Just a few hours later, I was hunched over in a closet, trying to keep my head from banging into the ceiling. Every time I took a particularly enthusiastic breath, one of my elbows collided with a paint can. This closet was not built for the tall.

Hearing footsteps in the hallway, I peeked out of the door. Jackpot. I pulled Heaven inside with one arm and shut the door behind us with the other.

“Listen, buster, I have a black belt in karate—” was all she got out before I clapped a hand over her mouth.

“You own a black belt, maybe.” I snorted. “That’s not quite the same thing.”

“Dylan?” she mumbled.

I dropped my hand from her mouth and reached up to tug on the chain over my head. A single bulb flickered on, illuminating me, Heaven, and a whole bunch of neatly ordered cleaning supplies.

“You damn near gave me a heart attack!” She angrily balled her hands into fists at her hips.

“Careful, don’t step in the mop bucket,” I cautioned.

“Were you trying to kill me? I thought I was being abducted!”

“I just wanted to talk to you in a place with no cameras.”

“Well, mission accomplished. Couldn’t you have wanted to talk to me in a place with no spiders?” She shuddered. “I see, like, two spiders. Already. And that’s just the ones I can see.”

“I kissed someone,” I blurted out.

Heaven’s eyes grew big as saucers and her mouth formed a perfectly round O.

“Or someone kissed me,” I hurried on. “Doesn’t matter. There was kissing going on.”

“Like, plural kissing? Like, more than once?”

“Uh-huh.”

“No way!” Heaven hugged me tightly around the middle. “I never thought this day would come!”

“Hey!” I extricated myself from the hug. “I’m not that tragic.”

“No, no, of course you’re not tragic. This is so exciting!” She reached her hands up to smoosh my face. “My big little Dylan is all grown-up! And check you out—talk about romantic circumstances. Who locks down their first kiss in a castle? Sure beats Tate Moseley’s garage,” she finished glumly.

“Hey now,” I said sternly. “Stop it right there. Tate Moseley doesn’t deserve any of your brain space.”

“Right, right.” She flapped her hands near her face, like she was waving away any thoughts of the Tate Moseley Incident. “This isn’t about Tate. Or me. This is about you! And your new man! Damn, I can’t believe you kissed someone, and I don’t even know who he is!”

“The advantages of leaving Tupelo,” I said drily.

“What’s his name?”

“Jamie.”

“Jamie,” she breathed. “Don’t tell me he’s Scottish.”

“No. English.”

“Even better!” she squealed, grabbing my hands with delight. “Man, Krystal Hooper would poop her pants if she knew you were over here making out with some English dude.”

“I know.” I grinned.

“Well. How did this happen? Tell me everything!”

I launched into the speedy recap version of my adventures with Jamie, from our meeting at the train station, to the trapdoor, and, of course, the snowfall and the kiss and the night in the horse barn.

Although instead of looking swoony, as I expected, Heaven mostly looked…skeptical.

“Dylan, I love you dearly, but I’m pretty sure you just recounted the plot of a Lifetime Original Movie.”

“No, it wasn’t a movie! It was real!”

“Although I think the girl got murdered in that one. Murder in a Horse Barn? No, that’s not it. Snowstorm Murder?” she guessed. “The Scottish Murder?”

“Well, I’m not murdered. Obviously. See? It was real.”

“Really? Damn.” She shook her head. “When you do a first kiss, you do it right.”

I giggled.

“Was that a giggle?” Heaven’s jaw dropped. “You are in serious, serious trouble. Permission to leave the closet now?”

“I guess.” I fiddled with the pin on my shoulder, which was keeping my tartan sash in place. “I’m not ready to dance.”

“You’re never ready to dance. That’s why you have me.”

Unceremoniously, she pushed me out of the closet. I scanned the hallway—not a camera in sight. We appeared to have gone undiscovered. Heaven shut the door firmly behind her.

“Ya look good, Dyl.” She assessed me critically. “This suits you, somehow, this old-fashioned thing. You have a regal neck.”

“Um, thanks.” I rubbed my neck self-consciously. I could not imagine how it was possible that a white puffy-sleeved dress with a tea-length tulle skirt could possibly suit me. This was some weird, ancient ballerina thing.

“You know La Sylphide?” Heaven asked.

