After a pretty sleepy Saturday at Dunyvaig, during which everyone napped so aggressively it seemed like they were trying to outdo one another, TRC had clearly decided to amp up the production values with whatever this event was that we’d all been forced to attend.

“So what is this again?” I whispered, attempting to hide from the camera behind my mug.

“Punch. Unless you got into the mulled wine,” Jamie whispered back.

“No, not the drink. This event. I know it’s not Christmas yet.”

“Not Christmas. It’s Burns Night. Although, in fact, it’s technically not Burns Night at all, as that occurs in January. And it is most decidedly December.”

“So then this is…”

“Whatever mishmash of Scottish traditions TRC could cram into a winter evening. Fortunately, it is far too cold for any sort of Highland Games.”

“Is that the thing where people throw huge-ass tree trunks?”

“That it is,” Jamie confirmed. “If you’re referring to the caber toss.”

“Now that I would have liked to see,” I said wistfully. “I bet Ronan could destroy a caber.”

“He certainly has in the past. Although a Kit Kirby caber toss is by far the more entertaining event. One year it fell completely sideways and crushed the refreshment stand.”

“That little man couldn’t lift a caper, let alone a caber,” Heaven announced through a mouthful of canapés.

“Heaven!” I jumped. “You know I hate it when you sneak up on me like that.”

“Can’t help it that I’ve got a silent tread.” She popped another pastry puff into her mouth. “Y’all get one of these little things yet? I don’t know what they are”—she licked her fingers delicately—“but they’re delicious.”

“Um, no,” I said decidedly, at the same time Jamie answered, “It’s a haggis puff.”

“A what?” Heaven paused mid-chew.

“Haggis puff,” Jamie said again.

“What’s haggis?” she asked.

“It’s a pudding of sorts made up of all the leftover bits of sheep—heart, liver, lungs, what have you—mixed with mash. Here it’s been cleverly wrapped in a bit of puff pastry. Haggis is the traditional main course of a Burns supper as well, so I’m sure there’s loads more to come.”

“Blergh.” Heaven let out a strangled little choking noise as she delicately spat the remains of her haggis puff into an emerald-green cocktail napkin. “Excuse me, won’t you?”

Heaven shuffled out of the room, rapidly turning the same color as her napkin.

“Where were we, then?” Jamie asked.

“Burns Night.”

“Ah. Yes. Right. You really should be asking Ronan.” Jamie looked around the room, where the man in question was holding court in front of the roaring fireplace, Dusty tucked adoringly under his arm. “It feels inappropriate for a non-Scot to be explaining it. I’m sure a tribe of tartan-clad clansmen will muster me right back to Heathrow on grounds of cultural infringement.”

“I’ll fight off any patriotic Scotsmen, I swear. I’m not leaving this corner to go talk to Ronan. We’re in bad lighting, sort of muffled by whatever sound system is producing this fiddle music, and being boring. We’re reality-TV repellent.”

“Ah, but you’re forgetting that I’m back in a kilt once again. These calves are camera magnets.”

“Yeah, they’re really something.” I rolled my eyes good-naturedly.

“They seduced you, didn’t they?” he asked, a legit twinkle in his eye.

“Jamie.” I shushed him furtively, darting glances into the nearest ceiling corner. “Who knows if there’s hidden cameras around here?

“I think they know, Dylan. They went on a date with us.”

“Oh. Right.” I swallowed uncomfortably, remembering the fact that I had full-on made out with Jamie literally in front of the camera. “Even when you forget for a minute, it’s still hard to get used to. That feeling that you’re being watched.”

“I don’t think you ever get used to it. Not really,” he said quietly, more like he was talking to himself than to me. He took a sip of his drink. “You had a question?”

“Oh. Right.” I shook my head, trying to remember. “This party. What the hell is it? By the time you explain it to me, it’ll be over.”

“Sorry, sorry! Burns Night celebrates Robert Burns.”

“Who is…” I prompted.

“Scotland’s premier poet. He was born the twenty-fifth of January, 1759, so now the twenty-fifth of January is Burns Night.”

“And what does one do on Burns Night?”

“Drinks Scotch. Eats a haggis. Recites the ‘Address to a Haggis.’”

“The ‘Address to a Haggis,’” I repeated. “You just made that up.”

