Page 62 of Meet Hate Love
“Why? Because I convinced you to wear that?”
“Yes.”
“I barely managed to sell fundraiser chocolate to my grandma in first grade. There would be no way I’d successfully talk someone into upgrading their cellular service or purchasing a steel-plated casket.”
He lifted a brow. I could see it all over his face. There I went talking about coffins…
I half-rolled my eyes. “All I’m saying is, you wearing that isn’t because I possess some hidden talent of convincing people to do things. It’s just proof that you secretly wanted to wear it.” And that the airline had lost his luggage.
He waved a hand over the tartan fabric. “This isn’t want. This is desperation.”
To help the white-haired lady holding the cowboy hat-adorned wiener dog. Vance was selfless, so selfless he’d wear a kilt to the Vatican, hoping to take a picture of his boner.
What more could a woman want than a selfless man?
“It would be desperation if you wore that kilt for yourself, Vance.” I felt a soft smile shape my face as I took hold of his hand. “It’s called a sacrifice when you wear a kilt for the ones you love.”
* * *
The scorching heatcould eat it. We’d been in line for what felt like hours, and all I wanted to do was get out of that line and into some air conditioning.
The guards waved the couple in front of us through. Then we stepped up. My heart pounded out a nervous rhythm as I smiled at the two dark-headed men and passed over our tickets. The one on the right took one look at Vance and his kilt, then lifted a thick brow. When he leaned over to his guard buddy and mumbled something in Italian, a nervous sweat broke out on top of my heat sweat.
They kept whispering, nodding, then shrugging as their gazes drifted from each other to Vance’s kilt.
What if they considered it a criminal offense to show up at the Vatican in a kilt? Who was I to say it didn’t violate some little-known rule? I envisioned them slapping cuffs on Vance and hauling him off to an Italian prison in some undisclosed location. Then I imagined myself having to call Wanderlust to try to explain why Vance had been wearing a kilt without blurting out something about Paul, the traveling penis.
The ridiculous scenarios kept rolling through my head, and my anxiety grew like pressure building inside a dormant volcano. The next time both guards glanced at Vance, the cork on my anxiety bottle popped.
“It’s his heritage!” I blurted. “And he’s proud of it!”
Vance groaned. Then ever so gently nudged my ribs. “Blake...”
But the word vomit had already started, and there was no stopping it until those men let us through.
“Just so you know,” I said, quelling the tremor in my voice as I lifted my chin. “I’m a journalist, and I’d really hate to report on how anti-Scottish you guys are if you deny him entrance. It would be a shame. Headline news in the United States—” Inhaling a quick breath, I waved a hand through the air—“‘Vatican Denies Kilted Man Entrance.’ And, for your information, when you’re as Scottish as he is—and trust me, he’s so Scottish he bleeds scotch—it’s anti-Scottish to wear anything but a kilt into religious places.” At the very least, I’d said that last bit with such a serious tone that I made myself question whether there was some secret Scottish code about kilts and sacred places.
Vance latched onto my arm, probably with the hope it would shut me up. But, since we hadn’t gained entrance during my point two moments of silence, I felt the need to lay it thick.
“This man,” I thumbed over at Vance, “is a descendant of William Wallace. You know who that is?Braveheart. That’s right, Braveheart! How are you going to tell William Wallace’s great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandson he can’t honor him by wearing a kilt into the Vatican?” I bent at the waist to tug on the tartan fabric. “It’s below his knees. I didn’t see a sign out there signaling kilts are against the rules. And I don’t think a man in a skirt—”
“Signora!”
I jumped when guard number one interrupted my speech.
“Please, just go ahead.” Then he waved us through, kilt and all!
A sense of pride swelled in my chest as I followed Vance through the entrance.
He glanced down at me. Brow cocked in either slight amusement or possibly annoyance. Whichever expression it was, he looked sexy giving it.
“William Wallace’s great-great-great-great-great-great-grandson?” Vance said as soon as we were out of earshot.
“I’m pretty sure I put a few more greats in there for emphasis.”
Fighting a smile, he shook his head. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Oh,I’mridiculous? Pot meet kettle…”
