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Bo: Bo looked up from his laptop, glaring behind half-moon glasses. Stocks in neon green rose and fell over a black background on his screen, but his only focus was the ghoul in front of him.
“Where have you been?”
Brett: Brett’s face was set in thoughtful lines as he absently walked through the door. There hadn’t really been a whole lot of time between here and Bronwyn’s house to digest the conversation he’d had, otherwise he probably would’ve been better prepared for facing Bo.
Then again…all things considered, maybe it wasn’t the worst thing. With any luck.
Brett sighed and sank into the nearest chair.
“New Orleans.”
A buttery soft cashmere sweater in pink. Something he could purchase (or steal) on his way back from -
"She's still in Scotland, ain't she?"
“For now. She’ll be back tomorrow probably, day after at the latest. She’s been stayin’ here on and off since I got pregnant so she can take care of me. So really, there’s no rush.”
She would be kissed between her eyes, and then her cheek. He was feeling for her temperature as well, but that was his business.
"Remind me, what is it ya want?" he asked, getting to his feet. "Scratchy, lime green wool sweater, is it?"
Bronwyn bit back a smile and nodded very seriously. “Oh, aye. As itchy as possible, and make sure it’s a really obnoxious shade o’ lime green. Practically neon. I want to be seen from the international space station.”
She beamed up at him. “Ye’re a peach.”
He could, and he might. Must have been a reason she wanted to see him. Had been years. Could be nothing more than company, but he had his doubts.
"I'll see t'here, n'then your needs. I'll be back by t'night. Alright?"
Bronwyn nodded. “All right. Don’t feel like you have to rush anythin’, neither of us is goin’ anywhere. Take yer time.”
It would give her time to talk to Sorcha and ask as lovingly as possible that she not bring up the angel thing whenever she talked to Mason. Just to be on the safe side.
Mason arched a brow. One could entice with sweets and spice. Of course a member of this family would know just where to strike. "Ya want me t'see her t'day, is it?"
“If you want to. I won’t make you see her if ye’re no’ in the mood for socializin’.” With someone other than her, that is. She knew talking to her and talking to other people were different matters.
“You could tell her you have to get home and just take the cake with you.”
His chest rose high and fell deep. "Tea n'cake. Won't be hearin' any of this angel shit, alright?" As though Bronwyn had any control of her grandmother.
“Hey, tell her that. She’s the one who thinks ye’re an angel, no’ me.” Bronwyn was certain that if Sorcha sensed even a little bit of discomfort on Mason’s part, she’d keep her thoughts to herself.
Her thoughts, but none of her regard or affection.
“She made a madeira cake. All the nice boys love a madeira cake.”
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Mason had slowly laid back onto the mattress as she spoke. Hands flat on his stomach as he watched her. Inappropriate to walk in on? Perhaps. He didn't care.
"She's mistakin' me for an angel again."
“You saved her granddaughter. Ye’re always goin’ to be a metaphorical angel to her.” Sorcha would argue that Mason was a literal angel, of course, but so far that had only been in private.
“Let her feed you tea and cake. She has a soft spot for you.”
