As you looked around, the venue was decked out in pink and red, paper hearts strung across the ceiling, and extravagant floral arrangements in vases on every table. It was all a bit much, but nothing compared to the real problem—your boss’s relentless attempts to set you up with her cousin. Or was it her neighbor? You’d stopped keeping track.

But once you turned, you nearly choked on your drink when you saw him.

There, leaning casually against the bar in a sharp suit that fit a little too well, was Johnny “Soap” MacTavish—your brother’s idiot friend. The same one who once got his head stuck in a railing at your childhood home.

He spotted you, grinned like he’d just won the lottery, and sauntered over.

“Well, well,” he drawled, eyes twinkling with mischief. “If I knew ye were the poor soul who hired me, I’d have charged extra.”

You groaned, rubbing your temples. “This is a nightmare.”

“Relax," he smirked, offering his arm. “I’m here to make ya look good, not ruin yer life. That comes extra."