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

Wedding-themed Pizzas

My phone pinged once more. The wretched WhatsApp group. A speech bubble hanging on the screen: "He's no' said aye!" "Why no'? She's a lovely lassie!" The thing where people pretend kind concern while at the same time revelling in your misfortune and embarrassment.

I cringed and considered my options. My best friend is a style-it-out expert. I channelled her. Nothing came through. Jack faced me, his expression unchanged. It looked neither pleased or displeased. In the days before we were an item, I'd always thought he'd make an expert poker player. In a story, his jaw might tic. I spotted no such helpful clues.

He took my hand. "C'mon, Gaby. Let's go."

Let's go? LET'S GO?! Around us, people murmured asking the same question I did, I guessed. Dude, you've no' answered the lassie's question. Are ye gonnae marry her or no'? Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Zac—one-time resident and murderer of Lochalshie. He raised his hand to wave at me. I ignored it, as I make a point of not acknowledging murderers.

Jack tipped his head to the side, gesturing towards our house a mere three minutes' walk away. I nodded gratefully. Perhaps he wanted me to do the proposal properly—get down on one knee and ask. At which point, he'd punch the air and say, "yes, yes, a thousand times yes." Throw in, an "Are you sure, Gaby? I don't know if I'm good enough for you." As he had in the ten times I'd imagined how this scenario would work out.

Stewart, who had yet to develop social awareness skills, jogged behind us followed by Scottie his West Highland White Terrier. "Are youse off the pub?" he asked. "Jolene says Ah can have one pint if Ah promise to change wee Tamar's nappies for the next ten days."

"No!" I snapped. "We've got stuff to talk about."

When Jack smirked, relief washed over me. Thank goodness, yes he longed to settle down to a detailed discussion about wedding venues, bridesmaids, chair covers, menus, cakes and whether or not I opted for the full meringue dress-wise.

We'd only gone a further two steps when someone called out Jack's name. Ashley. The Lochside Welcome had done a roaring trade so far today on half-price pizzas and cocktails invented especially for the Games. He didn't need our custom. I pulled Jack's hand, still unnerved by the non-answer to my question.

"I'd better see what he wants," Jack said. "Sorry."

As we headed over, Mhari sidled up. The Lochalshie WhatsApp group updater extraordinaire. Why I wasn't prepared for this, I didn't know. I'd known Mhari for as long as I'd known Jack. There wasn't a single aspect of a person's life Mhari thought worth ignoring.

"What's happenin'? Are you getting married or no'?" she asked. her face arranged into what she reckoned invited a person to confide.

"None of your beeswax," I snapped back. Impulse took over. "We're off to the Lochside Welcome to celebrate."

Jack didn't hear, luckily for me. Might be a celebration--might be a drink to drown my sorrows.

"Bad news," Ashley said when we reached him. His normally friendly face looked strained and he shot killer looks in the direction of The George. Extensive refurbishment of the hotel had been carried out at the beginning of the year, and had finished only the day before. Once a shabby Edwardian place favoured by coach parties of touring OAPs making the most of their free bus pass, these days its car park was always chokka.

"I'll tell you about it in the pub," he added, dropping his voice. "Free pizza and chocolate cake thrown in."

Ten minutes later and a large helping of Chocolate Decadence in front of me—created in honour of the reality TV star Caitlin Cartier and utterly delicious—Ashley told us what he knew.