Hot Scots Christmas

by Alam, Donna

  ‘Come on,’ Nat replies. ‘I know you’re dying to tell them the rest.’

  ‘Well,’ June says with the air of someone about to impart some juicy gossip, settling her glass of mulled wine between both hands on her lap. ‘The company is the same lot that made the vajankle,’ she says, sugar sweet. ‘A vajankle is for them that has a foot fetish,’ she then explains, her bright blue eyes blinking innocently.

  ‘For the love of God,’ Rory groans while Fin hides her face in his shoulder, trying hard not to shake with laughter as she cradles her sleeping child.

  ‘It’s refreshing not to be the only oddity in the room,’ murmurs an amused Kit.

  ‘What was that, dear?’ asks June while Mac’s parents look on confused. Thankfully, no one sees fit to explain the nature of Kit and Bea’s sex life, and it’s just as well. I wouldn’t like June to have a second stroke. Probably from excitement.

  ‘So June.’ All eyes turn to Stella as she speaks. ‘If you’re thinking about getting one of these male doll thingies, which bit would be first on your Christmas list?’

  ‘That would be telling,’ June answers with an attempt at a wink.

  ‘Where did Mac go?’ I ask no one in particular.

  ‘He went to check on the kids.’ Though Ivy’s words are sincere, everyone else seems to be looking anywhere but at me.

  ‘What’s going on? Why are you all being so weird?’

  For a beat, no one appears to have heard me—or at least they’re pretending not to have heard—when, from behind me, I hear a theatrical clearing of throat.

  ‘A-hem.’

  ‘Puis-je vous aider ?’ Can I help you? I ask Louis, before noticing he’s dressed as one of Santa’s elves. ‘Aren’t you the cutest!’

  ‘I’m not cute. I’m an elf on important business,’ he answers seriously. ‘I have a message from Santa. He wants you to touch his sack.’

  ‘I’ll bet he does, the dirty bird,’ whisper-hisses Nat.

  ‘He has a very, very important question for you,’ he intones, his little brows drawn down. ‘Because you have been a very good little girl.’

  ‘Oh, that’s nice to know,’ I reply, looking around at the eager faces in the room. Why? And when I look back, the big man himself has joined my little elf. Mac, dressed in a Santa suit, complete with a fluffy white beard.

  ‘Hello, Santa.’ I give myself a silent pat on the back for keeping a straight face.

  ‘For the record,’ he says, pulling the white fuzz from his face. ‘I don’t want you to touch my sack. Well, I do, but in this instance, my wee elf here has something for you. In the sack, I mean.’

  ‘That’s what they all say,’ calls out Ivy.

  ‘Absolutely,’ adds Bea. ‘They want to get you into the sack.’

  ‘Then get you to touch their sac,’ hollers Nat.

  ‘You lot in the cheap seats,’ Mac calls back. ‘Settle down.’

  I’m distracted from their cat calls, and intrigued, as a black satin bag drops into my hands.

  ‘But Christmas isn’t until tomorrow?’

  ‘I know,’ replies Louis. ‘You’d better hurry up. Santa will be vewy busy tonight.’

  In the interest of letting Santa get back on the job, so to speak, I pull the ribbon holding the sack closed, the fabric falling away to reveal a black velvet box.

  The kind that might hold something monumental.

  The kind that might hold the beginning of something very special.

  ‘Is this for me?’ The words are thick in my throat, my gaze only for Mac right now . . . as he falls to his knees. No, that’s not right. As he falls to one knee.

  ‘You’re serious,’ I ask, taking his face in my hands.

  ‘Despite the getup, which was Louis’s idea, I definitely am. And I believe this isn’t the first time I’ve asked—or planned to ask. We were going to do this months ago, weren’t we, Louis?’

  Ignoring the bit where I’ve been a bit of an idiot, I slide my eyes to my son, his curls dancing as he nods vigorously.

  ‘But then you got ill. I’ve been waiting for the right time since then. You’re lucky we haven’t turned the house into his grotto,’ Mac adds with just a hint of chagrin.

  ‘Open it! Open it!’ Louis chants.

  With shaking hands, I lift the lid and there, cushioned in the plush interior, lies a ring. The ring. The most perfect of rings.

