Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
F iona
I’ve not left Norse Garden Estate since the moment Callum read the note, his jaw clenching as his eyes scanned the black words. It’s been days that I’ve been cooped up. In the past, I’ve been such a homebody I wouldn’t have minded, but I’ve grown to love the bustle of the High Street. I miss my shops; you can only get the lavender latte at the coffee shop on the corner and have to venture further into the city to visit the open-air pedestrian shopping plaza.
Today is a welcome reprieve from my imprisonment. Freya has invited every woman we love to help celebrate my upcoming wedding with a bridal shower. I’ve even had my hair done for the occasion.
Luckily, Freya’s hairdresser was able to come to the house .
Barefoot and still wearing one of Callum’s oversized, renovation-paint-stained T-shirts, I stand in front of the mirror after the hair appointment, admiring her work. She’s highlighted the hair that frames my face, creating honey-blonde gold streaks that brighten my skin. She applied a pretty-smelling gloss on my hair, drying it out smoothly, with volume.
Callum’s reflection appears in the mirror beside me. Staring. Hard.
I run my hands over my silky locks. “Like it?”
And the man goes crazy.
He turns me to face him, his eyes filled with despair. “No. No. No. What is this? What has happened? I leave you to nip around the city with Duncan—put eyes on the streets—I was gone from the house for what—five hours? And you’ve—you’ve—what have you done?”
“Callum, calm down?—”
“Freya!” He howls. “Freya, get in here. NOW.”
I shut the bathroom door. “Stop that! Don’t you dare call her in here. This is between us.”
“Fine.” He starts pacing the tile floor.
“What has gotten into you?” I ask.
Finally, he stops and demands, “Who told you that you could do this?”
“Who said I had to ask?” My hands go to my hips, hoping for a reasonable answer.
One hand on his own, he points aggressively at the floor as if the gesture helps make his point. “You don’t make any major decisions without my consent. You understand?”
“Major? It’s hair.” I feel a giggle bubbling up. Do not laugh, Fiona. Do not laugh at this massive, angry giant of a man who is now practically foaming at the mouth. “Um…it was ten foils at the most. Does that make you feel better?”
“What the hell is a foil?” he demands.
The giggle pushes upward, threatening to bubble over.
Gosh, Fiona. Do not do it.
He runs a hand over his beard. “You should have consulted me. It’s permanent disfiguration.”
I put my newly manicured pink fingers over my lips but can’t hide the laughter. “Are you serious right now?”
“Serious? Serious? Do I not look serious to you?”
I throw my hands in the air in surrender. “It’s just a few highlights. And it can be dyed back.”
His eyes light up. “It can?”
“Yes. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to be doing that?—”
“Change it. Change it back. Right now.” Suddenly, he stops. “Wait…when you say dyed back, you mean back to the real color?—"
“Of course I do, but?—”
He shakes his head. “I don’t know how these things work.”
“I see that,” I say. “It’s hair dye. You can always go back, BUT?—”
“But what?” he snaps .
“What if I like it?” I say.
“I don’t.” He stares at me. “I want it back.” Gently taking the end of a strand of my hair between his fingers, the man looks like he might cry. “Your beautiful red hair…”
The tenderness and sadness in his voice softens me. “Did you like it red?”
“Like it? I loved it. It was perfect. Stunning. Gorgeous.”
I melt. “You really feel that way?”
My red hair has always been in a love/hate relationship with me because pink has always been my favorite color. And as Susie Dryer informed me when I was six, redheads aren’t supposed to wear pink.
“Nighean raudh,” he says in Gaelic.
“Little red-haired girl,” I translate. “Raudh gu brath! That one means, ‘Red Heads Forever.’”
He twirls my hair around his fingers, giving it a tug. “I love your red hair. I love your freckles. I love your body. I love everything about you. You’re beautiful and perfect and flawless, and I’m obsessed with you.” He leans down, placing a soft kiss on my forehead. “So, forgive me if I don’t want you to change a thing.”
