Love in a Pickle: A Silver Fox Small Town Romance (Green Valley Library Book 9)

by Smartypants Romance

  “Ever fuck on a countertop?” he questions, his mouth curling into a smile against mine.

  “And if I have?” I counter, feeling a challenge coming on.

  “I won’t believe you,” he teases, leaning me back with the press of his body. “I like what you’re wearing, darlin’.” His eyes roam my sweater over the silk nightie and my thick socks. He reaches behind him and turns off the stove. “But it’s time to take it all off.”

  Oh, my.

  Chapter 31

  Gratitude

  [Chet]

  “Happy Thanksgiving, my darlings,” Scotia cries out as the boys swarm her on Thanksgiving Day. I’m filled with more gratitude than I think I have a right to because the woman I love loves the people I love most in this world.

  Maura scheduled dinner for one o’clock as she knows I have secondary plans later this evening. She understands.

  Several times throughout the day, I’m caught staring at Scotia, and each time, she’s looking back at me. Casual touches happen between us without thought, and Hugh finally side-eyes me.

  “Uncle Chet, should we be having ‘the talk’?” He lifts a teasing brow.

  I grab his neck as I do and give him a gentle shove. “What do you know about ‘the talk’?” I tease. We’ve had a talk about sex, but Maura handled more of the particulars. Davis would kill me if I let his son do the things we did at fourteen and that includes messing with girls. I take that back. Harper would be the one to hurt me. She wanted her sons to be gentlemen, and as I watch Scotia interact with them, I’m certain they will get some schooling in etiquette. Either way, Hugh’s going to be a heartbreaker whether he’s careful or not.

  “Guess you upped your game.” He winks at me, and I squeeze the nape of his neck.

  “Yeah, I upped it.” I can’t help the smile on my lips, and I take another peek at Scotia, who wears a questioning expression when she gazes back at me. Sheepishly, she smiles and then looks back at Louie when he demands her attention.

  Scotia was only melancholy a few times during the day, missing Malik as much as the boys did.

  “We’ll make it right somehow,” I say to reassure her although I’m not certain what will happen next for him and his brother.

  The meal and day pass too quickly, and I’m seeking out Scotia as we need to get a move on to the next activity when I hear her and Maura speaking in Maura’s office.

  “And you think this is the best way to proceed?” Scotia questions.

  “Yes. You already offered legal guardianship. The great aunt accepted. That makes it so much easier for the state to place them with you, but it all depends on how quickly you complete the training and home visits. If you hustle, it shouldn’t take more than three months.”

  “Three months? That seems like a lifetime,” Scotia scoffs, and I’m trying to figure out what they’re discussing.

  “If you want to adopt them, you better get used to having some patience, Scotia.”

  What the fuck? “Excuse me,” I stammer, stepping into the room and staring at my date. Scotia looks at Maura, and Maura lowers her head.

  “I told you. You should have told him,” Maura mutters.

  Scotia sighs and holds her head higher. Turning it in that manner where she looks regal and refined, she glances up at me.

  “I’m hoping to adopt Malik and Omari.”

  “Have you lost your ever-loving mind? Do you have any idea what it takes to raise kids like them?”

  She stares at me, and it takes me a second to recall she has raised a child. A girl child. Who doesn’t have half the issues Malik and his brother will have.

  “Thank you for questioning my abilities as a mother,” she dryly states.

  “Do not give me the heiress attitude, darlin’. You know what I mean. Malik and Omari will need extensive support for their intense emotional needs.”

  “I accept that and plan to do all I can to help them.” Her voice remains haughty and slightly aloof. But this isn’t putting a bandage on a cut. These boys went through some serious shit.

  “Maura thinks I have a good case,” Scotia adds, and my attention turns on my partner.

  “Did you know about this?” I direct at her.

  “I . . . did.” She folds her hands before her and lowers her head once again. I stare at my friend, wondering how she could allow this. How she could give Scotia hope.

  “I’ve already raised a child, who is now a successful doctor. These are points in my favor. I’m financially sound, own my own home, and I’m not too old.”

