“Don’t,” I warn, though I know it’s futile.
“You can’t leave it there.” Liam tries not to smirk. “I’ll sign whatever legal documents you need, but you have to tell us.”
I rarely discuss family matters, but after the week I’ve had . . .
“They called me because they found Bernard dead in front of the television, surrounded by . . .” I pinch the bridge of my nose, already regretting this. “An impressive collection of tissues and lubricant.”
Liam makes a noise like he’s being strangled, and Patrick, the bastard, bursts into outright laughter.
“Hang on.” Patrick sits up, horror battling with fascination on his face. “Are you actually telling me you can wank yourself to death at that age?”
“You get to a certain point,” I mutter, “and you can have a heart attack fromanything.” I pause. “Though, given Bernard’sdedicationto that particular pastime, I suppose the odds weren’t exactly in his favor.”
I eye the decanter. “Whiskey?”
“God, yes,” Liam says.
I pour two generous measures, sliding them across the desk. Some conversations require a stiff drink.
This one might demand the entire bottle.
“Good to see you both,” I say, then turn to Patrick. “How long are you down south?”
“Just a week,” he replies, flashing that familiar, trouble-making grin as he raises his glass.
“The hotel progressing?” I ask, knowing full well it’s been his obsession for months, the build on Skye throwing up more complications than he anticipated.
Patrick exhales. “Slower than I’d like. Apparently, building anything on Skye requires about sixteen different environmental surveys, a sacrifice to the weather gods, and probably a signed letter of permission from the local sheep. But we’ll get there.”
“Has Scotland claimed you permanently then?” I arch an eyebrow. “Or is there hope London might eventually reclaim its prodigal son?”
He smirks. “Hey, I’ve always been a wilderness man. Work drags me to London, but Skye’s got its charms. When it’s not trying to drown you or blow your house into the sea.”
Liam frowns. “Flying helicopters in those conditions—”
“Relax, Mother Hen.” Patrick winks. “Like old Bernard, if I go down, at least I’ll go doing something I love.”
I grimace into my whiskey.
“You need a holiday, Edward. Join Liam and Gemma when they visit.”
Liam scoffs. “You arenotchoppering Gemma, by the way. No way is my partner getting in a death trap with you.”
“Relax,” Patrick says smoothly, swirling his whiskey. “I’ll get you proper transport from Inverness.”
I glance at Liam. “How’s Gemma?”
“She’s . . . good.” Liam’s face softens in that telling way. He’s been almost superstitiously quiet about the pregnancy, asif discussing it might somehow tempt fate. The man actually shed a tear during our last celebratory drinks—a moment I fully intend to weaponize at a later date.
“I appreciate you both making the journey, given your commitments.”
“We know what he meant to you,” Patrick says. “How are you holding up?”
“I’m fine. I’ll miss him, obviously. But grief isn’t exactly a luxury I can afford right now. Too many loose ends to tie up.”
Liam studies me. I know what’s coming before he even says it.
“First funeral since Millie,” he says carefully. “You sure you’re okay?”