I’m stunned, literally without a response, my lips slightly parted as I take in his words. He’s the only one who has ever called me beautiful. He’s the only one who has ever made me feel beautiful.
I stare into those glass-green eyes. “Beautiful…do you really think that?”
“Think it?” He gasps. “I feel it. I live it. I breathe it. ”
I find the sincerity of his tone to be overwhelming. I had no idea he felt this way about me. I’d never even imagined someone could…
Much less ever would …
Think these things about me.
He’s making that humiliating red shade creep up under my freckles. I need him to stop saying these things. I never want him to stop saying these things.
“I—I, um…I didn’t think… I mean, I didn’t know…”
He stops my awkward stumbling by swooping down and pressing his warm mouth against mine in a devouring kiss.
If his words didn’t convince me that he thinks I’m beautiful, his kiss does.
As well as the growing erection pressing into me.
He breaks the kiss, asking, “Are you going to dye it back?”
“No,” I say, wanting to see what he’ll say.
He smooths his humungous hands down my back, my ass cheeks filling each of his palms.
With one hard tug, he pulls me up flush against him, my breasts against his chest, his cock harder against me. His fingers sink into the curve beneath my ass, digging into my flesh as deeply as he’s digging his heels into this argument.
There will be fingertip-shaped bruises on my butt tomorrow.
His words are a low growl in my ear. “I said, are you going to change it back? ”
I lean up, kissing him, then gently taking his bottom lip between my teeth. “No.”
He stares down at me. “Then give me my shirt back.”
“Take it,” I say.
He grips the hem of the long tee, making me lift my arms so he can tear it from me. I stand there in my bra and sweats. He slips his hand down the front of my clothing, pushing past the waistbands of my pants and panties.
His fingers tease my pussy. “Do you want to reconsider?”
“No.” He strokes my clit, sending me up on the balls of my feet as I grip his shoulders. “Maybe... Yes!”
“Good girl,” he says, burying his fingers inside me and doing that magical thing he does where he cups the rest of his massive palm around the front of my pussy while he strokes me inside.
I kiss him as he plays, my intermittent gasps getting swallowed up in his kiss. “I need you, Callum.”
“What do you need? Tell me.”
Months ago, I could never have said these words out loud. Now, I positively purr them to him. “I need you to fuck me. I need you to make me come.”
“I think I just did,” he jokes.
“Strip,” I say. “And let me watch.”
A devilish grin comes over his face. He takes his time, singing a wordless tune of badum-bumps as he takes off his clothes, whipping them around in the air before tossing them at me.
He pulls down my pants and panties with one swoop. I step out of them. “Now, come here, lass.” He lifts me, setting my bare ass on the edge of the counter.
“Yes, sir.” I wrap my legs around his waist, my arms around his neck as he wraps his strong body around mine. He holds me close, thrusting inside me. His cock stretches and fills me. It feels so good, making my eyes close and my back arch.
He’s kissing my cheek, nuzzling his face in my hair. “I’m sorry I freaked out. It’s your hair. You should have it how you like.”
I gasp as he goes deeper. “Thanks. I hate the idea of you not liking something about me.”
“I love everything about you. There’s nothing I don’t like.” He growls as he comes, then leans forward, resting his forehead on my shoulder. “Do what ye like. You look good no matter what.”
We shower together, with only the lower shower head on to save my hair, my back against his chest, his hands on me, sudsy and magical, getting me off.
Afterward, he helps me into the pretty yellow dress Freya picked out for today, the sleeves puffed with elastic bands at my elbows, the bodice short, the skirt full. I wear my hair down and put on some makeup all by myself, thanks to Freya’s gifts and lessons. I slip on gold sandals and make my way downstairs.
Carol Ann waits at the bottom of the stairs, holding a gold box.
“Carol Ann! I thought you said you couldn’t come. ”
“Forgive me. I lied. I love surprises. Here.” She pushes the box into my hands. “From Freya.”
I open the box to find the most adorable little gold honeybee earrings and pendant. “Aren’t these just precious?” There’s a note in the lid in Freya’s handwriting that says, For Freya’s sweet Fi-bee.
