“I presumed you’d both be running around a field somewhere with a soccer ball.” “A rugby ball,” I correctly quietly. “And we were. We just had to—” “We’re on a condom run,” Gibsie blurted out, much to my horror. And then he went a step further and gestured to her five small kids. “Something your husband obviously doesn’t buy very often.” “Lad,” I hissed, mortified. “I’m sorry about him, miss,” I hurried to say, feeling my face burn. “He doesn’t have a filter.”