“La what?”

“It’s a ballet,” she explained as she lifted one black slipper–clad foot and pointed it gracefully. “This Scottish guy is all set to marry a nice girl named Effie, but then he falls in love with this fairy chick in the woods and messes it all up.”

“Like you do.”

“Anyway, that’s what these outfits remind me of. The old-fashioned tutus from La Sylphide. Especially with these tartan things pinned up at our shoulders.” She tugged on the blue-and-green plaid swatch hanging down my back.

“You don’t think we have to do, like, ballet…do you?” I asked nervously.

“Who knows?!” Heaven did a grand jeté down the hall, her white skirt flying as she leaped through the air. “I just hope we get to keep these outfits.”

“You can have mine, too,” I muttered.

Heaven led me down the hall, dancing a few feet ahead, just like I imagined that Sylphide fairy thing must have led the ballet guy into the woods.

“Heaven, what happens at the end of La Sylphide?”

“Oh, I think everybody dies,” she replied nonchalantly. “Wow.” She stopped suddenly in front of an enormous open doorway.

“Whoa.” I nearly bumped into her as I stopped at her shoulder. The rest of Dunyvaig Castle was grand, of course, but nothing had prepared me for the ballroom. The white walls were trimmed with gold, sparkling nearly as much as the candelabras set all along the walls. I looked up to see an enormous mural of stags covering the high ceiling. Three large crystal chandeliers hung down, dominating the room. I had never seen anything like it.

“Now, when somebody said ‘castle,’ this is what I was expecting,” Heaven murmured appreciatively. “Is this where the reception is going to be?”

“No idea. You think Dusty shares her wedding plans with me?” I snorted.

“Come on in, y’all!” Dusty called from across the ballroom, waving one hand as she leaned into Ronan, his arm around her waist.

It still surprised me, sometimes, how beautiful Dusty was. Almost like I’d forget, then turn around, and be taken aback by it all over again. As we made our way over to her, I wondered, not for the first time, what it would be like to be that beautiful. If everything would be easier. If I would like to have people look at me, instead of cringing anytime someone noticed me.

“Heaven.” Dusty reached out a hand and clasped one of Heaven’s perilously close to her prominent bosom. “Thank you so much for comin’ over here to join us. It’ll be so much easier to do all the rehearsin’ with you standin’ in for Anne Marie.”

“Dusty invited you?”

“Uh-huh.” Heaven smirked at me. Okay, so TRC had actually invited her, but for the sake of the show, Dusty had invited her. It was too confusing, these parallel lines of what was reality and what was reality TV. Why did we have to play along with the fake plot? It was all so dumb. “Thank you so much for asking me, Dusty. I’ve always wanted to see Europe! This is so cool.”

“We’re glad to have you.” Dusty smiled.

“Where’s Anne Marie?” I asked.

“Some med school somethin’.” Dusty waved her hand dismissively. “That girl’s schedule is crazypants.”

“Anne Marie is in med school?” I asked in disbelief. “Your best friend–slash–future bridesmaid. Anne Marie. Is in med school?”

I couldn’t have been more shocked if Anne Marie had landed on the moon. My earliest memory of Dusty’s oldest friend was watching her eat a crayon in our living room. If this was the future of medicine, I feared for the human race.

“Please try not to act so surprised when she gets here, Dylan,” Dusty sniffed. “It’s insultin’.”

“Hey there, Ronan.” Heaven interrupted us before I could stick my foot any further into my mouth. “Looking good. Nice to see you again.”

“I’m verra sorry.” He frowned as she shook his hand vigorously. “Have we met?”

“Technically? Not really. But my elbow was at y’all’s engagement party. I mean, I was there, too,” she clarified, “like, in the same room with y’all. But all you could see on TV was my elbow.”

“I’m sure you have grand elbows,” he said gallantly.

“Dude, the prince likes my elbows!” Heaven squeaked.

“Not a prince,” I whispered back.

Something—or someone—bumped gently into my side. I turned and came face-to-face with Jamie’s clear blue eyes.

“I’m wearing a kilt,” he announced proudly.