Carol Ann helps me clasp the necklace and holds the box for me as I put in the post earrings.
She appraises me. “You look lovely. Ready for your party?”
“Aye! I’ve been so cooped up. This will be wonderful.”
We walk into the garden, and my heart flutters with excitement. The sun shines brightly over the garden where Freya has meticulously set up the most enchanting honeybee-themed bridal shower for me.
Seeing the decorations, I laugh. “Freya’s Fi-bee,” I say to myself. The air is filled with the sweet scent of blooming flowers and candles.
The tables are adorned with delicate yellow and black floral arrangements, tiny honey jars with personalized labels for seating arrangements, and golden-hued beeswax candles that flicker softly in the light breeze. Freya has truly outdone herself, and every detail is thoughtfully chosen to reflect my love for nature and all things beautiful.
As I make my way through the garden, greeting friends and family who have come to celebrate this special day with me, I can't help but feel overwhelmed with gratitude. Freya walks up to me, a mischievous twinkle in her green eyes. She wears a black dress, as usual, and the same tiny gold honeybee earrings with a matching pendant that have been gifted to me.
"Look at you. The beautiful bride-to-bee! Buzz buzz," she laughs.
I can't help but chuckle at Freya's pun, seeing her infectious grin. “Freya, you’ve outdone yourself. Everything is perfect. I can never thank you enough. And I love the matching jewelry. Thank you.”
“Pff! Anything for my sister-in-law to be!”
She loops her arm through mine, guiding me toward a cozy seating area of oversized beanbags and pillows and cotton ottomans they’ve had brought in for the party.
"Sit down, relax, and let us pamper you today," Freya says, helping me into a bright-pink oversized beanbag. She sets a sparkly, pretty, golden tiara on the top of my head. “You’re queen bee for the day. Don’t get up.”
Chef and Nan have created an array of delectable treats, which are laid out on the intricately decorated table: platters of delicate finger sandwiches, miniature honey-infused desserts, and glasses of bubbly champagne fizzing invitingly. Over the table hangs a glittery banner decorated with tiny bumblebees.
Welcome to the Fabulous Fi-Bee’s Bridal Shower!
“That banner,” I say with a point and a giggle, “is all you, Freya.”
“Guilty as charged! But you can thank Kitt for the beanbag chair.” Freya bends down to whisper in my ear. “It’s a little too American for me. I thought—what’s next? A lava lamp? SO not on theme.”
As I settle in, surrounded by new and old friends and islander women who’ve known me since I was born, chatting and laughing, I feel surrounded by love and support.
I only wish Mam could be here.
Clearing my throat, I stand. I raise my glass to make a toast, my voice slightly shaky with emotion. "To friendship, love, and the sweet moments that make life extraordinary. Thank you all for being here.”
The group cheers, then someone shouts, “Honey, we wouldn’t ‘bee’ here without you. We’re so happy we can ‘bee’ there for you, Fiona!”
Which, in turn, kicks off a competition of bad bee puns.
I sit, sipping my champagne, nibbling and laughing. They won’t allow me to get up from my comfy pink throne—except the two times my tiny bladder has to take a wee break—bringing me stacks and stacks of presents, wrapped in shiny yellow and gold papers, tied with pretty pink bows.
“The first one is from Callum.” Kitt holds the big square box as carefully as if it were a newborn baby, and she brings it over to me. “Brought it straight from a very special store on the island.”
I take the box. It’s heavier than I anticipated. Eager to find out what he’s gotten me, I tear away the pink bow, holding the lid closed.
“Careful. Every ribbon you break is another bairn.”
“Seriously?” I lift the lid, peeling back layers of white paper. But I don’t hear her answer because all my world suddenly becomes what’s in the box on my lap.
It’s like Mam’s big bowl, the one from the shop on the island her mother bought her as a wedding present .
Only this bowl is…mine.
“It’s pink.” I run my hands over the cool, pale-pink glass. There’s a note inside, in Callum’s handwriting.