  ‘It’s a wuby!’ yells my little man as Mac turns the box in the flat of my palm.

  ‘Do you like it?’ he whispers. In the absolute absence of words, I nod. ‘Do you like me.? Tears trip over my lids as I nod again. ‘Enough to marry me?’

  This time, I don’t nod but fling myself forward, as best I can, throwing my arms around Mac’s neck. Our friends and family explode into congratulations as I cling to the man I love.

  ‘Are you going to say something?’ he asks, pulling us both to stand.

  And I do want to speak. I want to tell him how happy he’s made me. How I’m looking forward to spending my life with him. How no one in the world is quite like him, and as I open my mouth to announce my undying love, I think elves, or Gremlins, take over my vocal cords.

  ‘Oh, Lord!’ I exclaim, looking at my feet. ‘I think I’ve just peed on the new rug.’

  Epilogue

  MAC

  CHRISTMAS MORNING

  What a night. What an experience.

  I look around the room, the soothing colours of the soft furnishings and walls that contrast the industrial lighting set into the ceiling, the glass windows etched for privacy. I look at anything elevated rather than let my tears fall onto the precious bundle in my arms. Not that I haven’t already cried plenty, but right now, I’m just trying to be strong for my wee girl. Both my girls.

  ‘Have you noticed there are no mirrors in this place?’ Ella lies in bed next to the chair where I sit, her dark hair wild on the snowy white pillows, her expression beatific.

  ‘Is that your way of telling me I look like shit?’

  ‘Language,’ she scolds softly.

  ‘She’s no’ gonna repeat it.’ I look down at my dark-haired daughter, her tiny fist curled under her chin. Her eyelids are almost translucent, and though I’m told it’ll be a while before we know their true colour, I just know they’re going to be the colour of her mother’s. ‘She has the sweetest mouth. It’s like a wee rosebud. I doubt something this lovely could say anything crude.’

  ‘I’ll remind you of that in a few years,’ Ella scoffs.

  ‘You did good, darlin’.’ The words are thick in my throat, and I feel like my heart is bursting. I can’t explain the sensation exactly. It’s not like after sex, when your heart is open and you feel like you can conquer anything. This is a fierce thing I’m experiencing now. I feel like . . . well, I’m a dad. A dad to a daughter. And with this great power comes massive responsibility. Aye, that’s it. I feel responsible. In the best kind of way.

  ‘Are you okay over there?’ Ella’s soft voice brings me back to the moment, away from the silent promises that I’ll never let anyone hurt her.

  ‘I am. I’m better than okay,’ I respond, raising my head. Two of them. I have two of the best girls ever in my life.

  ‘Was it like watching your favourite pub burn down?’ Ella scrunches up her wee nose but not in distaste. It looks more like a touch of concern.

  ‘It was the most wonderful thing I’ve ever seen.’

  I hope that sounded sincere. Who labelled it the miracle of childbirth ? I feel like someone needs to have a word with them, whoever it was. Just like I’m sure most women would swap the experience for a miraculous childbirth . As in, whoops, look what just appeared! A baby. And it’s all yours!

  Childbirth is like a horror movie with a happy ending. Who told me that? Rory? Dylan? Maybe I made it up myself.

  ‘You should go home. You look so tired.’

  ‘Says the woman who just delivered a seven-pound human into the world. Even if I wanted to, I can’t. The clan is in the waiting r
oom. They’re all dying for a cuddle before they head home.’

  ‘They’ve been here the whole time?’ she asks incredulously. ‘But it’s Christmas morning.’

  ‘Aye. Louis and Alisdair are asleep on the chairs. Before Louis nodded off, he was trying to convince the midwife he was your personal elf, and as such, needed to be allowed in the delivery suite.’ She chuckles softly. ‘Mind, I think it was the word suite that was of interest to him.’

  ‘There was nothing sweet happening in this room.’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong, darlin’. There’s you and there’s this little one. You’re both sweetness itself.’

  ‘What are we going to call her?’

  ‘It is Christmas morning, and there’s snow on the ground. Actual snow, not the fake kind from the other night.’

  ‘There was nothing fake about that night,’ she whispers softly.

