Page 100 of Blindsided
I’ll take a couple of extra pounds on the scale for a ring like that.
“Freya Cook, it’s my turn to blindside you and ask…will you marry me?” God help him, his voice even cracks at the end as his eyes become red with unshed tears. “I know we never talked about this and you’re probably wondering what the hell I’m doing with a ring in my pocket but, bloody hell, Freya, I’ve known you for well over a year, and all I want to do for the rest of my life is argue with you and make love to you and keep you as my best mate…and my wife. You’re it for me, Cookie. Partly because I don’t think anyone else could stand me but mostly because I don’t want to sit and watch telly on the sofa with anybody else. I want to be old, grey, fat, and happy with you. Will you be fat and happy with me?”
An embarrassing sob bubbles up from my throat because I don’t think he could have said anything more perfect at this moment. I pull the dear little kitty who has no idea what’s going on up to my face and wipe my tear-stained cheeks off on his fur before croaking, “I’d love nothing more than to see you fat, Maclay Logan.”
He stands up and kisses me, and for the first time in my entire life, I’m no longer thinking of my flaws or my future or what my ending will be. Because I’m holding my happy ending with a furry little kitty in the middle.
That’s a lie. I’m thinking about babies. Lots and lots of ginger-haired, wild, kilt-wearing Scottish babies with this man who I want to have my babies.
Wait…that didn’t sound right. Let’s try that again.
—the man who I want to have his sperm.
Bleddy hell, that’s not right either. Take three!
—the man whose babies I want to rear in my fruitful loins.
Nailed it.
“Just to be clear, that was a yes to you marrying me, right?” Mac asks, pulling away and giving the kitten some space.
“It was a yes,” I laugh, and he reaches up to wipe the tears from my eyes.
“Good, because I wanted to wait until I trapped you to tell you the new kitty shat on your rug and left a stain.”
“What?” I screech, my eyes wide and accusing on the man that just turned me into a puddle of mush a second ago.
“I cleaned it up, but…it didn’t look good when I left.”
“Mac!”
“He was having so much fun with Hercules I think the wee bugger just crapped himself with happiness.”
“Were you watching him?”I swear to God if he was digging in my cupboards for food, I’m going to kill him!
“Aye, sure,” he replies with a guilty look on his face.
“If he develops a bad habit because of you, you’re cleaning up all the messes.”
“Aye, stop nagging me, woman.”
“Never,” I smile.
He smiles too. And then…we’re kissing again.
Freya and I rush back to her flat from The Rooftop St James and tear each other’s clothes off.
Okay, that’s a lie…
We spend our first hour as a newly engaged couple going to a pet shop to pick up supplies for our new wee kitten. The moment we enter Freya’s flat, she drops to the floor as Hercules greets us, and she watches with pure joy as her old companion welcomes his new furry friend.
Freya cries.
I cry because she cries.
And then we do the real version of Netflix and chilling. And then of course, a classic Freya and Mac activity called…Netflix and arguing.
“How many dates did you go on with blokes while we were apart?” I ask, my voice low as I lay on Freya’s purple sofa with her between my legs. Her red hair is a beautiful mess of post-coital satisfaction draped across my chest, and she’s wearing another one of her kitty nightshirts, this one featuring graphic text across the front that says “If Cats Could Talk, They Wouldn’t”.
