‘Is that the front door?’ I don’t have time to ask another thing as Mac unceremoniously rolls me across the bed, flipping the edge of the quilt over my bottom, the other edge over my head. Pushing myself to face him, I shove away the heavy down and mass of my hair. ‘What are you doing?’
He doesn’t answer as his bedroom door crashes open, bouncing off the adjoining wall and producing a small boy in Batman pyjamas and matching slippers, a bright green hoodie, and a mass of wild hair.
‘Daddy!’ yells Louis, scrambling up onto the bed. He throws his arms around Mac, nuzzling his chin into his father’s neck. ‘I couldn’t get any sleeps in the ’otel room.’
‘Ah, Da,’ growls Mac, patting his son’s hand as a tall man appears in the doorway. As I hurriedly begin to cover my now burning face, I can suddenly see where Mac gets his fierce expression from. I don’t have a moment to process anything further as he begins to berate the man severely. But not for what you might think.
‘What’s wi’ this?’ he demands, plucking at the sleeve of his son’s hoodie. ‘No son of mine will support the Tims!’
An invasion of privacy? Nope. A choice of Celtic, the soccer team.
‘Get over y’self,’ the older man returns. ‘They’re a grand football club, and wee Louis here’s gonna play for them when he gets big, aren’t you, laddie?’ And cover your bits before your mother gets here. What is it with my kids,’ he grumbles to himself, turning his back to the room. ‘I’ll ha’ a heart attack one of these days, probably after being flashed once too many times. But, it’s nice to meet you, hen.’ He says this a little louder, adding a curt wave of his hand over his shoulder. ‘I’d like it even better if you had some clothes on,’ he adds in an undertone.
‘It’s gween, Daddy,’ interjects Louis. ‘I look like a turkle!’
‘So you do, but I think we might get you a nice blue one instead.’
‘Non, I like it too much!’
‘George, what are you doing standing—’
‘I’d give them a few minutes, Stell,’ rumbles his father’s voice in response to a much higher one. ‘Mac’s got himself some company.’
‘Why didn’t he say when you called?’ she reprimands.
‘He didn’t answer. I told you,’ he says with an air of long suffering. ‘And now we know why.’
‘Not company, Grandad. Ella is sleeping in Daddy’s bed!’
I’m not quite sure why Mac’s mother then squeals with delight.
Epilogue I
Two Months Later
Ella
‘Hi. My name’s Natasha.’ Wow. She’s so . . . blond. ‘Mac and I go way back.’
‘Do we?’ asks Mac from behind.
‘Bawbag, I was tryin’ to play nice! Would you prefer me to have told the truth?’ The statuesque woman’s responding stare is sort of scary as Mac steps in line with me; his expression genuinely confused.
‘Fine.’ Her shoulders rise and fall in frustration. ‘Have it your way. I’ve known him since I caught him playing the spunk trumpet while watchin’ porn. Wearing headphones. On his parents’ new sofa. I was tryin’ to save Ella some embarrassment. Sorry,’ she adds softly as her gaze slides to mine. Then, ‘Satisfied?’ she asks of Mac, her tone full of antagonism and her gaze full of scorn.
‘See, she does know you!’ interjects someone from the small well-dressed crowd nearby, people dissolving into laughter while Mac stands next to me, visibly stunned.
Well-dressed because we’re at Fin and Rory’s wedding breakfast. After the pair got hitched on holiday, they now want to share their love with everyone who counts. And that includes me, apparently. We’ve spent the weekend in Scotland—Mac, Louis, and myself—touring the highlands and taking in the gorgeous scenery. The lochs and mountains, plus the little village where Mac was born and raised. And there’s just one word to describe the place: idyllic. Though Mac’s one-word description is a little different. His is deliverance.
And now we’re staying in a castle. An honest-to-goodness castle—one with turrets and everything! What’s more, this little piece of grey stoned gorgeousness belongs to Mac’s sister and her husband, Dylan Duffy. Yes, that’s the Dylan Duffy—Dylan Duffy, the movie star. Something Mac failed to mention until recently. And oh, how I’d fangirled when he’d told me. I fangirled hard. Which led to a few cross words, because not only is Mac a tiny bit on the jealous side, he also isn’t a fan of Dylan. Seems that’s as a person and a cinematic icon. I’m not complaining as cross words led to me being plastered against the living room wall with both legs dangling over Mac’s shoulders. Good times. So good, I doubt it’ll be the last time I ever mention Dylan’s name.
And Scottish weddings. Wow. So much manliness in kilts. And it’s not a one-style-fits-all kind of item. Some men wear them with jackets and some with just shirts and vests. Some with polished shoes and long socks and ribbons and some with the little fuzzy bag on the front. A sporran, I think it’s called. Mac sports a white shirt, a vest, and super rugged black boots. And nothing else but a spray of aftershave.