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But Ghost didn’t seem to mind, quietly filling the kettle before setting it to boil, those dark eyes watching as John paced the kitchen, one arm flailing about in the air, the other locked tight around his half-melted pint of rocky road.
He told Ghost he was stressed. That the entire MacTavish clan was coming into town, which meant awkward hugs, judgmental stares, and nosy questions from people he hadn’t seen in years. John could handle all of that, he really could.
But what he couldn’t handle was the questions. Why he hadn’t settled down yet, why he didn’t have a nice Scottish girl on his arm.
Why he wasn’t married with a child on the way, because Ethel and James weren’t getting younger, and John was already too old. For fuck’s sake.
“Maybe I don’t want to bring home a wee lass,” John had snapped, voice cracking as he dug his spoon in harder than necessary, a brown, congealed clump of freezer-burned rocky road flying onto the floor. “Maybe I don’t even like women, has anyone considered that?”
And there, in less than twenty words, John had completely outed himself.