  Lost in the memories, I shake my head, coming back to the question at hand. ‘I suppose we could call her Noelle?’

  ‘God, no.”

  “Eve? Mary? Christina?’ I suggest in quick succession.

  ‘Still no.’

  ‘Emmanuelle?’

  ‘And no again. I hate to say it, but we’re coming down to June Euphemia as a serious contender.’

  ‘Effie for short?’ Please, God, no. But the woman did just birth this little love all by herself, so part of me feels like she has the veto vote. As I look up, I see she’s laughing.

  ‘I think we stick with our plan,’ she says.

  ‘And I agree.’ Wholeheartedly. ‘Juno Adams, it is.’ Juno, for June, and for the god of love and marriage. Pretty apropos for what I’m about to ask. Again.

  At that moment, the midwife knocks once, then pops her head around the door. ‘Are you ready for me to let your eager family in?’

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ Ella says at the same time as I say,

  ‘No, not yet.’ Not before I have to say what I have to say.

  I look at the midwife. ‘Can I ask you to stay with us for a minute?’

  ‘Of course,’ she answers, stepping into the room.

  Cradling our tiny daughter in one arm, I feed the other into the front pocket of my jeans, thankful I’d worn them under yesterday’s stupid Santa suit. The sight had raised a few laughs at check in.

  ‘This must be a special Santa delivery,’ the receptionist had said. It was at that point I’d realised that, minus the beard, I was still in character.

  ‘Raphaella Alescio,’ I say, taking a deep breath. ‘I really hope the third time is a charm.’ I pull the behemoth ruby ring from my pocket, and carefully watch as a smile grows on her beautiful face. An expression that makes me feel ten feet tall. ‘You are the love of my life, and you’ve given me such gifts. Will you do me the honour of consenting to be my wife.’

  ‘Of course, I will,’ she responds shyly.

  ‘Congratulations!’ the midwife exclaims. ‘Are you ready for your family now?’

  I take one more look at my child, raising my gaze to the woman who’ll be my wife. ‘Yes,’ I answer simply. Because family, I know, is everything. ‘Let them in.’

  The end.

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks, as always, to my nutty family. And to the equally nutty Natasha Harvey and Aimee Bowyer.

  Thanks also to the lambs. You lot rock.

  Copyright © 2017 Donna Alam

  About the Author

  Donna writes about exotic locations and the men you aren’t married to, but might sometimes wish you were. Escapism reads with heart, humour, and plenty of steam.Hailing from the North of England, she’s a nomad at heart moving houses and continents more times than she cares to recall. She once worked at a school like the one described in her Pretty Series, where the wheels of her imagination began to turn. When not bashing away at a keyboard, Donna can usually be found, good book in hand, hiding from her family and responsibilities. She likes her wine and humour dry, and her mojitos sweet, and language salty.

  Catch up with her on Facebook or send the twit a tweet to keep in touch.

  DonnaAlam.com

  One Hot Scot

  Book 1 of the Hot Scots Series

  By Donna Alam

  Copyright © 2017 Donna Alam

  Published By: Donna Alam

  Copyright and Disclaimer

  The moral right of this author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the express permission of the author

  This book is a work of fiction. Any reference to historical events, real people or real places are used fictitiously. All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 Donna Alam

  One

  Fin

  ‘If you wouldn’t do it to your grandad in broad daylight, you shouldn’t be doing it to some random in a public carpark, for goodness sakes!’

  ‘What did I miss?’ I only left the room for a minute—someone needed to replenish the wine supply.

  ‘I’m trying to explain to madam over there,’ Ivy says, hooking a thumb over her shoulder. ‘That just because it was dark and she’d had a skinful—’

  ‘I was not drunk!’ Natasha’s protest is accompanied by an indignant scowl.

  Ivy swipes the bottle from my hands, her words falling in a tumble as she twists the lid. ‘She says she scored last night and only just stopped herself from . . . from pleasuring him in the carpark!’ Gathering the length of her dark hair in one hand, she bends to pour the blood-red liquid into her glass. As she straightens, a flush of discomfort is vivid against her cheeks. ‘Go on, tell her what you just said,’ she demands, passing the bottle on.

