Page 21 of Highlands Summer Wedding

“Where are we exactly?”

He looked around, then back at the GPS. His brows furrowed slightly.

“Oops. We’re at the Fairy Pools. I had told you about the Fairy Glen. That’s going to have to be a separate visit.”

“They’re not together?”

“You’d think so, but no. We’re here…” He pointed to a spot on one side of the island. “And the Fairy Glen is there.” He pointed to an area that looked far away.

“I guess I was so focused on hiking that I came here. The Pools are more of a hiking place; the glen is more whimsical. Probably what you were looking for.”

“For a wedding location, yes. They already hiked around Old Man of Storr,” I said.

“So we’ll do some sightseeing, and I can take you there later?”

Suspicion stirred at the back of my mind. “Is this a ploy to get me out of the house so you can film there? Or maybe you’ve got a shoot set for the Fairy Glen?”

“Chalk it up to too many 14 hour days on set and brain fog. Forgive me?”Those big blue eyes—damn him.

“For now,” I said pointedly.

We joinedthe stream of people winding their way along the trail, carried forward by the current of excited tourists and determined hikers.

I stared at the jagged silhouettes, sharp against the pale blue sky. “Wow, those mountains are gorgeous!”

“Hills. They usually call them hills,” corrected Max.

“The sign said they’re the Black Cuillin Mountains,” I said.

“Fine…,” he conceded, his voice softening in a way that made me want to both reach for his hand and walk ten paces ahead.

“I remember Angus, the groom, had used the phrase ‘hill-walking.’ I guess that’s more accurate than actual mountain climbing. But when you live in a mostly flat area of Massachusetts, these are pretty impressive.”

The hills were different here. Greener. Mistier. We soon came upon a narrow creek and followed it toward the hills. The crowd had thinned considerably—the warning signs about treacherous footing had apparently deterred many of the older visitors.

We followed the river toward the mountains, and aside from all the hikers dressed in their wellies and waterproofs, we could’ve been in Jacobite times.

Rip Van Winkle. The stones inOutlander. No wonder so many writers had looked at places like this and imagined the veil between centuries growing thin.

The path opened to reveal the first pool. Water gathered beneath a cascade tumbling down black rock. At the waterfall’s edge stood a teenager in bright swim trunks, toes curled over the precipice. I held my breath as he waited for a swimmer to clear the landing zone below, then launched himself into the air. For a heartbeat, his body hung suspended before slicing through the air and into the frigid water with barely a splash.

A shiver cut through me. “It must be freezing!”

“You going in?” Max asked with a slight smirk.

I raised a single eyebrow and gestured ahead of me. “After you.”

And damn if Max didn’t start climbing up to the top of the waterfall.

“Seriously, Max?”

He just grinned and began untying his hiking boots.

I stood frozen and called up to him. “Don’t they have insurance on you for the film?”

“Yeah. We’re insured.”

“That’s no reason to intentionally?—”