Chapter 29
Theo
Saying goodbye to Jeremiah felt like trying to leave a warm bed on a cold, wintry morning—physically painful and utterly counterproductive. We stood at my front door, neither of us making any real effort to part ways, our hands linked and his thumb tracing circles on my palm.
“I should go,” he said for the third time in five minutes. “You’re going to be late for lunch.”
“I know,” I said, making no move to let go of his hand. “According to Mike, Mrs. H gets cranky when people are late.”
“And you don’t want to see Mrs. H cranky?”
“If Mike’s to be believed, she’s terrifying enough when she’s in a good mood.”
He laughed and pulled me closer, pressing a soft kiss to my lips that lingered longer than it should have for a casual goodbye. When we broke apart, he rested his forehead against mine.
“Last night was . . .” he started, then seemed to lose his words.
“Perfect,” I finished. “It was perfect.”
Another kiss, deeper this time, and I was seriously considering calling Mrs. H and claiming sudden illness when Jeremiah finally stepped back.
“Go,” he said firmly. “Before I decide the gym can wait and drag you back inside.”
The idea held considerable appeal, but I forced myself to nod. “Text me when you get home?”
“Yes, dear,” he said with a wink and a smirk.
Leaning against the doorframe, I watched him drive away before reluctantly gathering my keys and heading to Mrs. Henderson’s house, my lips still tingling from his goodbye kisses.
The drive over was short, but my nerves had plenty of time to ramp up. I was about to meet the legendary Mrs. H—the woman Mike described as “terrifying in the best possible way” and Sisi called “a force of nature with zero filter.” According to them, she was the undisputed matriarch of their little group, the one who’d somehow adopted them all and now felt entitled to meddle in their personal lives with the enthusiasm of a professional matchmaker.
A matchmaker. Shit.
What if she didn’t like me?
What if she decided I wasn’t good enough for Jeremiah?
From what I’d heard, her approval seemed to matter to everyone, and the last thing I wanted was to become the guy who didn’t pass muster with the group’s unofficial mother figure. Mike had made her sound both formidable and lovable, but what if I said something wrong? What if my persistent nervousness made me come across as awkward or boring?
I was probably overthinking this, but meeting the people who mattered to Jeremiah felt like a big step. These weren’t just his friends—they were his chosen family, and their opinion would matter to him whether he admitted it or not.
The driveway was full, so I parked on the street. Peering out the driver’s window, I couldn’t help but gape. Mrs. Henderson lived in a two-story cottage-looking house one might see on the cover ofHighland Livingmagazine, if such a thing even existed.
“Come on, Theo. Suck it up and get in there. Mike will have your back.”
Little did I know, the pack turned on itself when humor—and old Scottish women—were involved.
I climbed out of my car and shuffled my way up the two stairs to the front door. It was slightly ajar, so I pushed it open and stepped inside.
“Holy shit,” I whispered to myself.
The outside was a mix of Atlanta meets the UK, but the interior of Mrs. H’s house looked like Scotland had exploded inside it: tartan everything—curtains, throw pillows, even a lampshade that appeared to be wearing a kilt.
But it was the aroma that hit me hardest.
It smelled like something that might generously be called “traditional Scottish cooking” and less generously described as “what happens when good ingredients go to die.”
“Theodore! It’s about time,” an older woman’s voice announced from across the house. Apparently, Scots had Spidey’s tingling sense—or his hearing, at least. “Get your skinny ass in here. I’ve madehaggis.”
