That gets her looking at me again. “Sounds fancy.”
I smile. “It’s just a big public park,” I explain. “And on occasion, there are events hosted there. Tonight, there’s going to be a ceilidh.”
“A ceilidh?” she repeats in awe. “Get outta here. No way.”
It strikes me that I would have had to explain what that is to another woman. But with Cami, there’s no need. Her eyes go wide with recognition and she looks instantly excited. No doubt she’s read about the traditional Scottish gatherings in some obscure history book that no one’s ever heard about.
The only question that remains is, why does that make my heart feel like it’s going to lurch out of my chest?
“I’ve always wanted to go to one,” she says. “Folk stories are my absolute favorite.”
“Some women might be more interested in the music and dancing.”
“Not me,” she says, coloring immediately. “I… I’m not the best dancer.”
“Uh-oh. Have I stumbled across your one weakness?”
She smiles. “Trust me, I have a few. Dancing is certainly high on the list.”
“Consider me intrigued.”
She snorts. “Prepare to be sorely disappointed.”
I park the Ferrari on the outskirts of the garden’s boundaries, close enough that we can still see the party taking place in the middle of the grass.
Two separate fires crackle on either side of the lawn, which is strewn with benches and tables in a loose circle.
Inside the circle, dozens of men in kilts and women in traditional highland dresses are whirling around in intricate Scottish dances.
“Oh God,” Camila breathes as we walk towards the ring. “We’re not dressed right. We’ll stand out.”
“Look around, Cami. There are people here dressed just like us. And anyway, you were always going to stand out.”
It takes her a moment to process the compliment. When she does, she gives me a sideways glance as if to make sure I meant it the way it sounded.
The party isn’t limited to the makeshift dancefloor. Smaller groups that have broken off to play games and listen to an old woman tell stories.
Cami clutches my arm excitedly. “Let’s go over there.”
She drags me toward the storyteller. We find a place on the edge of the group and sit down on the grass.
The woman telling the story is in her seventies at least. She’s got long, flowing white hair that reaches down to her hips.
“Isn’t she glorious?” Camila whispers to me, leaning in a little.
I laugh, and that earns a few glances from the people sitting adjacent to us, most of whom are couples. To their eyes, we probably look like one too.
As we listen, Cami’s arm brushes up against mine. I’m acutely aware of every touch. Every sensation.
The silver-haired woman finishes her tale of Fingal’s Cave before launching right into another story, The Nine Maidens of Dundee.
Camila is transfixed through the entire tale. But I barely hear three words. I’m too fixed on her. Watching her expressions ebb and flow is the most entertainment I’ve had in a long time.
It’s exactly what I needed after the day I’ve had.
Once the silver-haired woman is done with her second story, she announces a small break before the next storyteller. The crowd doesn’t disperse. Instead, a friendly babble rises up over us. The atmosphere of the ceilidh is infectious, and I find myself smiling easily.
“Can we go talk to her?” Cami asks me.
“The old woman? Sure. Lead the way.”
I help her to her feet and she immediately dashes over to snare the storyteller before she can get away.
“Hi,” Cami says eagerly, as though she’s approaching a celebrity. “Your story was beautiful.”
“Oh, it’s not my story, lass. These are the stories of Scotland.”
“Of course. You just told it so well.”
“I’m glad you thought so. Is this your first time at this event?”
I stand back a little, content to observe Camila. But I notice a few other women passing by who throw me curious glances. Some come cluster up behind the old women to not-so-subtly eavesdrop.
“Oh, yes. My, uh… Isaak brought me.”
“Isaak?” the woman asks, looking right at me. “He’s the fine coinneach at your side there, is he?”
Camila glances back over her shoulder. “Um, yes.”
“Good evening, ladies,” I say, moving forward.
I’m met with appreciative glances, though they cool when I wrap my arm over Camila’s shoulder. “I thought my wife would enjoy the Scottish experience.” She tenses instantly, but I maintain my grip on her shoulder.
“What a lucky girl you are.”
“Indeed,” chimes in another of the old women. “If we were thirty years younger, you’d have lots of competition on your hands, little lass.”
Camila lets out a burst of nervous laughter. I decide to be gracious and save her.
“If you’ll excuse us, ladies. We’re going to explore.”
They wave us off. I steer Camila away from the crowds and towards the large tuft of trees in the distance. She looks back over her shoulder only once, but she doesn’t protest as we leave the ceilidh behind.
We meander through a dense thicket of trees and end up in a little clearing that provides us with a brilliant view of the sky. Far from the lights of the fire, the stars shine more fiercely.
We can still hear the music, still see glimpses of the dancing fires, but it’s far enough away that it doesn’t intrude on the peace of the little clearing.
“Wow,” Camila says, her face turned up to the starlight. “This is amazing.”
She pirouettes slowly on the spot, her arms raised slightly to either side. I stand back and watch her, admiring the way her blonde hair turns dark and her green eyes catch the reflection of the stars.
She brings her face back down, and her eyes land on me.
“Isaak.”
“Yes?”
“Thank you… for bringing me here.”
I smile. “I thought you’d appreciate it.”
She nods. “It’s exactly the kind of thing I appreciate. What made you think of it?”
“Actually, Lachlan brought me here years ago. We brought beer and sat around listening to the stories. It was a strange night, but I remember it as a good one.”
Her eyes grow soft, and she moves towards me. “It must be hard being here without him.”
“It was easier than I imagined it would be,” I admit.
She reaches out and takes my hand. I’m not expecting the gesture. She’s always protective about her space around me. But there’s a hunger in her eyes tonight, probably ignited by some old highland magic.
“You introduced me as your wife a few minutes ago,” she says. But she doesn’t look angry about it.
I shrug. “It’s an easier story to tell.”
“Is that why you do it?” she asks. If I’m not mistaken, there’s a sneaky tease in her tone.
“Why else would I do it?”
“Because you like the sound of it. You like the possessiveness of the word. You like thinking you own me.”
My cock jumps to full attention immediately. Then again, it only had a little ways to go. I give her a smile. “That could be it.”