(Shopping for a Highlander, #4)
Publication date: March 30th 2026
Genres: Adult, Comedy, Contemporary, Romance
The best early strike o’ ma life wasna on the pitch. It was in bed with Amy on our honeymoon.
Dinna ken how we turned our elopement, honeymoon, and conception into a hat trick, but there ye go.
One minute we’re swimming in champagne and red satin sheets, the next we’re staring at a due date that lands right when I’m supposed ta start my big sportscasting gig in London.
Amy’s glowing. She’s also got that fire in her — the kind that makes her tell my billionaire uncle exactly where ta shove his branding campaign, quit her job at eight months pregnant, and rearrange our entire life plan on a Tuesday.
The grandmums are suspiciously quiet, which is more terrifying than when they’re at each other’s throats.
Then it happens. The wee one decides ta make an entrance four weeks early — while I’m three thousand miles away, live on air, with a producer who willna let me leave.
So I do what any McCormick would do.
I coach ma wife through labor in one ear, commentate the match in the other, and let a billion people watch me choose my family over my career on live television.
It’s messy. It’s loud. It’s pure chaos.
It’s the match of our lives.
Excerpt
Amy
Ceramic tile is hard and very cold.
I find that out when my toes turn into icicles as I stand holding a plastic wand that says PREGNANT, like the world's bossiest fortune cookie.
PREGNANT
The condo holds the aroma of last night's roasted garlic pizza, which felt like a good option at nine p.m. Now? Not so much. A breath of ocean air wafts in through the cracked-open window.
Boston hums outside.
Inside, I am a statue with messy sex hair and a pee stick screaming my future and... oh, my God.
The word grandmonsters rings through my head like Quasimodo clanging the Notre Dame cathedral bell. Our mothers ruined our wedding, crashed our elopement, and now here we stand, five weeks later, married and—
PREGNANT
I breathe in, out, forgetting the rhythm as my distracted brain tries to fill a whiteboard. An Airtable. Every Kanban board. All the Excel spreadsheets, every last one of them.
Hamish wraps around me from behind, lifting me before my feet realize it. He is warm and tall and smells like soap and sleep, and his forearms around my ribcage are so solid, so sure of where they belong, that my body gives up its panic and leans back into him before my brain can file an objection.
Beware the boundless optimism of a man who once insisted a vibrating bed should be on our wedding gift registry.
And that guests should throw quarters instead of rice.
"I canna believe it," he says into my ear, voice hushed. "We're havin' a wee bairn."
"Hi," I say to my husband of five weeks, who hit the bullseye with the first married shot, dammit. "Yes. Apparently."
Years ago, back when I hated him, I called Hamish "sex on a stick."
Now I'm holding the sex stick, all right. I just never thought it would be white plastic and determine my fate.
Hamish lets go, walks away, and comes back into the bathroom carrying a chilled bottle of Champagne. It's the bottle we brought back from our honeymoon in Love You, Maine, from the heart-shaped-everything suite. He holds it up, eyes shining.
"Breakfast o' champions?"
"No, love." I put my hand on his. "I can't drink that now."
A microsecond of confusion crosses his face, then he executes a pivot that would impress his old coach.
"Aye. Well then, coffee it is." His auburn brows drop. "Unless ye canna have coffee?"
"I will always have coffee."
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