“I most assuredly did not. I would bet you ten quid that Kit Kirby will recite an ‘Address to a Haggis’ that will move you to tears, but it would be unsportsmanlike of me to take your money like that.”

“Well, I’m certainly looking forward to that. Although I have to warn you, I haven’t cried in public since the first time I saw The Lion King, so I wouldn’t hold your breath. And that’s it? That’s the whole night?”

“People will continue to recite Burns songs and poems. And by people, I mean Kit Kirby. I have yet to attend a Burns Night where he let anyone else get a word in edgewise.”

“So we’re in for an evening of eating sheep lungs and listening to Kit Kirby recite poetry,” I said grimly. “That’s barely a step up from being in school. Hell, that might be a step back. Worse than cafeteria food and English class. I should have stayed home.”

“I’m glad you didn’t. Facing all these lunatics alone would have been dire. And I can assure you that Kit’s recitation will be most educational. You probably shouldn’t go back to school at all,” he added lightly.

A leaden weight dropped into my stomach like I’d just eaten a whole tray of haggis puffs. I would have to go home. I knew, of course, that I would have to go home—this wasn’t really my life—but I hadn’t thought about it. About leaving Scotland. About leaving Jamie. About the expiration date stamped on our foreheads like we were grocery-store cold cuts. What happened when you met the person who you thought might just possibly be the person—your person—when you were only sixteen? And lived halfway across the world? It’s not like we were going to get married and ride off into the sunset on Wenceslas. Jamie would live on forever as the story of my first kiss, but he’d cease to be a real person and become only a story. And that thought was almost unbearable.

“Y’all, those haggis puffs are deadly,” Heaven announced as she returned to the room, clutching a small bottle of ginger ale. “I ran into Dusty in the bathroom barfing her guts out, too. These things are taking people down.”

“It was the haggis!” I said loudly. Too loudly.

“Yeah, that’s what I said.” Heaven and Jamie were both looking at me like I was crazy.

“So, uh, is there gonna be other food at this thing?” I asked hurriedly, trying to distract them from my stupid blurt. “Or is it all haggis all the time?”

“There’s traditionally a soup course,” Jamie said. “Maybe cheese and pudding as well. And the haggis is always served alongside neeps and tatties.”

“Neeps and tatties? That’s not a food.” Heaven shook her head.

“Food of the gods!” Kit Kirby boomed, arriving in our darkened corner of the party with a camera crew at his heels.

“People have got to stop sneaking up on us like this,” I whispered to Jamie.

“Next party we’re hiding behind a couch,” Jamie whispered back.

“Was this a costume party?” Heaven asked archly. “Who are you supposed to be? Bob Cratchit?”

“I’m Robert Burns!” Kit protested, outraged, tugging at his white cravat. “Scotland’s favorite son! The Ploughman Poet! The Bard of Ayrshire!”

“He could have gone up a size in the breeches,” Heaven whispered dramatically behind her hand. “They look like tan jeggings.”

“So, what’s tatties and neeps?” I said desperately, hoping Kit hadn’t heard the jeggings comment.

“Simple fare for simple folk like me!” Kit declaimed. “The Ploughman Poet!”

“Mashed potatoes and mashed turnips,” Jamie explained.

“Thank you, Jamie,” Heaven said pointedly. “I was just looking for a simple explanation, not a piece of performance art.”

“The costume is a new feature,” Jamie said politely. “Really adds something special to the evening.”

“Stepping it up this year.” Kit brushed some invisible dust off the lapels of his jacket. “Have to show the Americans what’s what, eh?”

More like have to show TRC why he needs his own spin-off, I thought cynically. Then again, from the little I knew of Kit Kirby, this seemed pretty in character. Maybe some people just had the kind of personalities that were made for reality TV.

“Shall we get out of this dank corner, then?” Kit began steering us all out of our hidey-hole. No more comfortably hugging the wall for me. “The lighting is dreadful!”

“Can you believe this guy?” Heaven muttered as Kit strode grandly right into the center of the room. “What a show-off.”

Privately, I thought Heaven’s issues with Kit may have had more to do with the fact that she was worried there was only room for one breakout star from Dusty and Ronan’s Happily Ever After Royal Jamboree or whatever this nightmare was called.

