Chapter 198 Aurélie
aurélie
Some things don’t have to be planned. They just… happen. Like the sea finding the shore. Like her finding me. –Callum
Ididn’t think he’d actually do it. I thought he was bluffing—teasing me, like usual. I thought I had time to finish my coffee and maybe kiss him stupid again and joke about fertility charms without it escalating into an actual phone call to his mother.
But no. Callum Fraser was ruthless with no concept of hesitation.
“Wait, wait—Cal.” I sat up straighter, almost spilling my coffee.
I glanced down at the half-full mug, then turned to set it down on the side table.
Suddenly, I was wide awake as he casually opened his favorites on the phone app.
I melted when I saw my contact next to his mum’s. “You’re not actually calling.”
He didn’t even look at me. “You said to.”
“Ouais, but I didn’t think you’d actually do it—”
Too late. He tapped the screen and pressed the speakerphone button, already smirking like the absolute menace he was. From that look alone, I knew I was fucked.
I sank into the pillows, mouthing what the fuck at the ceiling while panic sprinted through my bloodstream faster than a Formula 1 pit stop.
“Hallo, son.” Malina’s voice came through loud and rich—warm like whiskey and just as sharp. The Highland lilt was thick, musical, impossibly lovely. Just like her son’s that was showing more and more every day. “What a surprise. What’s the occasion? Are you alive?”
“Barely,” Callum said, winking at me as he reclined back against the pillows. “We’re in Greece on holiday.”
“Oh, fer Christ’s sake, and ye didn’t tell me?” she gasped, her tone swinging immediately from sarcastic to dramatic. “You didn’t even send a photo! Are ye with that sweet French girl you never shut up about?”
My whole body went still.
Callum smiled lazily. “Aye. She’s here.”
“Oh, I must see her face. You’ve kept her from me long enough, Callum James Fraser. FaceTime me right now.”
My eyes went wide. “I—wait—non, une seconde—je suis pas—” I scrambled off the bed so fast I nearly dislocated my hip. Half the sheet came with me, and I tripped over the fabric, nearly face-planting into the cold floor. I landed on my hands and knees, crawling to my suitcase at the base of the bed.
Mon Dieu, I hadn’t even had time to unpack. We’d been all hands and mouths and giddy laughter last night, and here I was, naked as the day I was born while Callum’s mother insisted we FaceTime.
“You’ve what?” Malina asked through the phone.
Callum laughed. “She wasn’t dressed.”
Malina made a sound that I think was supposed to be scandalized but came out gleeful. “Don’t ye dare FaceTime me without warning the poor lass! Let her put herself together first!”
“Mum, you’re the one who suggested it,” Callum argued.
I was already digging through my suitcase like a woman possessed, throwing aside a lacy bra, three pairs of lace-trimmed underwear, and a sheer white slip that screamed honeymoon whore. And I hadn’t even known I would be getting engaged on this trip. Putain de merde. Where was that pink pajama set?
I finally found the top—slippery, soft, entirely wrinkled—and yanked it over my head.
It had tiny little straps and a lacy V, but at least I was covered.
The shorts went on next. No time for panties, because as I threw Callum a look over my shoulder, he was grinning maniacally and clicking the video button.
Oh, he was so going to be punished for this later.
I jumped back onto the bed, curling up next to Callum and pulling the comforters around my hips just as Malina’s face filled the call. Callum draped an arm around my waist, and his warmth eased my nerves just a tad.
“Oh my God,” I whispered, blinking at the vision of her.
She was stunning. Chestnut hair streaked with silver, tied in a long braid. Freckles across her cheeks. Piercing blue eyes just like his. She wore a thick, cozy sweater and her expression softened the second she saw me.
Meanwhile, the little square that showed us had me one breath away from cardiac arrest. My hair was a slept-on, sex-tangled mess, half flattened on one side and sticking up like I’d been electrocuted on the other.
My face was bright red. And there, plain as day at the edge of my unbuttoned pajama top, was a faint fucking bite mark on my collarbone.
Fantastic.
“Well, aren’t ye just the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen,” she said, beaming. “And all flustered too. Did my son do that?”
I laughed nervously, my right hand subconsciously flattening my hair, tucking it behind my ears like that would improve the situation. “A little.”
“I’m Malina,” she said warmly. “And you must be Aurélie. It’s about time we met properly.”
“It’s really nice to meet you too,” I breathed.
“And what’s this I hear about French lavender? You’ll have to teach me your recipe. My son says your family’s balm healed his neck. I say you’re the reason he’s still standing.”
I opened my mouth to respond—truly, I did—but before I could form a single coherent word, another face popped onto the screen.
