* * *
Earlier today,Camdyn left with a bottle of alcohol. Leith decides to turn his day at home into an extended weekend. His concern now is the short-term parking where he left his car instead of long-term. He makes a few calls, seeing if he can have it moved.
While placed on hold, he stalks back and forth in front of the television as I sit on the couch. He mutters, “Feck, the short-term’s gonna tear me a new one every day I dinna pick her up.”
Arms folded, head cocked, I retort, “First, nother. That car’s not your woman. I am.”
“But she’s hen number two.”
“So, then yourChevelle SSis hen three?” I laugh as he kneels and nudges his nose into my neck.
“Nae. Ye’re Queen Hen, my Chevy is hen one, and my Audi is hen two.”
“Spoiled brat.” I push at his chiseled chest, though addicted to the zany man between my thighs. “Hey, I’ll need to drive my namesake this week. The body shop is finally fixing my car. Don’t you have a coworker that can get the Audi out of the lot?”
“Nae.”
“Sheesh. What have I told you about associates at work? I bet none of them were as insufferable as Justice when she started on the job. She gave life to the mad black woman stereotype before people even knew why she was angry.”
“I dinna need any friends, Chevelle.”
“Um-Hmmm. I bet all you tech types have your nose glued to a computer screen. Ask your Silicon Valley roomy.”
“Nae.”
“I’m sure if you rub cocoa butter onto one of Ms. Mable’s tits—”
He’s up on his feet in seconds. “Ugh, Chevelle, boke!What kind ofnuggetd’ye take me for, touching her auld tits?I’msupposed to be the funny one. Ye’re cruel, lass.”
“Interest Ms. Mable in picking up your ride for a month’s supply of cat food. Surely that’s cheaper than leavinghen twoin the short-term parking until Monday.”
“I’ll—Och, Mia!”
Our prankster daughter darts into the living room. There is a smudge of chocolate across her lips.
“Where’d you get that candy?” I ask, climbing to my feet.
She giggles about Camdyn giving it to her before he took off.
“See what I deal with when you’re gone?” I retort as we watch her zip around the open area, darting around furniture.
Leith nudges his chin to me. “Ye take left. I’ve right.”
“You’re headed to the tub right now, Mia!” I call after her.
Our daughter chuckles. Her curly hair jostles in the air as she slips beneath a glass table, sliding on the marble floor. My heart lurches into my throat as she jumps up. She has the MacKenzie invincibility complex. I cringe as Leith jumps over the same table a nanosecond later.
“You’re gonna kill her,” I mumble, seeing how Mia, giggling, is oblivious to any danger. Two crazy Scots run around the house. One caramel-hued with chocolate paw prints getting everywhere, the other issuing threats in Gaelic that only they can understand.
Mia zooms by. Her footsie socks garner traction. Or perhaps her Guardian angels are giving her a lift and preventing a bruised bottom every time she turns and zips past her father.
Finally, I gasp, arms raised. “Leith, you’re not even making an attempt! FYI, you’re just as incorrigible.”
He winks from across the room, setting up our child to run straight to me. At the last second, I embrace Mia, lifting her high.
“Nooo!” she screeches. “The goblin’s got me!”
“Goblin, my ass! Child, this is a team effort.” I plant a kiss on her forehead. “Mommy and Daddy married just so we could . . .”