“I think maybe he just likes costumes?” I suggested.

“Yeah. I like costumes, too. But I’m not parading around here dressed like a slutty ladybug.”

“Did you bring a slutty ladybug—”

“No, I did not,” she interrupted me. We both looked at Jamie and Kit, deep into a discussion of how to tie cravats, and sank, almost in unison, into a deep, overstuffed floral couch.

“Mmm.” Heaven closed her eyes. “This is nice. Cozy couch, warm fire, no one talking to us about cravats…Think anyone would notice if I took a nap?”

“Heaven,” I began, not sure how to say what I wanted to. “We have to go home.”

“What, now?” She cracked an eye open.

“No, not now. But we have to go home. Eventually. After the wedding.”

“Um, yeah.” Both eyes were fully open now. She struggled to sit up straight, sinking into the couch. “You just figuring that out now?”

“No, I knew that, I just sort of…forgot.”

She looked at me with confusion, then followed my gaze over to Jamie.

“Ohhh. But, Dyl, this was always just, like, a fling. Not, like, a thing. You know?”

“But what if I want it to be a thing?” I whispered.

“Well, damn,” she said flatly. “I thought this was just a ‘Hey, I had my first kiss in a castle’ kind of situation.”

“I think we’ve evolved past that.”

“But how can this evolve, Dylan?” she said seriously. “I don’t want to burst any bubbles here, but you have to go home. And he has to go back to school. What then? You gonna be long distance across two continents? At sixteen?”

“I thought you were going to be all hopeless romantic with me here!” I complained. “You know, love can conquer all the odds?”

“LOVE?!”

Heaven was so loud conversation died down, and everyone turned to look at us, including all the camera and production people.

“I LOVE HAGGIS!” Heaven bellowed, and shot Ronan a thumbs-up, which he duly returned, accompanied by a huge grin.

“Good save,” I muttered, attempting to sink into the couch and disappear forever. “I hope you’re committed to eating a ton of haggis at dinner now.”

“Are. You. Nuts?” she hissed between clenched teeth. Luckily everyone else turned back to whatever it was they were doing before she started shouting like a crazy person. “Love?”

“I didn’t say I loved him! I just—”

“But you thought it,” she interrupted. “You thought you might. Or you could.”

“Maybe.”

“Dylan.” She fixed me with a stare. It was hard to meet her brown eyes, usually so warm. “This is not going to end well. You are going to get hurt. I know you want me to sell you on the fairy tale, but I can’t. Because this isn’t a fairy tale. In a week, we’re all going to turn back into pumpkins and go home to Mississippi. And this, whatever it was, will be over. You might be Facebook friends, you might e-mail or whatever, but it won’t be what it was. And gradually it’ll just fade away.”

I heard her, but I didn’t want to. Nothing she was saying was wrong, but it felt wrong.

“Damn.” She chuckled softly, breaking the moment. “Who would have thought I’d be the one trying to convince you to be more cynical, huh?”

Neither of us said his name, but we both knew why. Tate Moseley was as much a part of this conversation as if he were wedged in between us on this hideous floral couch.

“Just try to live in the moment, maybe, right?” she said more gently. “Just appreciate it for what it is, you know?”

“Yeah.”

“Are we cool?” she asked, concerned.

“We’re cool.” And we were. I certainly wasn’t mad at Heaven; she’d said nothing but the truth—but that didn’t mean I enjoyed hearing it. We only had a week left in Scotland, and that seemed like an impossibly short amount of time. I wasn’t nearly ready to say good-bye to Jamie. And I was worried I never would be.

BONG!!!!!!

Of all things, a loud clang of a gong broke our moment. I turned to see a butler type in a tuxedo standing next to a still-reverberating golden gong, mallet in his white-gloved hand. I swear there hadn’t been a gong in here before.

“Dinner,” he announced, “is served.”

“Well, then.” Heaven pushed herself off of the couch. “Think I might need one of those at my house. Might inspire my brothers to shut up and get their asses to the dinner table in a timely fashion, huh?”

I nodded and smiled at her, but my thoughts were still lingering on Jamie and the future. We followed the swarm of people trooping into the dining room, falling into line like a herd of cattle.