  I stare at her, and her eyes slowly narrow.

  “Do not give me a look like that. Forty-eight is not too old to adopt. Diane Keaton did it at fifty.”

  “We are not discussing Diane Keaton,” I state, raising my voice.

  “Plenty of foster parents are older, wanting to give back and help children. The system isn’t perfect. You told me that yourself, but you’re also proof that there are good places for those in need. I want to be one of those places.”

  “You don’t know what you’re getting into,” I say, flabbergast by her decision, not to mention she hadn’t told me and Maura knew.

  “Actually, I do. From the moment I connected with Malik, I began researching the process to foster and foster-to-adopt specifically. Ms. Mason is aware of my desire. When it seemed Henny was in question, I reminded Maura what I wanted, should there be a need. Ms. Mason is thrilled that I’m offering to take Malik and Omari, as it is harder to adopt older children. But they are adoptable, and the goal is to get them out of the system when you have willing placement. I’m a willing placement. Plus, I already know Malik, and we have a connection. This helps my case for guardianship. Once I have that, the ball gets rolling.”

  I swipe a hand into my hair and stare at her, still thinking she’s lost her damn mind.

  “This could take a year,” I state.

  “I have time.” Her eyes hold mine, and I sense a challenge in them. Will I still be present in her life in a year? I damn well better be.

  “Fine,” I mutter, and Scotia’s shoulders relax. Maura’s mouth falls open.

  “Fine, as in you’ll support my decision?” Scotia asks.

  “Do you need my support?” I question.

  “No.” Scotia hesitates. “But I’d like it all the same.” The first signs of chagrin cross her face, and I can’t help myself. I reach for her, tugging her to me.

  “If this is what you really want . . .”

  “This is what I really want,” she says, a smile in her voice.

  God, help me with this woman. “Okay, darlin’. We’ll figure it out.”

  Her head pops off my chest, and she peers up at me. “We?”

  “Together.”

  “You’re still mad,” Scotia says from the passenger seat.

  “I’m not mad,” I state. I’m just trying to understand and process all the things. The woman I love wants to adopt two children who might have some intense needs. I’ve been reconsidering some things in my life, and I just don’t see how this is all going to work, even though I promised we’d figure it out. I just want some time with her since all this is new between us. New to me.

  “Fine. But, will you tell me where we’re going?” she questions next. We’re traveling The Tail, and it’s growing dark quickly. I wanted to get us to our destination before sunset.

  “I host Thanksgiving at The Fugitive. It’s for the guys on the road. Riders who are alone. We don’t know who will show, but we have a handful of regulars who know we’re open and have been coming for years. I don’t like to think of people out there alone on a holiday. Davis and I never wanted anyone to feel left out. He started the tradition, and I continue to honor it. I promised to always offer a spot at my table—a table at The Fugitive.”

  “Your heart just gets bigger and bigger,” she whispers, and I risk a quick glance at her.

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  “The boys. These men. You are generous, Big Poppy.” Ther
e’s a smile in her voice, and that’s what I need to hear because taking her to this dinner is a risk. She could hate what she hears, hate what she sees, and I need her to love all the parts of me.

  “It might be an evening of rowdy motorcycle enthusiasts, drinking beer, and playing pool,” I warn.

  “I think I’m up for it,” she states, confident in her answer.

  “Yeah,” I tease. “Might want to put away your pearls because the rest of this night could be rough.” I wink at her. “And don’t be flirty with any of the men in my bar.”

  She chuckles. “And if they flirt with me?”

  “I’ll be making it known you’re my woman.”

  “Your woman? How very Neanderthal of you.” She laughs harder.

  “We’ve already established I like to carry you out of the bar over my shoulder.”

  “It was piggyback,” she corrects with another laugh.

  “Regardless, I have my ways. They all know you’re mine,” I state, and I sneak another quick glance to find her smiling.

  “I might like you all caveman like this,” she teases.

  “I definitely like you as my woman.”