A broad-shouldered man with stormy brows and a carved-from-oak jawline leaned into view behind her, blinking at the camera.
His hair was graying at the temples, and his expression was all no-nonsense Highland stoicism—until he saw me.
Then it softened into something unexpectedly fatherly and quietly fond.
“Dad,” Callum said, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Didn’t know you’d be home.”
“I live here, ya wee gobshite,” the man muttered. His voice was deep and gruff, thickened by the same Highland brogue as Malina’s. “Is that her?” he asked, peering closer at the screen.
Malina elbowed him before I could even wave. “Of course it is! Look at her! Isn’t she lovely?”
He squinted like I was a crossword puzzle he was determined to solve. “Aye. She’ll do.”
“Dougal!” Malina gasped, swatting his arm. “Behave.”
Callum was grinning like a smug little shithead on Christmas morning. “Auri, that’s my dad. Dougal.”
“Hi,” I squeaked, giving a tiny wave. “It’s so nice to meet you.”
“Oh, listen to that accent,” Malina swooned, hand flying to her chest in a way that reminded me entirely too much of her son. “She’s absolutely precious. Callum, if you drive this one away with your—your impish, bloody, Scottish Fraser ways, I swear to God—”
“There was a reason I called,” Callum cut in innocently.
I shot him a look that could only be translated as don’t you fucking dare.
“Oh?” Malina blinked, lifting a brow. “And what would that be, son?”
He cleared his throat, visibly enjoying himself. “I was telling Aurélie about some of the wedding traditions back home. And, well…” He trailed off for dramatic effect. “She made a comment about fertility.”
“I did not,” I said quickly, eyes wide.
“Pretty sure you did, love. You were talkin’ about French weddings.”
Malina looked far too interested.
“Anyways,” Callum continued, “I mentioned that you know all the old wives’ tales. About post-wedding fertility rituals, moon teas, sprigs of heather for luck, that sort of thing.”
Malina’s face lit up like she’d just been crowned Queen of the Highlands. “Oh, absolutely. There’s the heather in the bouquet, of course, but did he tell you about the porridge oat charm?”
Porridge oat charm?
My brain flickered to life. “Is that like oat milk?”
Callum pinched my side, making me squeak and giggle.
“Oat milk daddy,” I whispered under my breath.
“I adore you,” Malina gushed. “You’ve made my boy soft, and I’ve never seen him happier.”
Dougal groaned. “Christ above, Malina, simmer down. Don’t scare the poor lass off before there’s even been a weddin’.”
“You hush,” she snapped back, then turned to me like nothing happened.
With a rustle of motion, she set her phone down on what looked like a cluttered kitchen counter, and then both of them were fully in frame.
Malina, animated and flushed with enthusiasm, stood center while Dougal leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, clearly settled in for the show.
“You’ve got to soak the oats under the full moon,” Malina explained, eyes wide and absolutely serious. “Then place them under your pillow on the wedding night. It’s for healthy bairns.”
“Bairns means children,” Callum stage-whispered in my ear, clearly amused. “Scottish slang. Usually wee ones.”
I nodded slowly, committing the phrase to memory like it might show up on a quiz later. “Soaked moon oats. Got it.”
Malina was undeterred. “And if the oats sprout by morning, it’s said you’ll have twins.”
“Twins?” I choked out, shaking my head furiously. “No twins. I am a twin. I already served my time in the womb.”
Malina blinked, then burst out laughing. “Oh, you poor thing.”
“There’s a French expression,” I added with a small shrug. “Jamais deux sans trois. Never two without three. Which is basically a death sentence in my family.”
“You’re in luck, then. Twins tend to skip a generation,” she said cheerfully. “Or so my gran used to say, and she always swore you could predict it if you cracked an egg and saw two yolks.”
“Bollocks,” Dougal grunted.
Malina waved him off like a fruit fly. “You laugh, but I had a dream about a blackbird in the heather the night we conceived Callum, and my mother said that meant he’d be a handful with a good heart.”
“Your mother said you were drinkin’ too much sherry,” Dougal muttered.
“She was also correct,” Malina said with a wink and absolutely no shame.
I looked at Callum. He just shrugged, blue eyes twinkling like I’d never seen before.
I’d known he came from somewhere different.
That he’d left a lot behind to become who he was now.
But this was a whole new piece I hadn’t seen before.
A fuller version of him. His real self, not just the fierce driver, broody independent, and obsessive strategist—but a man with a childhood, with dreams and superstitions and culture and a mother who called him “my boy” like it meant something sacred.
It was beautiful to watch.