The table was set formally as always, but the floral arrangements were composed almost entirely of thistles. The fat votive candles were wrapped in tartan bows, and even the plates were plaid. I found my name on a vellum place card embossed with a printed thistle, luckily right next to Heaven. A servant materialized out of nowhere to pull out my seat. To no one’s surprise, the seat cushion was plaid, too.

At the first few notes of a low, droning bagpipe, we stood. A chef dressed in whites followed the bagpiper into the room, holding an enormous white serving dish containing a huge brown lump and a knife. Guess that was the haggis.

The bagpiper continued playing as the chef placed the haggis in front of Ronan. Ronan gestured to Kit, who strode grandly over to join him at the head of the table. As the song faded to a close, Kit raised his hands above his head, like he was about to address the heavens.

“Far fa’ your honest, sonsie face,” he began, hands still above his head. Who knew what the heck “sonsie” meant? “Great chieftan o’ the puddin’-race!”

I snorted. Loudly. Mom and Dusty shot me identical I will murder you looks.

“Puddin’-race?” Jamie mouthed sympathetically.

At least somebody got it.

“The groaning trencher there ye fill,” Kit shouted, pointing dramatically at the haggis, desperate to reclaim his audience. I tried to fix a rapt, attention-paying kind of look on my face. The more boring I was, the less the camera would look at me.

“His knife see rustic Labour dight,” Kit intoned, like he was Macbeth, grabbing the knife off the plate and raising it solemnly aloft. With a lusty “an’ cut ye up wi’ ready sleight,” Kit plunged the knife into the belly of the haggis and split it from end to end. I couldn’t see entrails spilling out, even if the next line was something about trenching your gushing entrails. The haggis just kinda sat there quivering, but Heaven looked a little green anyway. She pulled her tiny bottle of ginger ale out from under the table and took a desperate gulp.

“Five more stanzas,” Jamie mouthed, holding up five fingers.

I smacked my head with my palm. Probably a little too loudly. Whoops.

And so Kit continued on, hopping about the room like a demonic haggis elf. Finally, he strode back to the haggis with weighty, measured steps. Did this moment of gravitas mean we were nearing the end?

“But, if ye wish her gratefu’ prayer,” Kit said quietly, almost in a whisper. Pause. Pause. Dramatic pause. Longest dramatic pause in the history of mankind. “Gie. Her. A. HAGGIS!”

He roared the last line, raised his hands to the sky, then bowed low, his hair flopping madly. He rose back up to thunderous applause, face red and shiny from the exertion. I made eye contact with Jamie and mimed wiping away a few tears. Maybe I hadn’t cried. But I was certainly entertained.

“All righ’, then.” Ronan clapped Kit on the back. “Couldna ha’ said it better myself. Now, my new American family, ye may not know much about Burns Night. I’m wagerin’ this is yer very first Burns Supper. They’ve got an order, usually, and a tradition to it.”

“Tradition is the hallmark of Burns Night,” Florence sniffed.

“Forgive me, Mum, for I’m goin’ to break tradition for a moment here,” Ronan continued. “Do somethin’ new because I’m about to make a new start—and make a brand-new family.” He squeezed Dusty’s shoulder. Brand-new family? Was he trying to tip everyone off about the baby?! I looked wildly around the room, but everyone was smiling blandly, not in the least bit suspicious. “Usually, the Toast to the Lassies happens after dinner. But I canna wait that long. Because there’s one lassie in particular I need to toast this evenin’.” White-gloved waiters appeared out of nowhere, circulating with champagne glasses.

“Oh, Ronan!” Dusty giggled, hiding behind her hair. She couldn’t drink that champagne! Wouldn’t everyone get suspicious if she didn’t drink as part of her own toast? God, this baby was already giving me an ulcer, and it wasn’t even born yet.

“Can we all git to our feet?” Ronan asked, and with much scraping and bumping, we rose.

“Here’s to Dusty,” he said. “My bonny bride. The girl who changed my life for the better in every way, when I didna even know it needed changin’.”

“Are we toasting the bride?” a confident American voice drawled. I turned to see an older, blondish guy with very white teeth leaning against the doorway. He watched us all with amusement, the corners of his eyes crinkling in his suntanned face. “Isn’t that usually her dad’s job?”

The champagne flute slipped from Mom’s hand and shattered into a cloud of broken glass.

“Daddy?” Dusty whispered.