  When we arrive at The Fugitive, Scotia literally removes her pearls and unbuttons an additional button or two on her blouse.

  “Whatcha doing, darlin’?”

  “I’m getting as close to motorcycle mama as I can.”

  Not an inch of this woman from her high heels to her formfitting skirt and the uptight, starched shirt says, ‘ready to ride’, but after opening a couple of extra buttons and removing the pins from her hair, I’d say she’s as close as she’s ever going to get to being motorcycle material.

  “You unbutton any more, darlin’, and we aren’t leaving this truck.”

  “Promises, promises,” she sasses me before opening her own door and hopping out into the cold November night. I round the truck and reach for her hand, helping her over the icy lot. A light snow is falling, signaling winter’s approach. When we enter the bar, we see Todd has the place set up with a banquet table set off to the side to hold all the potluck fixings and the turkey he cooked. Several tables are pushed together so no one sits alone.

  News of our meal spreads by word of mouth. A set time is given so people know when dinner will be ready. The few stragglers who arrived early have been put to work.

  “What can I do?” Scotia asks. “I’ve served hundreds of doctor dinners.” The reminder of her late-husband irritates me, but I’m fully aware that Scotia is a socialite with etiquette training.

  “Don’t be expecting formal manners here, darlin’. This is a man’s man kind of feast.”

  Scotia blinks up at me, and I want to press her against the bar and kiss her silly.

  “A man’s man,” she chuffs. “Don’t be turning sexist on me, Chet.”

  “Big Poppy,” I remind her, stepping up to her and running my fingers down the length of the white stripe in her hair.

  “Can I have a nickname?” she teases.

  “Darlin’, if we call you Mrs. Pickle here, there’s going to be all kinds of razzing and inappropriate comments, not to mention unseemly gestures.”

  Scotia’s lips slowly curl into a smile. “Maybe I’ll like it.”

  “Maybe, you’ll behave yourself. I don’t want other men lusting after my woman,” I growl as I lean forward to give her a quick kiss.

  “Hey, pass that loving around,” someone hollers, and Scotia stiffens.

  “Saving all my kisses for this one. Sorry, Herbie.” I tease the old man at the bar who doesn’t need to be here tonight. He has a wife at home, but he comes here on the regular. I slip an arm around Scotia’s back and tug her to me.

  “Well, she sure does brighten up the place,” Herbie comments, eyeing Scotia before he winks at her. “Though I don’t know what a woman like her is doing with the likes of you.”

  “I ask myself the same thing,” I mutter. Scotia places a hand on my belly.

  “I’m giving all my kisses to this one,” she calls out to the man on the barstool, and he laughs so hard he almost falls off.

  Damn, she might fit in better than I thought.

  The night proceeds with vulgar gestures and uncouth manners, and Scotia takes it all with a grain of salt, adding her own spice to the mix. She’s attentive to everyone at the table, asking questions and sensing when there won’t be an answer. She’s not being intrusive but trying to get each man to speak while giving them her undivided attention for a few minutes. I hold my breath a time or two, thinking she’s taken offense by what’s said or on the verge of asking too much, but each man takes her in stride, knowing she’s curious while generous with her interest.

  I’m not much for small talk myself, but I watch and observe as Scotia seems to have this role down to a science. She knows just what to ask, how long to speak, and when to move on. Her socialite ways are showing, but I’m not upset.

  When desserts are provided by the two girls who work for me, Scotia turns to me, placing a hand on my forearm.

  “I wish I had known. I should have brought something to contribute,” she says to me, but Striker answers from the other side of her.

  “Just you being here is a contribution,” he flirts.

  “Am I gonna have a problem with you?” I challenge, and the fireman laughs.

  “Not me, man. But I can’t help how tempting she is.”

  I push back my seat, a physical warning to shut it. “Ch—Big Poppy, honey,” Scotia says, turning her body toward mine and setting her hand on my thigh. My eyes meet hers, and they spark. She has this same look when I’m entering her. She’s freaking turned on by this display of male dominance and show of aggression over her.

