Page 103 of The Thing About My Prince
When I spotted the trees swaying outside the bedroom window this morning, I dug out the snuggest pair of boxer briefs I have with me to defend against the breeze.
They’re not exactly the sexiest underwear, but if Lexi wants to learn what a Scotsman keeps under his kilt, I wouldn’t object to her checking them out.
I’m pouring boiling water on my tea bag in the one quiet corner of the kitchen where Marjorie isn’t trying to keep some catering strangers in order and shoo others out when Flora appears, carrying a cloth and bucket.
“Water spill sorted.” She strides past me to the laundry room, leaving the door open behind her.
“Great, thank you,” I say.
I mash my tea bag while she empties the bucket into the sink, then rinses out the cloth and drapes it over the edge.
“Kettle’s boiled,” I call over to her. “Time for a cuppa? Or do you have a long list of pre-wedding chores to get through?”
“Och, I would love a wee tassie.” She smiles as she approaches. “But it should be me makin’ that.”
“Don’t be silly. I’m all ready and have nothing else to do.” I grab another mug and a tea bag from the cupboard, switch the kettle back on, and cross the kitchen to the fridge to grab the milk.
“Careful of the hor d’oeuvres in there,” Marjorie calls from the other side of the room when she sees me open the door. “If the mini oatcake towers collapse, I’ll have ye guts for garters.”
I shut the door with exaggerated care and grimace at Flora.
“She’s never forgiven ye for the smoke alarm thing,” Flora whispers when I get back with the milk.
I finish off our teas and return the carton to the fridge with all the care of a safecracker trying to tease open a vault.
Flora laughs and bats my arm with the back of her hand on my return. “Och, ye devil!”
When I hand Flora her “wee tassie,” we stroll over to the far end of the kitchen where the windows look over the garden. Hordes of people dressed in black-and-white uniforms are rushing back and forth between the house and the marquees.
There’s a woman setting pots of bright purple thistles along the path to the dinner tent. Thistles are apparently Sofia’s chosen theme for the day. Or maybe that’s one of the things my mother insisted on. I’ve kept out of it as much as possible.
“Ye look like a spare part without Lexi next to ye,” Flora says.
I hadn’t thought about it like that, but she’s perfectly summed it up. “I feel like one too.”
“It’s good seein’ ye happy.” She wraps her hands around her mug. “Ye seemed a bit stressed when ye first got here. Butthis last week…” She raises her brows and tips her head with a knowing smile. “Never seen ye so happy in me life.”
Little does she know there’s the dark cloud of a ticking clock hanging over that bliss.
“Does Lexi look happy too?” I venture.
“O’ course,” she says, as if I’ve asked the most ridiculous question she could imagine. “The pair o’ ye look totally blissful together.”
“She’s amazing.” I take a sip of my tea and look out to where a bagpiper is pacing the distance along the thistle-lined path. Is he working out how much piping he needs to do when he leads the bride and groom to the dinner tent? “She’s the smartest person I know. And all she wants is to make the world a better place for people who can’t fight for themselves.”
“And she’s gorgeous.” Flora gives me a knowing smile.
I feel my cheeks warm like a lovesick teenager. “Yeah, she’s very beautiful.”
“Maybe this’ll be the two o’ ye before long.” She nods toward all the wedding activity in front of us and raises her eyebrows as she sips her tea.
“Oh, I doubt that,” I reply, maybe a bit too quickly.
“Whyever not?” Flora sounds shocked. “When you’ve met the right ’un, you’ve met ’em.”
“I doubt she’ll tolerate the bullshit that comes with me for long.”
“For sure there is a lot o’ that.” Flora giggles. “But maybe Lexi thinks yer worth the shite.”