Your Mam’s blue bowl will always have a special place in our family-to-be’s story.
As will she.
But you, my sweet Fiona, deserve a big bowl all your own. In your very favorite color.
Pink.
All my love,
Your Monster
“Oh, freck! I’m going to cry!” The women tear up too and pass the bowl around, knowing how much my mam means to me, how many special memories I have of baking with her, and how much I love this new bowl.
If we have kids…I hope they share the same memories with me.
Pressing the tears away, I go to open the next gift. My fingers are hovering over the bow when Freya stops me. “Don’t tear this one! You’ve got to untie it. Careful, or you’ll be squeezing bairns out of that golden vagina of yours.” Tipsy Freya giggles, finishing her flute of champagne.
“Golden? Why would mine be golden?” I ask.
“Twenty-four karat. Made of pure gold.” Her multicultural-influenced accent goes full Scottish when she’s drinking. “That minge of yours has to be magical—you’ve got me wee brother’s head so far turned he’s looking backward half the time.”
Feeling loose and giggly, I joke, “There’s nothing wee about that man. Trust me.”
“Och! Fiona! Keep it to yerself!” Freya buries her face in her hands. “That’s me brother you’re on about!”
Carol Ann hands me a large box with yellow-and-pink striped paper and the bow tied with a thousand knots. Her eyes twinkle. “This one’s from me!”
“How am I meant to open it without tearing it?” I laugh.
She laughs with me. “That’s the fun!”
Carol Ann has given me sexy black leather high-heeled knee-high boots. She winks. “For in AND out of the bedroom.”
In the end, I’m surrounded by enough lingerie to dress the entire cast of the musical Chicago —which Freya and I enjoyed the live performance of on our last GNO—and nine broken bows.
“Nine wee ones! Och!” Freya howls. “And knowing my brother, your belly will be filled with his offspring before you even return from yer honeymoon.”
“Freya—” I shake my head, blushing.
Freya stands on teetering heels. “Raise your glasses, lassies!”
The crowd murmurs, slowly raising their cups to Freya.
“Time for a toast.” She lifts her champagne flute. “To our wee sweet Fiona. The only woman who could make my brother Callum an honest man. And to her golden vagina. May she give me many nieces and nephews I can fill with sugar and then return to her!”
She turns to her lawyer friends. “And now, you crazy hens, we islanders will teach you lassies how to say cheers in Gaelic. It’s pronounced Slanj-a-va. Say it with me!”
The entire group of women join in, raising their glasses, their joy-filled eyes smiling at me. “Slàinte Mhath!” My heart feels so full it could burst.
Kitt giggles at the silly toast. “Freya’s so funny! But it’s a little early to think about nieces and nephews.” When I don’t answer, she whispers in my ear. “You are using birth control, aren’t you, Fiona?”
“Course we are!” I lie.
I am, as Callum said, a terrible liar. I’ve not had much practice, nor do I want to, but now I wish I was better at the wee white lies, as Kitt is staring at me, curious.
I flush, thinking of the fact that we’ve never used birth control. I’ve always wanted to be a mum, so I’ve not given it much thought. Okay, I have. I’m an over-the-top responsible person in every aspect of my life other than…birth control.
My mam taught me natural family planning, the same method she used, and I track my cycle, which, like me, is predictable and punctual. Thus far, I’ve managed to keep Callum at bay on my fertile days, offering…to satisfy him in other ways. Of course, I think about the repercussions of not using a more secure method, but I seem to ignore the issue, burying the thought each time he buries himself deep inside my—apparently magical—minge .
Lost in thought, I change the subject. “Look! My wisteria’s finally blooming.” Lifting my glass to my lips, my eyes rise to admire the vines of the fragrant Blue Moon Wisteria I planted. The tiny purple blooms form in a soft mound of flowers, hanging like a bunch of grapes.
But…what’s that?
Beneath a plump bunch of the blooms, there’s a black “X” painted on the wall. My pulse triples its pace, my face goes flush, and it’s not from the champagne. I’d recognize the symbol anywhere.
The “X” of the Hoax.