  I lower my voice for only her. “You like me fighting for you, don’t you?”

  “No one’s ever fought for me.” Her eyes hold mine, but it’s her quiet tone that raises the hairs on my neck.

  “Here goes nothing then, darlin’. Ready?” Before she can answer, my hand is on her jaw, and I’m leaning in for her. She must sense what I’m about to do because she meets me in the middle, and our lips crash together, giving the entire table a sight as I kiss the stuffing out of her. Her hand comes to my cheek and her head tilts, giving me better access to her mouth and a swipe of tongue. She’s leaning toward me, and she’s going to be in my lap any second if I don’t dial us down.

  “Damn, that’s something to be thankful for,” Todd says, and Scotia pulls back, her eyes still on my face as she smiles sheepishly.

  And I realize, I am most thankful for her.

  The night runs late.

  “Want to stay in a room?” The motel isn’t full, and we could stay in a regular room if she wishes.

  “Is something wrong with the bus?”

  One brow shoots upward. “Besides the fact you don’t like my bus?”

  “I like your bus,” she says, leaning toward me again, her gaze dipping to my lips. “But it’s actually a tiny house. There’s a difference.”

  Oh, boy. I laugh as I give Todd a wave. Scotia and I have already helped with cleanup. When she tried to reorganize our small kitchen, Todd had enough and kicked her out.

  “We’re efficient enough,” he muttered.

  I lead Scotia out the back door and then scoop her up in my arms, cradling her to my chest. She lets out a squeak, wrapping her arms around my neck as I make a path to my tiny house. Snow has continued to fall and piled up enough that she’d break her ankle in her heels.

  “There’s the caveman,” she teases.

  “I’ve been acting like a caveman all night over you,” I retort. This moment shouldn’t be anything new.

  “Actually, this is romantic,” she says, leaning her head on my shoulder.

  “Oh, darlin’, I do not do romance.”

  Scotia laughs in response.

  When we reach the door, she uses her foot to press it inward, opening it enough so I can set her on a step, and she makes the climb into the bus herself. Once inside, I flip on t
he generator.

  “It’s going to take a bit to warm up but not too long,” I say, rubbing my hands together as Scotia wraps her arms around her middle. Suddenly, I’m anxious about being on the old bus in the cold. “Maybe we should stay in a room.”

  Scotia steps up to me. “You could warm me up,” she says seductively, curling her fingers into the edges of my jacket.

  I stare at her for a second, taking in her silver eyes and midnight hair. The pure snow stripe along her face. My fingers pinch the strands, then twirl them over my finger, giving it a tug.

  “That’s the plan,” I say.

  “What else is the plan?” she questions, her voice dropping.

  “What do you mean?” I ask, focusing on that strip of hair I love.

  She shakes her head, dismissing her own question. Her fingers curl deeper into my jacket.

  “Tell me three things,” she whispers.

  “You. Me. A bed.” I tease, and she smiles up at me, fully accepting of my suggestion. I drag my finger down the fine white hair and think of three other things. “I love you.”

  “Chet,” she whispers. I lean toward her mouth and wrap my arm around her back, lifting her off her feet enough so I can walk her backward and set her on the edge of my raised bed. She pulls back when her backside hits the mattress, and her hands reach for my scruffy cheeks.

  “I love you,” she says. “Thank you for today.” She leans forward and kisses me. “And yesterday.” She kisses me again. “And tomorrow.”

  “Darlin’.” My throat clogs.

  “Thank you for every day, Chet.”

  Jesus, do I love her.

  “Thank you, darlin’, for giving us a chance.” My mouth lowers to hers, and I plan to show her how very grateful I am to have a chance to love her.

  Chapter 32

  Gratitude Part Two

  [Scotia]

  I wake to dim light and excessive heat. Chet is wrapped around me, and I notice the darkening shades have been pulled around the bed area. It’s very quiet, and for a moment, I feel as if I can hear the sound of peace. I take my time to recall the night before. The things Chet did to me. Bent over this bed. Straddling him on his giant chair.