"Oh, aye," Robb agreed, his toes wriggling deep into the warm sand too. "I'd not had duck that tasty since I lived on Arran, and Mum would pull out all the stops for a client."
Marjatta was a fair whiz in the kitchen, especially on all the appropriate church and secular holidays and when his parent's entertained potential investors and other business-minded folk. Getting a business off the ground and keeping it afloat was always tricky, and he recalled with fondness all those late night suppers when he'd been scooted off to bed after pudding so the grownups could 'talk shop.' Mum had always put on her widest smile while serving, perfect hostess an even more perfect compliment to the food, gaining praise that spread throughout the village. Scots were a practical, clever lot in that sense, spinning straw into gold and making something brilliant out of whatever they had available. The table at the McLellan house had never been meager, even the lean months, after the brewery and his father had been taken away.
Robb had been thinking often of his Dad these days, both sad and sorry that Jon wouldn’t have a chance to meet him. The two shaking hands then promptly huddling together in a corner to discuss finite points of this band or that musical chord or another and a plethora of other things seldom afforded between Jon and his own highborn, distant sire.
There had never been any sort of distance between Kenneth and Robb, and tonight he felt the loss acutely, wishing he could conjure him up - if only for a moment or three - so dear old Dad might look upon the match and give his approval.
Although, he reckoned he shouldn't be ruminating on what would never, ever be in this lifetime and instead refocus his attention back on the completely delectable man shirtless and sprawled beside him on brightly-patterned towel.
Smiling with great affection, Robb leaned in to give a long, wine-flavored kiss.
"Tell me your favorite thing you've done or seen today..."