Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80399 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80399 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Yep, that’s right. Though what my Scotsman wears under his kilt is no one’s business but mine.
If you’d asked my opinion of men in kilts last week, I would’ve been ambivalent, but today, I’ve totally changed my mind. In fact, there was a moment earlier in the day when we didn’t get out of our room because of said kilt. Mac had stood in the bay window getting dressed, all broad chest and manliness, wearing nothing but that strip of tartan, the epitome of raw manliness.
‘What do you wear under that thing, anyway?’ I’d asked, genuinely curious. And genuinely turned on.
He’d turned his head to look at me, one taunting brow quirked.
‘How warm are your hands?’ he replied. ‘Because you could find out for yourself. And then, maybe afterwards, I could get my tongue around a little French.’
He’d flashed me a devil of a smile before turning and stalking towards the bed where I sat, wrapped in a towel, applying my make-up.
Let’s just say I didn’t stop at a manual examination. And I made sure Mac wasn’t completely naked under his kilt for the day. My lipstick totally counts.
As for French, I gave him all he could handle.
‘Plus fort, plus fort!’ Harder, harder!
‘Oh, mon Dieu, oui, là, juste là, n’arrête pas!’ My God, I’m almost there. Don’t stop!
‘Look at it this way.’
As Natasha speaks, my attention snaps back, my current look completed by reddened cheeks. Her brows raised in good humour, I realise the conversation hasn’t moved much further.
‘At least, havin’ seen the goods, I can confirm to this lot exactly why you’re with the lump.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I know you’re interested in him for more than his wallet and good looks ’cause I’ve eyed the goods,’ she declares. ‘Seen the sausage. Viewed the trouser snake, albeit inadvertently.’
Someone in the crowd coughs. It sounds suspiciously like cough-bullshit-cough.
‘Okay, so when there’s boaby, I’m no’ gonna no’ look, am I?’
‘Poor Ella needs a translator,’ some comedian pipes up. ‘Nat’s saying she’s seen Mac’s meat and two veg.’
‘I saw the meat; the veg weren’t on display that night.’ As though the admission was mine, the heat in my cheeks deepen.
‘Natasha,’ groans a petite dark-haired woman in the crowd. ‘Can you not have these conversations about my brother when I’m around? I don’t want to hear you talking about his . . . his bits.’
‘At least Mac hasn’t flashed his bits all over the internet,’ Natasha returns lightning quick. ‘Not like some people I could mention. Some people and their mighty aubergines.’ Laughter and sniggers break out around us again as Natasha leans in. ‘Anytime you like, I can hook you up with some really interesting internet links.’
‘Oh. Thanks?’ Something tells me, despite the veggie references, this isn’t produce porn,
‘Let’s just say, Ivy’s husband isn’t only famous for the blockbusters he stars in. He has an interesting line in home movies, too.’
Her words, and her resounding nod, are heavy with meaning. But as the bad boy movie star strolls towards us, I find I can’t speak. My head does a double take, even though he doesn’t look so swaggery and so superstarry as he walks towards us with a wriggling toddler balanced on his hip.
‘Here you go, mama,’ he says, handing over the dark-haired child to the petite brunette. Ivy, obviously. ‘One slightly less stinky boy with one clean diaper.’ His adoration for his family is obvious as he kisses his wife on the temple and tickles his son’s chubby legs to the boy’s delight.
Catching my gaze, Ivy smiles kindly. ‘If we’re waiting on that lump to introduce us, we’ll be grey-haired grannies.’
‘I was gettin’ to it,’ Mac grumbles.
‘And where’s Louis?’ she demands suddenly.
‘He’s with Ma. Being introduced to all the other grannies, having his pockets filled with sweeties, no doubt.’
‘I haven’t even met him properly yet.’
‘Is it my fault he was in bed when you got back last night? Oh,’ he adds, throwing a theatrical hand to his chest. ‘So sorry I didn’t bring him to LA, your Highness. But some folk have to work.’
‘There’s no need to be fatuous,’ she returns.
‘It’s facetious,’ Mac growls.
‘No, I was right the first time,’ she volleys back.
As Mac opens his mouth to reply, Dylan cuts in.
‘Mac. Good to see you.’ One arm still wrapped around his wife, he holds out his hand. ‘Don’t worry. I washed ’em,’ he adds with a smile.
‘Dylan.’ Mac’s tone is less than impressed. And . . . I’m apparently not important here. ‘Oh,’ he adds, following a pause pregnant with disbelief. ‘This is Ella.’
‘It’s lovely to meet you,’ Ivy replies sincerely. ‘You must have the patience of a saint to put up with him.’
‘For the love of all that is holy,’ mumbles Natasha. ‘Here, give me wee Al. You two need to go and clear the air. Jesus, I’m like the Ban Ki-moon of bloody Auchkeld,’ she mutters in an undertone, taking the small boy from his mother’s arms.