Page 102 of Two Wrongs
I tsk, my words coming out all husky as tiny shivers of anticipation run down my spine. ‘My mother warned me about men like you.’
‘Your mother fucking loves me; you said so yourself. I’m a good Catholic boy and from excellent stock.’ How can he make those words sound so dirty?Maybe it’s just me? It’s just as well I’m taking a break from the salon because lusting after Dylan has become my part-time job.
I clear my throat, pulling at the hem of my dress, which is a total giveaway if his expression is anything to go by. ‘And don’t forget rich,’ I add, a touch sardonically. ‘And stop laughing. Ovaries are exploding all over this room because of you.’
‘What?’ he splutters, his eyes ridiculously sweeping the room.
‘Really? You’re like sex on a stick, with your million-dollar smile and your sexy laugh. And you’re holding a baby! That’s like... the jackpot.’ I push to the tips of my toes to kiss his cheek. He takes the opportunity to slide his hand under my hair, making me shiver. ‘You certainly make me hot,’ I whisper. ‘But I’m surprised we aren’t suffocating in estrogen.’
‘Hot, huh?’ His mouth is just a bare breath from mine, his gaze roaming my face then dipping. ‘I have a couple of ideas how I’d like to be suffocated.’
All the tingles. Everywhere.
‘Hear that, Junior.’ I pull back the blanket from our now sleeping child as I whisper, ‘Daddy’s trying to steal your food again.’
I tremble as Dylan’s hand releases my neck, skimming down the front of my cream fitted Ellie Saab dress. ‘You look so fucking innocent,’ he says, low and huskily. ‘But I know better. And those tits were mine first. Just remember that.’
I open my mouth to answer, expelling a mild swear instead. ‘Frig! Here comes auntie Ellen.’ Talk about pouring cold water on the mood. ‘Why do people feel the need to ask when you’re going to reproduce next only five minutes after you’ve just given birth?’
So far this morning, I’ve been asked five times when am I havingmy next wee one. My standard answer is when technology finds a way to grow babies outside a uterus. Maybe in life-sized plastic eggs.
‘It’s so bloody rude. And why do they feel it’s okay to rub an expectant mother’s stomach, unsolicited?’
‘Who does that?’
I turn to Fin’s voice. She and Rory are here as our friends, as well as in the official capacity as godparents.
‘People in the street; people in the salon—random, handsy people, Fin! It’s invasive as hell. Oh, hello, Nigel.’
Nigel, my dog-mop-Shetland pony hybrid follows Fin, his eyes glued covetously to the canapé she has wrapped in a napkin. Nige looks very at home in the castle—very regal—and so much more suitable than when he arrived at my tiny flat a few days after Dylan moved in. We had to move—and fast—and not only because of the media furor, but also because Nigel’s travel crate was almost as big as the kitchen.
I no longer read what’s written on the internet, and not just because of the edict from Dylan’s new management team. Our reconciliation was apparently a shock to Ric, but he was already on the way out by that time. And let’s just say the man was lucky to hang onto his teeth—veneers?—once I’d told Dylan the things he’d said all those months ago.The seeds of doubt he’d planted in my head.
So no more sleazy Ric. And Dylan’s new publicist is worth his weight in gold, as far as I’m concerned. Especially after what he’s dealing with following the court case.
In the case of Duffy versus Dynamic Entertainment, we were able to prove the person selling the tape was one part of a two person team of thieves. It turns out Melissa, the dog walker, had helped herself to several things while looking after Nigel. After copying some of our filth, she’d passed one such recording to a friend. A friend who subsequently claimed the video not only as hers, but also as something she’d recorded with Dylan’s consent. Basically, she pretended to be me—the dark haired girl getting a really good seeing to from Dylan. On tape.
It seems Melissa and her friend were expecting to get rich from the proceeds of the sale.
But we now have a court order blocking its release, and Dylan’s heavy hitters have promised to rain down lawsuit hell if there’s ever a whiff of it going public.
In the real world—with my family and friends—I’ve played it down as something saucy and laughable, rather than hardcore. And no one ever mentions it, thankfully, not in front of us, at least. They have more tact, with the exception of Nat, who lives to tease me about it, I’m sure.
Nigel slinks off once Fin has shared her piece of high-brow haggis.Because I wasn’t allowed to serve just vegetarian food...
‘They’re just wishin’ you congratulations, hen.’ Rory leans in, kissing my cheek before preceding to do the bro-shake-hug-thing with a one-armed Dylan before greeting his godson. ‘Hey, little man.’
‘What? Oh, the rubbing,’ I answer coming back to the discussion at hand. ‘ Then why did no one rub Dylan’s, you know... ’ I make a gesture in the vague direction of the area in question, an area I know is hanging loose and free.I wonder if it’s easier to hide a hard-on in a kilt?Christenings require formal attire, and in Scotland, that can mean a kilt. A kilt, a pristine white shirt, a dark vest, and jacket, plus all the trimmings.All the trimmings I can’t wait to peel him out of.‘What was I saying...’ Dylan smirks—total provocation—having followed the path of my gaze. ‘I was saying... yes; if it’s okay to rub a pregnant woman’s bump, why is it not okay to rub the father’s—’
‘Because, without an invitation, I think that’s called assault,’ Dylan purrs.
‘Ocht.There they are!’ We all turn to the sound of June’s voice. A little less clear than it once was, but still all June.
‘And there’s ma’ girl!’ Rory swoops in with a smacking kiss. Hands curled around the armrests of her wheelchair, he studiously ignores the delicate white handkerchief she holds to the left corner of her mouth. June’s stroke left her with some paralysis down one side of her body, and while she acknowledges she’s lucky to be alive, she’s still coming to terms with her partial paralysis.
‘Cheeky.’ June pinches his cheek with her good hand.
‘Hey, Sam.’ As Fin greets June’s day nurse, Rory makes a very Scottish noise. Neither Dylan nor Rory are overly keen on the man, often making disparaging comments regarding his taste in scrubs and his man bun. Sour grapes, I’m sure, as the man is as lovely natured as he is looking. ‘Nice kilt. Is that your clan tartan?’
