I twist my wrist and lift my hand while whispering a weak, ‘Surprise.’
Chapter Forty-Three
Ivy
Six Months Later
‘Cheer up, triple D,’ Nat says with a laugh, knowing full well that Dylan hates the moniker.Dylan Dickalicous Duffy.Yes, it’s odd that she calls him that to his face, but she really has no shame and, as she points out, she’s seen the proof. Thankfully, the pair get along these days, and by that, I mean she teases him mercilessly. And he puts up with it.
‘I mean it’s not like those photographers will never penetrate your fortress of solitude. Likely, they’ll have to hang around and pap people as they arrive. You know, all your celeb pals as they drive across the moat.’
‘We don’t have a moat,’ I scoff, adjusting my hold on the bundle in my arms.
‘No, but you live in a motherfluffin’castle. How cool is that?’
Yes, we do live in a castle, but to be fair, it’s smaller than some of the houses we looked at, and in our defence, we needed something specific.Something private.Claish Castle is a fifteenth-century castle built from beautiful Scottish stone. So we don’t have a moat, but we do have salmon fishing in the nearby loch. And grouse in the woodlands. The spot is so bloody beautiful and looks like something out of an enchanted forest with mullion windows and turrets and everything! While I’m not sure it’s a fortress of solitude, it’s definitely a fortress of seclusion. A fortress fit to raise our family, away from the press and prying eyes.
‘Here, let me take him.’ Dylan slides his hand under the blue swaddling, bringing the bundle to his chest. ‘Hey, buddy. Did you enjoy your lunch with Mommy?’ He shoots me a wink and a sly smile. ‘Is it my turn yet?’
Nat’s expression is classic, causing me to chuckle as I tell her, ‘That face would sour milk.’
‘Can we not . . . talk about—’ She halts, affecting a full-body shiver. ‘I’m away to drownthatalmost incestuous image in champagne.’
Dylan has been well and truly removed from the realms of Nat’s wank bank or so she says. Whether this is in relation to his official title as my husband or the fact that he’s recently shaved his beard and had a decent haircut, thanks to yours truly, is unclear. But the wild and woolly look he’d been sporting since he turned up last summer had been for an upcoming movie of his. The historical romance set in Scotland has meant he’s been around almost constantly since. And lucky for me, he’s spent the last few months wearing a kilt. What I do know is this time together cocooned in our little bubble of family and friends has been a godsend. Our perfect second chance, and the absolute antidote to the start of our marriage.Where I made him a secret.
As Nat begins to walk away, I place my hand on her forearm. ‘Wait. Where’s June?’
‘She’s probably got Sam taking her for a turn around the gardens.’
Nat slides Dylan a grateful look over her shoulder, one he refuses to acknowledge again as his gaze remains completely absorbed by the fat little fist gripped tightly around his finger. Maybe this is where Dylan’s removal from her list stems. It’s hard to objectify someone who’s taken on the role of a surrogate big brother because Sam is the day nurse Dylan hired to look after June when he sprungherfrom the rehabilitation place.Yes, sprung. Like a prison inmate. After a stroke, a couple of cracked ribs from the CPR effort, a case of respiratory arrest, and a subsequent infection, June was sent to a placefull of geriatricsto recuperate. With the purple streak in her bangs, her love of the smutty, and her general lust for life, it quickly became clear she was never going to benefit from being there. Rather than progressing, her health seemed to deteriorate. So in stepped Dylan, without a word to any of us, arranging all the medical help she would need to live once more in her own home.He’s also footing the bill.Help, which includes Sam, the very cute and very male day nurse she’s currently smitten with. Having Sam has also meant Nat has been able to take on the running of the salon, which has been a great help. I still pop in from time to time, but my best clients—Nat, Fin, and June—all come to the castle for their cut, colour, and of course, baby squeezes.
Sensing Dylan’s lack of interest in any notion of thanks, Nat shrugs resignedly, turning her attention to me.
‘She’s probably got him wheeling her about like the bloody Queen Mother again. Making him pick flowers from the garden, just so she can steal a wee squeeze of his bum.’
‘Well, it is a very nice bottom,’ I agree, earning me a tolerant though unimpressed look from my husband. ‘And a valid exercise for her motor skills, I should think.’
Dylan mumbles something about potential sexual harassment cases, which we ignore.
‘That face and an arse like that.’ She shakes her head, making that noise. You know the one; cake eating appreciation. Or as she’d call it,the sound you make when he first slips his fingers in.‘That man bun couldreallyhave its fu—fluffing way with me.’
‘Good save,’ says Dylan, patting her on the shoulder. ‘More money for your pocket. Cutz, we’d better go join the throng.’
Eurgh.People. Parents. Hangers on. Famous folk. I think I’d take a few years of hermitage in a fortress of solitude over joining this throng. But it’s not every day your first-born is christened.In your own church, no less. As in, the church within your own castle’s grounds.
I’m probably being unfair. My parents are great. Mostly. They like Dylan. At least, they donow. The morning Dylan gave me my wedding ring back, I came clean to them about everything. Again, mostly clean. And only once they’d allowed me enough privacy to dress. With Dylan by my side, I explained how we’d married the year before. I told them of how I was ashamed to tell them for fear they’d think less of me. I didn’t go into specifics but said I’d left Dylan for pretty much the same reasons as I hadn’t told them.Because of some childish sense of being good and doing the right thing.Pathetic really.
Mac was most hurt, and this still weighs heavily on me. I’d like to be able to make it up to him, but I’m not sure how. We’re trying, and he did agree to be godfather to our son, even though his relationship with Dylan is strained. He’s read the articles regarding my Dylan’s slutty slice of fame, and I know he finds it hard to reconcile a portion of the blame to me.
As for my parents, well, Dad just wants me to be happy, and Mum loves having a movie star son-in-law. Bragging rights, I think it’s called.
Nat leaves, and we descend the grand staircase, making our way into the great hall. It is pretty great but not as big as it sounds.
‘Have I told you how beautiful you look today?’ Our son curled in the crook of one muscular arm, Dylan’s free hand drifts from the small of my back to cup my bottom.
‘Stop that. People will see.’ My words lack conviction, and for a moment, I consider dragging him back upstairs for a little light relief.Light relief, heavy on the orgasm.‘And I think harassed is the word you’re looking for. But if harassed makes you hot, then I’m your girl.’
‘Youmake me hot,’ he replies, his gaze dark and liquid. ‘And that’s whyyou’re my girl.’
