to settle down. A standup guy will nae stop showing his woman how much she means, even after he has her.”
Chevelle’s lips pull in pensively. “Love that frame of mind. Nevertheless, hmmm, you just mentioned our half-pint settling down.”
I roll my eyes. “Och! Generalized statement.”
“Of course,” she teases. “Leith, mind the look on your face before I follow through with fighting you.”
Chevelle makes use of an imaginary crystal ball, tormenting me. She struggles against me. With a firm grip on her waist, my teeth sink into the meat of her shoulder before she can protest.
“Stop. It’s true. Leith, stop!”
In a flash, I’ve mounted my wife, pinning her arms above her head. Mouth muffled against her warm skin, I order, “Say Mia’s still my bairn.”
“Mia will grow into a beautiful wom—Ouch!” I bite her lip. “Damn, Leith, Mia will continue as your baby for a while now.”
Soft ridges etch Chevelle’s skin where I left my mark. Thrumming my fingers through her hair, I press my lips over the blemish.
Devilishly seductive eyes pierce through me. “You’re an asshole, Leith MacKenzie.”
“Nae, it’s arsehole, arsehole. Hen, work on yer diction.” My fingers slide her locks over the still furrowed area. “Okay, feck it. I said it. I meant it. Now, dinna remind me of it ‘til Mia’s thirty, forty, maybe forty-three. That’s when I’ve the guts to let her look at laddies.”
“She won’t be looking at boys at forty years old, Leith.” Chevelle reaches up to run a hand along my face. Momentarily, she closes her eyes, pulling in a steady breath.
I sit back on my arse beside her. “What is it, hen?”
A glow slowly breaks across Chevelle’s face. “Just contemplating your words. You’re such a good father.”
That’s not wit ye’re contemplating. “That’s a good thing, aye?” I catch her gaze with mine, firm and steady. My mouth pulls rigid. I wonder at how challenging, on occasion, it’s been to weed through my wife’s brain.
“Yeah, a good thing,” Chevelle says, just when I’m prepared to dig and pry. Her trembling voice breaks into a million wee pieces. “B-but w-when you m-mention us as a good example for Mia.”
“Och.” I have the sudden inclination to pull her close. I fold her in my arms, resting my chin atop her head. For a long moment, I pacify my wife’s soul while holding her just like this. Touching my lips to hers briefly, I probe for more. “Ye never mention yer parents, Chevelle.”
“No,” she whispers so low, the word falls almost short of reaching me. My Chevelle opened up to me in many ways, but it wasn’t until after our first time that she brought up her parents.
The woman who raised her needed to be kicked under a dank jail cell for not obtaining the help Chevelle needed as a child. Her father’s actions were the catalyst for much heartbreak, and it’s still an unresolved fissure in my wife’s heart. The heart in my chest drops. Then I cave. “Ye gotta let me in, hen. I’ve adored ye too long for this. Nae keeping me at arm’s length.”
Chapter 27
Chevelle
On the night of Mia’s first birthday, my heart filled to the brim watching Leith adore our daughter. Later that night, I articulated my thoughts about my parents—the most in-depth conversation I’ve had about them since their death. Leith learned how my mom was the choir instructor at a Baptist church. I included foreshadowing information first, such as how the pastor was unmarried. Even at the age of eight, I understood how there’s a popularity contest at certain churches to snag and marry a pastor, but obviously, Mom was already married. In an out of body experience, I explained the dynamics of the night Daddy claimed Momma’s life. I just couldn’t divulge how it made me feel, how it broke me.
When Leith tried to dig deeper, I threatened him, and we stopped. Simple as that. He’s a good man, and he offered to be there for me. His attempts reminded me of how I was once grateful for Lady’s negligence. That bitch never sought therapy or any other services to support me.
Now, Leith’s encouraging me to let him in. Years ago, he dismantled the walls surrounding my heart. Yet, when his tender love and affection built them up again, I added a few illusions, not quite offering him all the tools necessary to get fully in.
“My father was an attorney,” I say, sharing nothing new. My heart thrashes against my ribs. Who speaks ill of the dead? My dad’s