Edward
I was stressing.
Properly. London-commuter, pre-match, my-family-meeting-Connor's-gran-for-the-first-time stressing.
Dad and Pa had met Hamish in France a few months ago. Apparently they spent the whole night talking sheep, whisky, and bad coffee. Pa had sent him a postcard after.
But Isla? Never.
And Isla had veto power. Brutal, Scottish, tea-loving veto power.
"Stop pacing," Dad said from the armchair, not looking up. "You're wearing a hole in the carpet. And it's a very expensive carpet."
I stopped. "Right. Sorry."
His hair stylist, Amara, was on her knees in front of him, braiding his long curls into cornrows. Dad's hair went halfway down his back when he didn't tie it up. Today he was letting it be wild.
"You're doing that thing with your jaw," he said. "The one where you look like you're about to fight the Springboks and the referee at the same time."
"I'm not—"
"You are," Pa called from the bedroom. "We can hear it in your voice, kotyonok."
