As they commence the usual exchange, my little beautiful lassie blossoms, giggling about the word halibut.
I take that as my cue to return to Chevelle. “We need to talk later, hen.”
She whispers back, “Shouting and fucking-talking or, talking talking? Take into consideration my apology, Leith. Our daughter’s nosy, I slipped up.”
I reach an arm over her shoulder and make like I’m fluffing her hair. “Chevelle, ye and I are the showrunners of that there wee wean. So, nae need to apologize. As far as a slipup, I’ll support ye, be a bloody repeat offender, hen—tonight with me.”
Lifting a glass of wine, Chevelle hides a contrite grin. “About the Heaven and Hell debate? Leith, your parents are religious. Apparently, my super awesome, attentive father had a similar conviction, and seeing how Momma chose a preacher man to—”
“Much as I’d love to have this discussion with ye, not here, hen.” Clearing my throat, I listen as Mia and the waiter discuss which red wine is best with the ridiculous priced entrée she won’t be having anyway. “Ye wanna open up? Good. Ye’re my best friend. Ye will share with me tonight. Believe that.”
“What happened to hen?” Chevelle has no right biting her lip as she argues. Incensed, I reach over and bite it too.
My teeth sink into her soft flesh, and her body deflates against me. I whisper, “Ye happened.” Then I cut into Mia’s chatter since the waiter’s polite way of humoring her will come out of my pockets later.
At home, in a joint effort, we rally our curious lassie to bed. The raw energy Mia exerted while out, combined with the dessert she consumed, has her tearing through the house. Sometime much later, Chevelle and I are out beneath the stars. Chevelle sits at the edge of the pool, dangling her feet into the heated water. I remove my loafers and pull up the legs of my britches while settling beside her.
“Ye know, if I wore my kilt everywhere, this shite would be a lot easier.”
“Oh, so it has come to this?” She arches a brow, the turquoise water reflecting in her dark eyes. “Same old jokes?”
Exhaling, I rub the bridge of my nose. “Shite, I’ve told ye before, hen, I’m bound to resort to an auld joke or two over our lifetime. And my kilt ones are the best.”
“They were some best sellers back in the day. Now, you’re grown-man sexy, so I’ll only tell you this once.” She pauses for effect. “You pull that kilt out in the bedroom anytime you like, not during outings. Some ladies might see those toned, nicely tanned legs—unlike any other white guy I know—and try to steal you from me.”
I scoop an arm around her waist. Her arse brushes over the Tuscany travertine, gliding closer to me. “Och, women are always trying to steal me from ye.”
“They are.” Chevelle’s mouth hitches at each end. “But those legs. You go from ten to the sexiest man in the stratosphere. I’m telling you, Leith. I’d have to pull out the gun you bought me for my twenty-second birthday.”
It’s nice, laughing with my wife, my best friend. Our connection spans almost our entire lives. Chevelle tenses, grasping how I’m about to segue this conversation.
“Hen, beautiful, queen of my feckin’ life,” I murmur. “Ye mind wit my great grand told me?”
“About not marrying a British woman?”
When I stare at her, she sighs, mumbling, “Alright, I know where you’re headed. Lovers accept each other’s past, support each other’s present, and encourage . . . or maybe it was love each other’s future.”
“So then tell me, Chevelle—”
“Not hen?”
“Nae,” I respond. “Just plain, auld, feckin’ Chevelle for now. How are we in a relationship while ye’re hiding yer past? How can I support ye right now? How can I encourage—”
“Leith, calm down.”
“This is my calm face,” I gesture and add, “that’s yer Crabbit Chevelle face, hen.”
Her hands falter over her face before dragging down. “Honestly, I tell you everything. Most of the time.”
“Och, most of the time.” I snort.
“Everything that matters.”
Again, I repeat her words in a pant. “Bloody hell, Chevelle.”
She deflates into my shoulder and stays there for a moment. “I’m sorry, baby, I hadn’t meant to be defensive.”
Running my hands through her hair, I note, “Hen, I’ve loved ye too long for ye to drop that bomb about yer parents, and then to sprinkle bits over the last fifteen feckin’ years! My soulmate should. . . .” Should tell me everything. Condemned