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“Do you think she’s focusing a bit too much on the wedding and perhaps not quite enough on the marriage?” I asked, gently rocking my wine glass to swill the liquid around.
“Yes.” He didn’t even need to think about it.
“Have you tried mentioning it?”
He laughed, raising his glass up as if he were going to sip from it. “Please, by all means, you tell Freya that. I'll have my phone out to video as she throws tea on you.”
“She won’t throw tea on me.” I rolled my eyes, something I hadn’t done in years... Unless I was taking to Granny. “She likes me.”
“Nobody is exempt from my sister’s wrath. Not even James, and she’s marrying him. You should have seen her when he suggested grey suits instead of black. I thought she was going to have a stroke.” He snorted, raising his eyebrows at me right after. “She’s a monster.”
I pressed my lips together.
“Don’t tell me you’re going to defend her right now.”
“I’m trying to,” I replied slowly. “I’m also... well, I'm failing. It's very difficult.”
“That’s because Freya is difficult. It runs in the family.”
“I’m starting to understand why you needed a date for this weekend.” I sipped my wine. “It’s not about your grandfather trying to set you up with someone, it’s about moral support to deal with your sister.”
William dropped his head back with a deep laugh. “Shit. You’ve rumbled me. How did you figure it out?”
“You’re lucky enough to be fake dating someone who’s prettyandsmart.”
“And extraordinarily humble.”
“Of course. It’s my third best quality.”
“Let me guess; right after pretty and smart?”
“No, my humour and my arse.”
He stopped, staring at me with his dark brown eyes, then dropped his chin to his chest, hiding his face behind his hands, and burst out laughing again. His entire body shook with the rumble of every single chuckle, and I had to raise my glass to my lips to stop myself from doing the same.
“You’re going to burn the pizza,” I said breezily, looking at the oven. “And if you burn a frozen pizza, I will lose all respect for you.”
Still laughing, he got up and walked over to the oven, opening the door to peek inside. “It needs a few more minutes.”
“Like you and your giggles.”
“I don’t giggle,” William grumbled.
“You just did.”
“That wasn’t a giggle.”
“It was a giggle,” I argued, tapping my nails against the countertop.
“I’m not arguing with you over whether or not I giggled.” He stood back up and returned to the oven.
Obviously, watching frozen pizzas cook was going to be a more successful venture for him than arguing with me.
I could hardly blame him for that. I was always right.
Unless you counted my decision to come to Scotland with him. Coming here was most definitely aterriblechoice, so I wasn’t going to include it in my tally.
And no, I wasn’t taking questions about that, thank you very much.
