“After what you’ve been doing on bank holidays with Jamie recently?”
Oliver shuddered for effect. “Please don’t remind me.”
“Deny it while you can,” Sunny advised with a smile. “And in the spirit of that, why don’t we just chat out here? But let me run back to the car first and grab what I brought you—and I need the exercise, so stay right here.”
He nodded, though it went against his grain not to exercise his gentlemanly prerogative and fetch. He only lasted until she was halfway back to the cottage before he walked out and took a large black shopping bag from her. The sunlight falling down through the trees was pleasant and she didn’t seem to want to sit, so perhaps it was best to stay as far away from the threshold as possible.
He set the bag down, certain it would hold delights he could certainly save for later, then accepted a black book which sported a pair of serene-looking cats sitting back on their haunches and dangling from what were obviously intended to be bookmarks. The cats matched the ones plastered all over his ankle monitor so at least he would be fashionable whilst wallowing in misery. He considered, then looked at Sunny.
“Do I dare?”
“I think you should. Would you like me to periodically remind you not to kill them as we read along together?”
“That would be extremely helpful.”
She laughed softly. “I’m sure it will be, so go ahead and dive in.”
He steeled himself for the worst, then looked at the title emblazoned on the cover.
Self-Care for Eejits
He exchanged a glance with the wife of the laird he’d pledged his fealty to, the woman who also happened to be the one who anonymously covered him with a blanket or a coat whenever she found him catching a few winks on some flat spot inthe Cameron empire’s London offices. He’d known, of course, though he hadn’t said anything because he tried never to say anything. Life was safer that way.
Sunny was, though, a very lovely woman who deserved every happiness possible, as well as a place to sit presently given her delicate condition.
“Are you sure I can’t get you a chair?”
She was watching him with an affectionate, older-sister sort of smile. “I’m too excited about all the things you have to look forward to for any relaxing. What’s inside your book?”
He opened the tidy little triple-ring notebook and winced. “There are sections.”
“How exciting.”
He could think of other words that would have been more apt, but he kept those to himself. He braced himself for absurdities galore and flipped through the tabs. They included but were not limited to: outdoor activities, yoga classes, restorative meditations, nurturing his inner child, and bettering his mind. He took a moment to study the final tab labeledLittle Luxuries, then turned the page and noted that the first item on the list was a mani-pedi to be enjoyed whilst sipping a spirulina smoothie.
He looked at Sunny in alarm. “A what?”
“Manicure and pedicure,” she clarified. “And a healthful drink.”
“Absolutely not.”
“You might get a paraffin bath to dip your toes into,” she said. “I’d reconsider that. And you already know the benefits of green things.”
He did, though he liked to follow up any suppertime forays into health foods with a generous glass of something very boozey, but he was a man of simple tastes. And perhaps he was being too hasty about the manly pedicure. He could, if it came to it, roll up the extra wax into tiny balls and blow them through a straw athis mates. They might at least sting if the right amount of force were applied.
He filed that away as a possibility, then turned to the very back of the book. There was a,Don’t blame me, I just wrote what they told me to, luv ya!—Sampenned discreetly on the very last page surrounded by a selection of charming hearts drawn to fill up the rest of the area, no doubt to leave no room for any more torturous activities.
The women would be spared, to be sure, and he might even unbend enough to mourn with them at the terrible straits their men would find themselves in, but he was a forgiving sort.
“At least they’re leaving you to the honor system,” Sunny noted.
He pulled up the leg of his tracksuit trousers and pointed at the shocking pink ankle monitor that clashed painfully with his green trainers. Sunny looked at him in surprise.
“Is it bugged?”
“I haven’t investigated that yet,” he admitted, “but I’m certain it’s at least sending a detailed record of my movements.”
“What do you have to do to get it off?”
