I heft up a small wooden crate that had been concealed behind the dresser. Returning to the bed, I settle in opposite Erica and deposit the crate between us.
She tucks her feet under her, leaning in closer, peering down into the wooden box with an expression of excited curiosity.
No woman should ever be so adorable. It's not good for a man's health.
I shoo her away with a tsk and a wave of my hand. "Patience,gràidh, I'm about to show you."
"What did you call me?"
"Gràidh."
Why did I call her that? She's not my darling. We're shagging, that's all. But I did call her darling, without even realizing I'd said it until she pointed it out. I avoid looking at her, sifting through the crate's contents instead.
She takes hold of the box's edge with both hands. "What does it mean?"
I freeze with my hands in the box, hunching my shoulders. "Gràidh? It's Gaelic for darling."
When I dare to peek up at her, she looks stunned.
Bloody hell. I've derailed the fun train this time, haven't I? Time to get back to…whatever the fuck I'm doing with this woman.
Seducing her. Nothing else.
I lift a handful of purple flowers, offering them to her on my upturned palm. A thin white ribbon secures the stalks in a bundle.
Erica accepts the flowers. "They're lovely. Thistle, right?"
"Very good,gràidh. You're a canny lass."
Mhac na galla. I called her darling again. Whatever spirit has taken control of my voice needs to haud its wheesht.You're the devil on your own shoulder, so shut yourself up, ye bleeding erse.
No more calling Erica "gràidh." This is a fling, not a relationship.
Aye, and the fact I'm giving her flowers does not negate the casual nature of…whatever the fuck I'm doing with her.
Repeating myself doesn't stink of desperation. No, not at all.
I bring out another bundle, this one full of bell-shaped purple blossoms that hang down from the stems' tips. I skate my fingertips over the delicate flowers. "I had to give you this one. It's bell heather, but the Latin name isErica cinerea." I whisk my lips over the blossoms, then clasp my hand behind the back of her head and kiss her with more passion than I probably should, but I donnae care, not tonight. Tomorrow, I might worry, but not now. "Ye are a bonnie wee flower in yer own right."
Why has my voice grown hoarse? And why did I say that?
Because I have become a bloody moron ever since I first saw Erica.
She gapes at me.
I hand her a bundle of bright-red blooms. "Lastly, Scottish flame flower for my fiery lass."
Tears roll down Erica's cheeks, and she sniffles.
I wipe her tears away with my thumbs, cradling her face in my palms. "Donnae cry, please. They're only flowers."
"I'm okay. Earth-shattering orgasms make me cry. It's a girl thing."
Though my mouth opens, I can't speak.
She sighs and stretches, the action lifting her breasts.
My gaze snaps to her chest, and I can't help licking my lips. That's clearly what she wanted—to stop me from asking any more questions by distracting me with her body. And it worked.