Page 72 of SINS & Temptation

“Well, I cover Pre-Cana and devotion,” Father Marc explains, pointing to himself, then to the man. “And Hamish here”—Hamish waves—“has you covered for attire.”

I point to my tux. “I’m wearing my attire. We all are. We blew through one wedding and are on to the next.”

Hamish steps forward, hand to his chest, standing all stout and proud. “I’m yer kiltmaker, sir.”

My face drops. “My what?”

A roar of laughter erupts from my brothers, especially when Hamish starts draping fabric across my loins.

I’m about to totally lose my shit when Father Marc shoves his phone in my face, and the handwritten document from Ewan Mullvain stares me down.

The man’s dying wishes for his daughter. My wife-to-be. “Fuck. Fine. Whatever.” I stare them all down. “And you’ll all be wearing them too, dickheads.”

That shut them up.

The man raises a hand nervously. “It was a bear findin’ all this Mullvain tartan. Sorry, did you say I need to make kilts fer everyone? I’ve only got two hands.” He holds up his hands as if to drive the point home. “I’m a stitch-tician, not a magician.”

Dillon slaps his hand. “My man. Busting out the Star Trek.”

My head falls into my hands. I’m pretty sure Hamish here has waited his whole life to drop that line.

Sin adjusts his glasses and speed-dials Ricardo. “We need seamstresses over here right away. Can you spare any?”

“What for?” Ricardo asks, sounding distracted.

“All the men are getting fitted for kilts.” Sin barely gets the words out when loud squeals blast through the phone.

Mateo arches a brow, crossing his arms. “What was that?”

Ricardo laughs. “Those are my seamstresses stampeding out of the room and heading your way. The thought of stripping down the D’Angelos is like shouting shirtless firefighters to them. Will you be going regimental?”

Regi-what? By this point, I’ve had enough. “What about Kennedy’s dress?” I snap, because she’s definitely more important than my idiot brothers prancing around with the fabric. Is the style to her liking? What about the veil? All I manage to bark out is, “Take care of it.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be taking extra good care of your bride.” He’s just saying that to rile me up, and it’s working.

I know Kennedy is right there, standing next to him, listening to every word, and she hasn’t said a damn thing. The silent treatment? It’s driving me out of my goddamn mind, and I hate that it does.

It also bothers me that Ricardo has probably seen her naked, and if I gouge out his eyes, who will make her exquisite couture clothes?

“Just take care of her,” I bark.

“Definitely,” he purrs. Fucker.

We disconnect just as Hamish circles me like a hawk, sizing me up. “So, we’ll keep yer top. And I’ve got enough fabric for the kilts and fly plaids, but what about yer dress sporran? Or kilt hose? Or yer Ghillie Brogues?”

Fuck, my Ghillie what?

I place a firm hand on his shoulder. “You’ve got a dozen seamstresses, an unlimited budget, and an extra hundred-thou if everything you just said magically falls into place in under an hour. Can you be a magician now?”

He salutes sharply. “Aye-aye, captain.” If this guy’s full of Scotty quotes, I’m gonna need booze.

Mateo holds a strip of fabric across his waist, grinning. “What did Ricardo mean by going regimental?”

Hamish snorts. “I believe you know it as going commando.”

Sin’s face turns crimson. “You mean without a shred of underwear?”

Dillon perks up. “No boxers or briefs?”

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