Chapter 2 #3
Then she climbed off me on all fours—back arched, tits swaying slightly, hair a fucking mess, looking every bit the vixen who’d just destroyed me.
She grabbed her coffee, curling back under the covers like nothing had happened.
Like she hadn’t just decimated my entire nervous system with her tits and pouting and marshmallow goo.
I joined her under the blankets, and she scooted closer, one leg pressed against my side, leaning her head on my shoulder. I rested my cheek on her head.
We didn’t speak. Just listened.
The breeze drifted in through the open glass doors, carrying the scent of salt and sun-warmed stone. Waves lapped the shoreline, steady and slow and brilliantly blue beyond the windows. In the kitchen, the coffee pot clicked off, and I could still taste her pistachio creamer on my tongue.
I draped my arm over her shoulders, keeping her tucked into my side. She let go of her coffee with one hand, the other coming up to hold mine. Her thumb brushed over my knuckles every few seconds like she couldn’t stand not to touch me.
“You ready to start our holiday?” I asked finally, voice quiet in the hush of morning.
She hummed contentedly. “After this coffee.” Kissed my shoulder. “And maybe a croissant.”
I smiled. “Have you ever even tried a pastry that wasn’t French?”
“I’m sure once,” she said with faux solemnity. “Kind of like how you tried coffee that one time.”
I groaned. “I was not warned.”
“You were not prepared.” She sipped smugly. “And I’d do it again.”
I let out a quiet laugh, pulling her tighter. Just us and the waves and the warmth of a morning we didn’t have to share with anyone else.
“You’re an absolute menace, Dubois.”
She exhaled dramatically. “Soon-to-be Fraser, thank you very much.”
That did something to my chest. Made it stutter and squeeze all at once.
Then, softly, almost like she didn’t mean to say it out loud, “Maybe we don’t have to wait that long.”
“What do you mean?”
She shrugged one shoulder. “Je ne sais pas.” I don’t know. “Just thinking out loud. Between languages, I guess.”
It lodged somewhere in my chest anyway. The finite idea of it. Not just engaged and planning a wedding. But married. Husband and wife, tied together in every way that mattered.
I shifted, curling my fingers tighter around hers, and felt the cool edge of her ring against my skin. I turned my head and kissed her temple.
“I’ll marry you in a heartbeat, mon c?ur.”
Her breath caught, but I wasn’t done. I pulled my arm back and turned to face her more fully, leaning a shoulder against the headboard. I tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, heart thudding like I was already at the altar.
“Back home in Scotland, it’s tradition to tie your hands together with a tartan during the vows. Handfasting, they call it. My parents did it. My gran always said the knot shouldn’t come loose unless the love does.”
“That’s beautiful,” she whispered, also turning, curling a leg under her. Her eyes softened, her hand brushing over mine. “It’s the first time I’ve heard you refer to Scotland as home.”
I sat with that for a second, letting the hush settle around us—waves beyond the glass, her thumb still brushing over my knuckles like it might anchor me there.
“I guess I haven’t in a long time,” I admitted quietly. “For a while, it stopped feeling like mine. Just became a place I left behind.”
I paused, breathing her in. Citrus and lavender and something warmer—something that felt like it belonged in every room I’d ever want to live in. My skin smelled like her, and I was pretty sure this was Heaven.
“But with you…” I glanced down at our hands, the glint of her ring catching the morning sun. “It’s like returning somewhere I didn’t realize I missed. Not because of the place. Because of the feeling. Like finding the front door unlocked after years away, and the lights still on inside.”
She didn’t say anything, just looked at me like I’d given her something special.
“So yeah,” I finished, voice thick with it, “maybe it is home. Because now you’re in it with me, and I’m not alone anymore.”
Neither of us said anything for a moment, just looked at each other, and an understanding seemed to pass between us. We had our families, sure, but we were each other’s family now. That’s what this next step meant. Now, all our problems and obstacles became a shared burden.
“There’s this other one,” I said, softer now, almost fragile, like I was afraid to break this moment. “The bride wears a sprig of white heather in her bouquet for good luck. And the groom pins a lucky coin to the inside of his jacket for prosperity.”
She hummed. “I love hearing about this. Your family, your culture, your traditions. It makes me feel like…” She trailed off, eyes shining as she looked at me. “Like I’m getting closer to you. Not just the man in front of me, but the boy you were, the place you’re from. The whole story.”
I didn’t know what to say to that.
Because my whole life, I’d tried to outrun where I came from. Yet somehow, she made me want to remember it all. To share it. To bring her into it.
So I did.
“There’s one where you share a drink from a quaich,” I murmured.
She frowned, confusion flickering across her face, and I huffed a laugh as I explained.
“It’s like… this little two-handled cup.