  Beneath her peroxide mane Natasha’s brows furrow like a couple of caterpillars over a cloud of glittering pixie dust as she takes the proffered bottle with a scowl. I really must talk her into toning down her make-up. Her fake lashes are a bit like tarantula legs and her HD brows? I think she has the IMAX version.

  ‘I only said I almost had my hand down his pants. I couldn’t help myself. He was a real bilf .’ The rejected bottle bangs against the table, Nat pulling a hipflask from her purse instead.

  ‘I’ve told you before,’ Ivy counsels, ‘you have to keep your hand on your tuppence for longer than five minutes if you want them to respect you in the morning.’

  ‘In the morning? He was out on his ear as soon as we were done. It wasn’t respect I needed, just a good seeing to.’ Nat’s shoulders shake with a dirty, sniggering laugh. ‘Anyway, my kitty’s worth more than tuppence. It sparkles. And occasionally queefs rainbows. What bilf could resist that?’

  ‘That’s quite a picture,’ I respond. ‘And not one I want to imagine, thanks. But you could explain what a bilf is, for those of us who don’t speak Natasha .’

  She doesn’t answer, instead adding a generous amount of dark liquid to her can of cola as Ivy mutters something about using a glass and a coaster. ‘There’s just something about a man wi’ a beard,’ she eventually replies, pulling her off-the-shoulder t-shirt further . . . off her shoulder, revealing a neon pink bra-strap.

  ‘Yeah, there is. Something scruffy.’ Ivy huffs before taking a dainty sip of her wine. ‘Something lazy. Can’t they be bothered to shave? I mean, imagine if women decided not to shave the three p’s for months on end. Do you think we’d be hailed as fashionable?’

  ‘Don’t ask!’ I almost yell, unfortunately the same second Natasha does.

  ‘Pits, pins, and, you know,’ Ivy answers, indicating the pertinent areas with pointed thumbs.

  ‘What? Pits, pins and what?’

  ‘You know .’ A vivid pink streak highlights each of Ivy’s cheeks.

  ‘Not sure I do.’

  ‘Your tuppence,’ Ivy whispers, the pink deepening to beet red.

/>   ‘That starts with a t not a p ,’ responds Nat.

  ‘Pussy, okay?’ Ivy replies hotly. ‘Pits, pins and there, I said it, pussy! Happy now?’

  Nat shrugs while I try not to giggle with perverse pleasure, hearing her utter the word she hates most in the world.

  ‘But you don’t wax your pus—’ Nat begins, rolling her eyes at Ivy’s stern expression. ‘Okay, how about your lady garden’s more like the Australian outback.’ Ivy frowns, confused. ‘All bush.’

  ‘You are a poor advertisement for business,’ I agree, unable to bite back my smile.

  ‘Advertising? I’m hardly likely to be flashing it around. Besides, I wouldn’t let you anywhere near my growler,’ she retorts, pointing her thumb once more at Nat.

  ‘Thank heavens for small mercies,’ Nat replies. ‘Bushy and growly? No ta.’

  ‘Maybe when I book my intimate waxing course—’

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ Ivy interjects, cutting me off. ‘You won’t be here long enough to benefit or deal with the upkeep of anyone’s lady bits.’ Leaning over and squeezing my knee, she adds brightly, ‘You’ll be off to better things soon.’

  I shrug evasively, mumbling in defence of the intimate waxing course I’ve been considering as adding to my skillset. And as for moving on to better things, I’m not so sure. Sometimes I think I’ll be Ivy’s freeloading roomie forever, living my days out in her tiny box room, sleeping on her crappily sprung daybed.

  ‘And,’ adds she of hirsute militancy, ‘talk about double standards. I’m pretty sure hairy bottomed women would never be as popular as hairy faced men. I hate this beard fashion . . . thing.’ Her face twists inelegantly. ‘It’s like living in a state of constant Movember.’

  Please, not this again. ‘You didn’t tell us what a bilf is,’ I say to Nat instead.

  ‘Just my favourite thing in the world; a beard I’d like to f—’

  ‘Beard, dearie?’ From the fireside, June comes awake like an elderly jack-in-the-box, her bright blue eyes blinking rapidly. ‘Will you be waxing men after your course, Finola?’