Good Morning, Miss Australia [Rumbelle]

Epilogue

                    Dream-like specks of dust languidly flowed in the sunlight streaming through the window of the untidy workshop and around the man sitting at the workbench in a three-piece. They lent an ethereal quality to him as he was repairing a chipped cup, making use of the last natural light of the day. His slender hands worked unhurriedly, his slight eyebrows somewhat furrowed in concentration, the light casting a warm glow on his roguish, half-long hair. In about ten minutes the sun would disappear, and it would be time to pick up his son from football training.

With a content smile softening his sharp features he picked up the porcelain piece and lifted the cup. Carefully he moved to bring the chipped piece to the cup's edge and –

"Good morning, sleepy head."

A tender voice tinged with tones of playfulness ripped through his resolve. Although the sound was barely more than a whisper his heart leapt up and the clear Australian accent ringing through forced precision to flee from his hands. Instead, a wonderful, ridiculous feeling of longing coursed through him.

His gaze trailed to the window and with a deep intake of breath he bowed over his workbench and again lifted the shard of porcelain.

"Dreaming about taking inventory again, Mr. Scotsman?"

His eyes flew open and immediately he noticed that the sunlight hitting his eyes was in fact the morning sun peeking through the curtains of his bedroom.

He turned his head. The lovely face of Belle, framed by masses of unruly curls smiling down on him, came into view. She was propped up on one side and used her free hand to tuck a stray strand of hair behind his ear. All at once, his heart threatened to burst from his chest.

"Good Morning, Miss Australia," he whispered, his voice still hoarse from sleep. Like every morning since she'd moved in with him and Bae, he was overwhelmed by the realization that she was actually here with him, waking up next to him. Gone was the tinny quality of her voice over the phone and the frustrating distance between them. Instead, he drowned in her brilliant blue eyes looking down on him with such love that he could barely believe it and he lifted his hand – this time not to mend a chipped cup but to pull her in.

"If you must know," he purred softly. "I was trying to repair that chipped cup from the French tea set."

"Oh, you mustn't do that," Belle sighed, her blue eyes fixed on his lips and it sent a tingling sensation through his stomach. "I love that it's chipped. I think it's charming."

Amused, he lifted an eyebrow. "Did you read that in one of those antiques and collectibles magazines you have at the library?"

"Perhaps," she whispered. "Or maybe I just like it because a certain Scotsman dropped it on the floor the first time he served me tea."

He snorted but refrained from commenting. Instead, he cradled Belle's head with his hands. The movement set her blue eyes ablaze and he pulled her in.

Just before his lips were about to touch hers, he paused and asked in a low voice, "How does Mrs. Scotsman sound to you?"

It was something he'd wanted to ask her for a while now, but had been breaking his head about the right way to go about it. But this beautiful morning erased all fuzz from his brain and before he knew it the words spilled from his mouth, naturally and without prior preparation.

Her smile broadened and she rested her forehead against his. "I think it has a nice ring to it."

"Then let's make it so," he whispered and kissed her in the most tender of caresses, reveling in the feeling of her mouth moving over his in response. He parted his lips against hers and his heartbeat picked up pace when she welcomed him, her curls falling in a curtain around them, smelling faintly of flowers.