“I look forward to meeting them both.”
“And of course, I was jilted by the school principal. That’s good for gossip, too.”
“I think you’ll find my family stories will trump yours when we post our wedding notice in The Times.”
“Excuse me,” I say. Splutter? Maybe laugh.
“Holland, you’re where you’re meant to be. By my side, now and for always. Which unfortunately for you means you also have to become a duchess.”
“You are crazy.” The smile I wear must be a mile wide.
“No doubt about it. I’m crazy in love.”
47
Holly
“Hey, rug rat! How are you?”
We drive home together the same morning, though not before I’d snuck out of his room and back to mine before the sun was fully up. The walk of shame looks good on no one . . . except for maybe Isla, who I caught tiptoeing out of what I assume was Van’s room. Our eyes met, her face turned pink, and mine burned to high heavens, then we burst into a fit of giggles before committing to a high five.
“I take it I’ll see you at home?” she’d said, turning at the door to her room. I’d nodded, unable to find the words. Home is the place your heart belongs. And that’s not a place but a person, as far as I can tell.
And now we’re parked outside of Kilblair after a very different drive to the one out to Claish Castle. A drive filled with much less introspection and much more laughter, grabby hands, and fun. I’m pretty sure the smile I’m wearing will eventually result in cracked cheeks or something.
“Nephew?” Alexander whispers, pointing at the phone in my hand. I nod.
“Please stop calling me that.” I smile as Wilder’s deep sigh sounds down the line. “You know that’s not my name.”
“Isn’t it? You mean you’ve changed your name? Did you get a lawyer? Make an affidavit?”
“No.” Another sigh. “You already know my name is Wilder. You write it on my birthday cards. Only you call me rug rat.”
And that’s precisely why I don’t ever want to stop.
“Are you sure? I’m kind of old, you know. Maybe I’ve gotten confused.”
Or maybe my jokes are getting old, judging by the look Alexander slides me. Leaning across the console, he presses his lips to my cheek and gestures he’ll get the bags.
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“Okay, nephew Wilder. How’ve you been? Did you do anything interesting today?”
“Well, I had to go and see the principal, but that was just a misunderstanding.”
“Oh. How so?” The kid is usually so well behaved it’s frightening. He definitely takes after his mother in that sense.
“I asked my new teacher if she had any kids.”
“And the punchline is . . .”
“She said no. I told her that was probably for the best.”
“Oh, dear.” I try not to chuckle but not too hard.
“She’s not a good teacher.” I can almost see him shrug. “She doesn’t understand kids.”
“Who does?”
“You might have a point,” he answers with more wisdom than a child of his age should possess. Kennedy has always said he was born an old man.
“Well, that’s maybe something you want to keep to yourself in the future, bud.”
“I’ve already been to the principal. What else are they going to do?”
“Give you extra homework? Teachers are despicable creatures, you know that.”
“You’re not despicable. Well, not too much.”
“Not when I’m booking vacations to Florida, I’m not.”
“I want to come to Scotland. Mom told me you’re working for a duke.” A dook.
“Yeah, I am.”
“Does he have a crown?”
“I . . . don’t know.” I glance in the rear-view mirror at said dook, now wondering the same thing. “I’ll ask him next time I see him.” Maybe I’ll ask when I’m seeing quite a lot of him. Like, maybe tonight, when we’re curled up in bed together. If he does have a crown, maybe he’ll let me borrow it. Because who doesn’t want to wear a crown, especially when you’re naked in bed? “Where’s your mom?”
It’s not unusual for Wilder to call before handing the phone over to his mom.
“She’s busy making coffee. And arguing with a man. That’s why I called.”
“Is he a customer?” And why are my spidey senses tingling?
“I guess so,” he answers doubtfully. “I mean, he’s here enough. It’s the Australian I told you about.”
“Huh.”
“Jenner says he’s dreamy.” Wilder fake barfs. “And he said he’s seen the man’s face on a billboard.”
It was probably a wanted poster, knowing Jenner, Kennedy’s part-time barista.
“Why do you think he’s hanging around so much?”
“I don’t know. He seems to like it when Mom is mean to him. Do you think you could come home? Things are getting really weird around here.”
“Well—” Shit. Maybe men are like buses. We’ve both been waiting for one while going in different directions when they—the men, not buses—have turned up at the same time.
“Uh-oh. She’s just thrown a glass of ice water over his head,” the kid whisper-hisses. “That’s the second time this week,” he mutters to himself. “I gotta go, Aunt Holly. Can you at least give her a call and tell her she’s acting weird?”
I agree I will and take Alexander’s hand as he opens the car door.
“Everything all right?” He wraps his arm around my waist as we walk to the door.
“It’s hard to tell with my family.”
“Families are complicated,” he agrees as we step into the echoing hall. He puts down our bags and turns me to face him as my heart begins to cartwheel in my chest. “Are you ready to start a new adventure?” he asks, smoothing back my wild hair.
“With you? Absolutely.” He lowers his head, though I stop him, pressing my hand to his chest. His hard, unyielding, could-rent-the-space-for-advertising chest. His chest that houses his heart. A heart that is my home. “Do you have a crown?”
“I’m sorry?” He frowns down playfully at me.
“Never mind.” I shake my head. “Silly question.”
“I do have a crown,” he growls against my ear, making me shiver. “Though technically, it’s called a coronet.”
My head snaps back as I stare into his teasing expression. “You do?” My tone might be a little too excited for the moment, but the man has a crown! I reach around to slap his ass, but he winces as I end up catching him a little higher. “What is it?” I try to slide around him when he catches my arms. “I saw a bruise there—”
“It’s nothing. Just a bump. Now, what about this crown.”
“Well, if only you’d told me about it weeks ago—maybe that night in London? It might have saved us a lot of fuss.”
“I’ve enjoyed the fuss myself but go on.”