Page 143 of Married to the Scottish Player
“He made the entire show,” I agree fondly. “He showed up—wearing suspenders. Trying to chop.”
Lucy coughs. “He was so bad.”
Yeah, that he was so bad at. At one point I had to show him how to use an axe ...
“The worst. He nearly brained himself with the axe.” I chuckle. “But he stuck it out. He stayed. He did it for you.”
She quiets again; this time it’s that sweet, teary kind of quiet.
“That’s how you know someone’s a good one,” I add softly. “Not because they’re perfect, but because theytry.”
Lucy presses a hand to her chest. “Stop it. You’re going to make me cry, and I’m not even the pregnant one.”
I laugh and dab at the corners of my eyes anyway. “Sorry. Hormones. Can’t help it.”
She sniffles, then grins. “So what I hear you saying is that if I marry him, you’ll plan the wedding?”
“I’d be insulted if you let someone else plan it.”
Callum leans against the frame, still shirtless—because apparently, that’s his default now—and gives me a look that could melt drywall. “Hey,” he says, voice low and teasing. “You still on that call?”
I lift a finger. “Five more minutes.”
He crosses the room in three slow, purposeful steps, like he’s stalking prey. Which—let’s be honest—I am.The man has been insatiable since the day we got married.
Lucy squints through the screen. “Is that a towel around his waist?”
I don’t even turn to confirm. “Yep.”
“Is he dripping?”
I sigh. “He hopped in and out of the shower and immediately came to annoy me.”
Callum crouches down beside me, resting a warm palm on my thigh and murmuring, “Baby, I’m clean. You should come test that out.”
I nearly fling the phone. “Callum! Jeez! My friend is watching!”
“What?” He grins, eyes all puppy dog and sin. “It’s been a long day.”
Lucy’s cackling now. “I’m hanging up before I hear something I can’t unhear.”
“No, don’t go! We still haven’t talked about—”
Too late. She’s gone.
The screen goes black, and before I can even set the phone down, Callum plucks it from my hand and tosses it onto the nightstand with the casual precision of a man on a mission.
“Alone at last,” he says, voice low and thick with intent.
I roll my eyes, but my pulse is already thumping. “You’re impossible.”
He shifts me onto my back, bracing one arm beside my head, the towel around his hips loosening just enough to be a problem. His damp curls drip a bead of water onto my collarbone, and I squeak when it rolls down between my breasts.
“Oops,” he whispers, nosing against my jaw. “I missed a spot.”
I arch into him. “You’re usually so very thorough.”
“That’s what you married me for.” His grin is cocky, but his touch is reverent as his hands slide beneath my pajama top, pushing it up, up, until the cotton bunches under my arms. “Arms up, baby.”