Symbol of trust and unity. Everyone takes a sip after the vows, and it’s supposed to bind the couple and the families. ”
Aurélie blinked slowly, like she was committing it all to memory.
“I want that,” she said simply. “All of it. The knot, the coin, the heather, the drink.” She bit her lip, then gave me an adorable little smile. “I want your traditions to be mine too.”
I tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Then we’ll do it all, baby. Every last one.”
She looked down, then back up, a faint flush blooming across her cheeks. “I could show you mine, too. The French traditions, I mean.”
“Oh?” I teased gently. “Do they also involve symbolic alcohol and public vows to ruin each other forever?”
She giggled, leaning closer, fingernails clinking against the ceramic mug she still clutched. “Not quite. Though, there is champagne.”
“Of course there is.”
She rolled her eyes fondly. “We toss coins at the newlyweds as they leave the church, usually centimes. It’s our way of wishing prosperity upon them.
And there's this tradition where the couple drinks from a coupe de mariage at the reception. It’s shaped like a shallow bowl and passed down through generations.
Supposed to bless the union with fertility and good fortune. ”
She trailed off, the edge of a wistful smile tugging at her lips. “I think the fertility part skipped me, though.”
My chest tightened, but I didn’t let the air go heavy.
“Maybe it didn’t skip you. Maybe it’s just waiting for the right timing.” I paused, brushing my thumb across the back of her hand. “My mum used to say some things needed the right season to bloom.”
Aurélie looked up at me, the weight of it all soft in her eyes.
“She was kind of known for that stuff back home,” I added. “In our village, you went to my mum instead of the doctor. Or when the doctors couldn’t help. She always had a balm or a tea or some ancient recipe passed down through generations of Highland women. People swore she could cure anything.”
Aurélie’s lips parted in surprise. “Really?”
I nodded.
“Wait, why have you never mentioned this before?”
I hesitated, then exhaled. “Because when I was a kid, the other boys used to call her a witch. Not in a cool way. The kind that made you feel like your family was dirty. I got into fights about it. And after a while, I just stopped allowing myself to think of it as home.”
A beat passed. She reached up and brushed a strand of hair from my forehead like she could smooth out the ache.
“She has a whole cabinet full of pressed herbs and little linen sachets,” I continued, my mind racing back to memories of my mum opening the wooden furniture, the old hinges creaking with age.
Even now, I could hear it clear as day in my head.
“And when I told her about the lavender balm you and your family make, she got all misty-eyed. That was a fun FaceTime call.”
“You told your mum about that?” Aurélie whisper-shouted, almost conspiratorially.
“Swear to God. She went on for twenty minutes about how French lavender has ‘better bones’ than the stuff from up north.” I grinned. “Said if your family was still making that kind of remedy, we were clearly destined. Hence the wedding planning.”
A delighted, slightly flustered laugh broke out of her. “Oh my God, Cal. I’m going to die. Is the whole Fraser family this poetic?”
“I mean, she is the one who claims that you gifting me that balm healed me,” I said, mouth tugging into a wry smile. “Said you’re probably some kind of guardian angel. Or a selkie, maybe. Sent to bind yourself to a mortal man with lavender and lust and whatever spell you’ve put on me.”
Her lashes fluttered, and the breeze lifted wayward strands of her hair off her collarbone. “A selkie?”
I nodded solemnly. “Scottish sea folklore. Seals that shed their skin to become women. But if a man finds the skin and hides it, she has to stay with him.”
She gasped, mock scandalized. “That’s barbaric.”
“Most old myths are. But I wouldn’t put it past my mum to believe in them. Especially if it meant justifying how fast I fell for you. Or how beautiful you are. Selkies lure men to ruin, you know. And I walked straight into it with open arms.”
Aurélie flushed all over again, that endearing pink blooming on her cheeks and throat. She ducked her head like she could hide in her coffee mug. “You’re both mad.”
I grinned and brought our joined hands to my mouth, kissing her knuckles one by one, lingering on her ring finger.
“She knows all the old wives’ tales about fertility, too.
Like, whole rituals. Moon cycles, special teas, little charms. I’m pretty sure there’s an entire post-wedding tradition for baby-making. ”
“You’re joking.”
“I’m not. I’ll call her right now and ask if you want,” I offered sincerely. “No shame, no pressure. Just options.”
Her mouth dropped open, surprised in the cutest way. “You are not calling your mum to ask her how to get me pregnant.”
“I absolutely will. Don’t tempt me.”
She narrowed her eyes, still blushing furiously. “You’re so fucking weird.”
“And you love me for it.”
She laughed again, full and bright and real. “D’accord. Call her.”
I blinked. “Wait—really?”
She raised a brow, lips curving around her mug. “What? You said no shame. And put it on speaker. You’ll leave out important details if you try to paraphrase.”
I groaned. “Jesus Christ, woman.” But I was already letting go of her hand and reaching for my phone.