Angus exchanged eyebrow-raises—an 'as if!' thing I guessed. The Highland Games champion caber tosser and hammer thrower along with the other Rugby boys, and Stewart who fuelled himself on industrial quantities of lager and porridge. What could the Royal George team throw at that?

Jolene wanted over to join me, baby clamped to her front. Macmillan Junior was a month old and—luckily for him—had inherited most of his mother's eight percent Maori genes. A tiny dark head nestled against Jolene's chest and snored gently. She'd put those baby head phones on him to protect against the bagpipes.