Page 92 of I'm Not Yours
“Now I have a mental picture in my head, June.” He sighed. “Can’t seem to get rid of it.”
I chuckled in a strangled sort of way, as my own graphic image popped up.
“It’s a curvy image,” he said, that voice low and gravelly. “I’m thinking of a king-size bed. White bedspread, white sheets. Hey! It’s my bedroom at the beach house. Lights off, candles . . . chocolates in the shapes of butterflies. . . .”
I sighed.
“Yes, it makes me sigh, too, baby.”
I wriggled as he pulled me close, his heat and mine meshing, flowing.
“It’s a beachy image,” he said. “I can hear the waves outside the doors, I know later we’ll be down on the sand flying a kite,the sun shining, then we’ll head back to the bed and the butterfly chocolates—”
We were interrupted as my father shouted, “They have arrived!”
My family cheered as if greeting a victorious, returning army.
Hired limousines, one right after the other, turned down the long lane to my parents’ home.
“Fancy schmancy,” Great-uncle Tesh said, his Polish accent still heavy, even though he’d lived here for forty years. “Limousines. Money. Too much of it. Bah!”
The chauffeurs stepped out of the six limos. With military preciseness they opened the door of each car, together. A high heel emerged, followed by an impeccably dressed woman. A black shoe emerged, shined and proper, followed by a man in a tailored suit. There were fancy hats, gloves, jewelry, designer dresses, more heels. In a dignified, formal clump, they stared at us.
In a giant, jostling group, in tartans, kilts, bikinis, and monster outfits, we stared back. I reached for Reece’s hand. August reached for mine, and whimpered, “Scary. Oh, they’re so scary.”
September moaned and pulled on a blue streak in her hair. “I don’t think they’re the groovy type that will want to get down to KC and the Sunshine Band’s, ‘Get Down Tonight,’ the Clan MacKenzie’s American wedding song.”
I patted August’s back as she made gasping sounds.
“I think they need a few shots of throat-burnin’ whisky,” Grandpa Stephen said, way too loud. His voice is never quiet. My father once said, about his thundering voice, “I am sure that Stephen’s ancestors were the ones who led the charge on the battlefields.”
“Yep. Scottish whisky,” Grandpa Stephen boomed once again, in case anyone within a mile couldn’t hear him the first time. “Loosen ’em up. I’ll go get it.”
“You see, June,” August stuttered, as her fiancé, Ben, a nice man totally in love with August, bopped down the steps to greet his family. “I don’t fit in. I mean, do you see those suits! Suits! Women in suits. I can’t wear a suit.”
“They probably have more money than the entire Scottish empire,” September said, her voice trembling.
“Are you sure you’re going to be able to breathe in that family?” March asked, his brown hair sweeping his shoulders as he shook his head in concern. “You need air. Between the limos and the thousand-dollar suits, is there room to move and groove?”
Our parents were frozen beside us, which was so unusual, it made me freeze up, too.
“Is this a joke?” my mom whispered. “They’re seriously not this uptight, are they?”
“My love, I don’t know,” my father said, back straight. He was a wanderer, but the man was a stud. Strong, brave, hyperprotective of his wife and us kids.
“I don’t think they’re going to understand the magic behind our wands,” my cousin Harold said. He adjusted his flower crown over his mohawk.
“They’ll probably be frightened when Bill Jr. and Mack shoot off their guns.”
“Cousin Carrie, don’t do the Ouija board with them!”
“Sal, no witchcraft!”
So there the Clan MacKenzie stood, watching, waiting. I leaned into Reece. My whole body trembled with that lust problem I have for him and concern for August with her future in-laws.
But one should never judge first impressions.
An older gentleman nodded at the chauffeurs, who then turned smartly on their heels to the limousines and brought out what looked to be packages. They handed the packages to each member of the family, then the older gentleman, clearly the patriarch, stepped forward to speak. He hobbled up, leaning on Ben’s forearm, his hair white as a cloud.