“That you are.” On top he wore a plain white button-down shirt with a black tuxedo jacket, but below it was a blue tartan kilt with fancy knee socks. Come to think of it, Ronan was wearing a kilt, too, albeit in a different color; it just didn’t look unusual on him. Ronan had worn a kilt the first time he came over to our house for dinner. Although I think TRC may have had a hand in that. “Why is Ronan’s kilt greener than yours?” I asked. “Do the plaids mean something?”

“It’s a family tartan,” Jamie said hastily, then coughed. “I’ve always suspected my calves were my best feature. It’s a shame they’ve been imprisoned in my trousers for the past sixteen years.”

“Did someone say ‘imprisoned in my trousers’?” Heaven turned toward us as Dusty and Ronan resumed their regularly scheduled activities of nonstop cuddling and making kissy faces.

“Hello there.” Jamie stuck out his hand. “Pleasure to meet you. I’m Jamie.”

“Jamie?” Heaven’s eyes lit up. “The Jamie?! Well, well, well.” She took his hand and shook it slowly as she looked him up and down. “He’s certainly tall enough.”

“Tall enough for what, may I ask?” Jamie inquired politely.

“You know,” Heaven said meaningfully.

Oh brother.

“Jamie, this is my best friend, Heaven.”

“Very best friend,” she added. “I know everything,” she whispered, leaning in close.

“Then I’ll do my utmost to ensure Dylan only provides you with exemplary reports in areas where I am concerned.”

“I like this one.” She squinted at him critically. Then she snorted. “This one. Not like there’s been a bunch. Jamie, you are the first guy Dylan’s ever—”

“Great!” I interrupted them briskly. “Great introductions, just great stuff all around.”

They both stared at me.

“Should we get some dancing going?” I asked, pulling at the neckline of my dress. How was it suddenly so hot in here? “Like, we’ve got these stupid shoes on, might as well dance, right?”

“I couldn’t agree more!”

Kit Kirby leaped into the room with a grand jeté even higher than Heaven’s had been, his short legs sticking out from beneath his kilt in a perfectly perpendicular line to his round torso. He landed in a plié, bringing his arms above his head with a dramatic flourish.

“The dance!” Kit declaimed grandly, stepping toward us with outstretched arms and pointed feet. “Poetry in motion! Och, Scottish country dancing, the finest jewel in the artistic crown of the British empire! You American ladies are in for a treat! It’s your first ceilidh, int’it?”

“Cay-what?” I asked.

“Ceilidh,” Ronan answered in his rumbly Scottish burr. “A ceilidh’s a Scots party of sorts with music and dancing. And you can bet your arse our wedding will be the biggest damn party the Highlands have ever seen!”

I legit could never keep a straight face when Ronan started waxing lyrical about Scottish traditions or even mentioned the word “Highlands.” I knew the Highlands were, like, an actual geographical location, but whenever Ronan said it he sounded one step away from painting his face blue.

“Hear, hear,” Kit Kirby cheered. “I plan on dancing ’til dawn and waking up either engaged or imprisoned. Or both.”

“Ooo, that’d be a real fairy-tale ending, Cinderella.” Ronan laughed.

“You’re not the only one who deserves a happily ever after, yer lairdship,” Kit retorted. “Now, everyone,” he addressed the five of us, suddenly all business. “When we begin to dance, please, dinna be intimidated.”

“Intimidated?” Heaven crossed her arms. “By you?”

Heaven wasn’t just in show choir. She was also on the dance team, and anytime she began to move, a dance circle magically formed around her. Going to a school dance with Heaven was like being an awkward extra on the set of a music video. You just had to get out of her way or prepare to be demolished by a tornado of rhythm.

“Is that a challenge, you wee slip of a thing?” Kit stepped up to her, belly first.

“Could be.” She posed, one hand on her hip. “You looking for a dance battle?”

“Jazz shoes at dawn!” he cried.

“Can we please begin?”

I hadn’t even noticed Ronan’s mom come into the room. Or the violinist behind her. But as soon as I heard her crisp tones, it was like the temperature in the room dropped five degrees. Unlike the rest of us cotton balls, Florence was wearing a black velvet blazer and a calf-length tartan skirt. I swear, that woman owned more blazers than Hillary Clinton.

“Two lines. Ladies and gentlemen facing,” she commanded. “Jamie, your posture is, as always, impeccable.”

