I scoop an arm around her waist. Herarsebrushes over the Tuscany travertine, gliding closer to me. “Och, women are always trying to steal me fromye.”
“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 myfeckin’life,” I murmur. “Ye mindwitmy 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. Loversaccepteach other’s past,supporteach other’s present, andencourage. . . or maybe it wasloveeach 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,mostof 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 lovedye too long for ye to drop that bomb about yer parents, and then to sprinkle bits over the last fifteenfeckin’years! My soulmate should. . . .”Should tell me everything.Condemned by my own lies, I trail off, watching the steam rise from the pool.
“You’ve always been my peace, Leith. That should count for what’s important.”
“Nae, this here’s the part where I apologize because I’ll not mince my words. Chevelle, yer strong.” I turn, the water sloshing up to my ankles. Framing her velvety cheeks in my calloused hands, I declare, “Ye picked the wrong man if ye didna want me to fight for ye, hen. I’m a loudarsehole. That’s how I show my love.”
“Okay, baby. Calm—”
“Nae, Chevelle.Feckcalming down. Yer love is insanity to me. I’ll not be somedaftieeejit. I strive for the best for ye. Ye’re gorgeous inside and out. I adore everything about ya. There’s no need beingput togethertwenty-four seven, love.”
From the look of horror on her face, we aren’t in agreement. “You’re always here for me, Leith. You’re my peace. My sanity. My rock. Where’s this coming from?”
“I’m proud to be yer husband. But something’s gotta give here. Thisshitestill affectsye, baby. Let me in so that I can understandye, encourage and supportye.”
“It’s not—”
“I’m invested inye, Chevelle.”
Our entire conversation seems to have fallen on its head. For a couple of beats, Chevelle says nothing. Then she explodes.
“I don’t want to remember!” Her voice breaks into a raw rasp of a sob. “Why would you do this to me, Leith? You say I should turn thisnothinginto something, but have I done anything wrong? I’m a good mom. Yes, you’re a wonderful husband. I thought we were perfect together. You’re nothing like . . . like . . .”
I’m afeckin’sucker. I spoke to her about therapy before.Shite, I even offered her pot so we could get stoned together and hash it out. One thing led to lots of other things. She’s too bloody gorgeous. Her tears are my weakness. The sight of them makes me wanna bokethe filet mignon and whiskey. I grip Chevelle by the waist, and we go plunging into the heated pool.
Chapter 30
Chevelle