Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 77018 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77018 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
The guards waved the couple in front of us through. Then we stepped up. My heart pounded out a nervous rhythm as I smiled at the two dark-headed men and passed over our tickets. The one on the right took one look at Vance and his kilt, then lifted a thick brow. When he leaned over to his guard buddy and mumbled something in Italian, a nervous sweat broke out on top of my heat sweat.
They kept whispering, nodding, then shrugging as their gazes drifted from each other to Vance’s kilt.
What if they considered it a criminal offense to show up at the Vatican in a kilt? Who was I to say it didn’t violate some little-known rule? I envisioned them slapping cuffs on Vance and hauling him off to an Italian prison in some undisclosed location. Then I imagined myself having to call Wanderlust to try to explain why Vance had been wearing a kilt without blurting out something about Paul, the traveling penis.
The ridiculous scenarios kept rolling through my head, and my anxiety grew like pressure building inside a dormant volcano. The next time both guards glanced at Vance, the cork on my anxiety bottle popped.
“It’s his heritage!” I blurted. “And he’s proud of it!”
Vance groaned. Then ever so gently nudged my ribs. “Blake...”
But the word vomit had already started, and there was no stopping it until those men let us through.
“Just so you know,” I said, quelling the tremor in my voice as I lifted my chin. “I’m a journalist, and I’d really hate to report on how anti-Scottish you guys are if you deny him entrance. It would be a shame. Headline news in the United States—” Inhaling a quick breath, I waved a hand through the air—“‘Vatican Denies Kilted Man Entrance.’ And, for your information, when you’re as Scottish as he is—and trust me, he’s so Scottish he bleeds scotch—it’s anti-Scottish to wear anything but a kilt into religious places.” At the very least, I’d said that last bit with such a serious tone that I made myself question whether there was some secret Scottish code about kilts and sacred places.
Vance latched onto my arm, probably with the hope it would shut me up. But, since we hadn’t gained entrance during my point two moments of silence, I felt the need to lay it thick.
“This man,” I thumbed over at Vance, “is a descendant of William Wallace. You know who that is? Braveheart. That’s right, Braveheart! How are you going to tell William Wallace’s great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandson he can’t honor him by wearing a kilt into the Vatican?” I bent at the waist to tug on the tartan fabric. “It’s below his knees. I didn’t see a sign out there signaling kilts are against the rules. And I don’t think a man in a skirt—”
“Signora!”
I jumped when guard number one interrupted my speech.
“Please, just go ahead.” Then he waved us through, kilt and all!
A sense of pride swelled in my chest as I followed Vance through the entrance.
He glanced down at me. Brow cocked in either slight amusement or possibly annoyance. Whichever expression it was, he looked sexy giving it.
“William Wallace’s great-great-great-great-great-great-grandson?” Vance said as soon as we were out of earshot.
“I’m pretty sure I put a few more greats in there for emphasis.”
Fighting a smile, he shook his head. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Oh, I’m ridiculous? Pot meet kettle…”
He grabbed my hand, threading his fingers through mine. “You are the textbook definition of ridiculous, babe.”
My attention went straight to the brightly colored frescoes on the wall. Babe? A term of endearment vague enough that it could just be a little more than friendly but also vague enough that it could be a lot more than friendly.
“And, just so you know,” he said. “William Wallace didn’t wear a kilt.”
“Mel Gibson most certainly did wear a kilt in the movie.”
“Mel Gibson isn’t the real William Wallace, and the movie isn’t historically accurate. One—” he held up a finger, “he wasn’t a Highlander, and two, the invention of kilts hadn’t happened yet.”
They had filmed Talladega Nights mostly in North Carolina. Snuffleupagus wasn’t just a mere puppet. William Wallace didn’t wear a kilt.
“How much more random information do you know that’s going to ruin every truth I want to believe?” I asked.
“I can ruin all of them.”
Thirty minutes into the museum tour, I felt traumatized. The worst fact Vance had spouted off was that lions usually only live fifteen years in the wild, which would mean, if Simba from the Lion King were real, he would have died in 2009.
“Why would you tell me that?” I asked, following the signs pointing toward the famous chapel.
“You’re more upset over Simba than the fact that the voice actress of Lilo in Lilo and Stitch also played that creepy girl in The Ring?”
“Simba’s dead, Vance!”
“Simba wasn’t real.”