I rolled my eyes at Jamie as I walked into the girls’ line. His posture was, as always, unremarkable. He must have written Florence some really choice thank-you notes in his childhood or something.

“This isn’t over,” Heaven mouthed at Kit Kirby as she stalked across from him to the head of the line.

“The first dance at the reception will be the Scottish Grand March,” Florence announced.

“Our first dance?” Dusty’s brow wrinkled as we all turned to look at her. “But that’s not our song.”

“I’m sorry?” Florence asked frostily.

“Our song is ‘It’s Your Love.’ Tim McGraw and Faith Hill?” Florence remained stone-faced as Dusty kept talking. “It was playing at the bar the night we first kissed. Remember, boo?”

Ronan leaned across the line and squeezed her hand.

“It’s tradition,” Florence sniffed. “The bride and groom always enter the reception hall to the Scottish Grand March, followed by the wedding party. I suppose you may have your American first dance afterward.”

“Well…all right, then,” Dusty said in a watery voice. “I mean, that’s great!” she added brightly, smiling desperately at Florence. “I’m so honored to do the Scottish Grand March. Thank you so much, Lady Dunleavy.”

“Um, excuse me?” I raised my hand, like I was in school. “Followed by the wedding party? Do we have to do a dance? Like all of us?”

“Yes.”

“Dancing’s not really my thing,” I said lamely.

“You’ll be fine, wee sister,” Ronan said kindly. “It’s mostly marching around in a circle.”

“Precisely. No challenge at all for a dancer of any merit,” Kit added.

“We’ll see who’s got merits once we start this march,” Heaven said.

“The march will be merely the beginning. We will of course have a traditional ceilidh band playing traditional Scottish music throughout the reception,” Florence continued.

That was a lot of traditional.

“Will they know any Tim McGraw?” Dusty asked worriedly.

“I’ll make sure they do, darlin’,” Ronan promised.

“While I cannot promise any Tim McGraw”—Ronan’s mom spoke over her son—“I can assure you they will be playing ‘The Duke of Atholl’s Reel,’ and you will all be dancing it.”

A snort escaped. I hastily tried to cover it up as a cough.

“Atholl?” Jamie mouthed across the line.

“Yup,” I mouthed back.

He nodded sympathetically.

“The Duke of Atholl’s Reel is Dunleavy tradition!” Florence said shrilly. “And I expect perfection in its execution.”

“Perfection is guaranteed,” Kit Kirby declared.

“From some of us,” Heaven countered, apparently having forgotten that Anne Marie, not her, would be doing these dances on the big day.

Ronan’s mom began walking us through the steps of the dance. There was a lot of pacing back and forth and hopping and skipping from side to side. I wasn’t really getting any of it. But the beautiful thing about dancing in a line was that if the people around you knew what they were doing, they could just push you along. And that’s exactly what they did.

After several dry runs, Florence cued the fiddler, and we began walking toward each other and skipping back and forth.

“Dylan,” Jamie whispered as we circled with our arms around each other’s waists. “I want to take you on a date.”

“A date?”

“Yes, a date,” he repeated as we spun the other way. “A proper date. One that doesn’t involve horse blankets. Something outside the grounds of Dunyvaig Castle.”

We backed away into our respective lines. Hop, skippity, skip. Skip, skip, skip. First Dusty and Ronan passed, then Heaven and Kit; then we joined hands and skipped together down the aisle of dancers.

“What, like, dinner and a movie?”

“Something like that,” he answered, an amused smile playing about his lips. “Will you go out on a date with me?”

“Um. Sure.” As I realized suddenly that I didn’t sound particularly enthusiastic, I continued, “Yes. Yes I will.”

“Good.”

He deposited me at the end of the line, and we clapped in time with the music as Ronan spun Dusty through the dancers and around the room.

“Friday. That’s the traditional date night, yes? I’ll pick you up at eight,” he said, clapping away merrily.

“What exactly is Mr. Darcy blabbering on about over there?” Heaven asked, leaning into my ear so I could hear her above the music.

“Dinner at eight.”

“What?”

“A date,” I marveled. “I’m going on a date.”

“This really is a castle of miracles,” Heaven marveled right back.

“Shut it,” I whispered.

But even though I’d never admit it, I agreed.