“It’s fine, Patrick.” Her voice was neutral. “Work comes first. I understand that better than anyone.”
“Theresa—”
“Really, it’s fine. Rome has a soccer game on Saturday anyway, so this works better.”
She was lying. I could hear it in the subtle shift in her voice, the way she was already building walls. After everything we’d shared last night, I was pulling away, choosing work over her.
“I don’t want to go,” I said, the words tumbling out. “But Malcolm Hendricks—he’s one of our founding investors. If the consortium pulls funding, MIRI Scotland could collapse entirely. There are fifty researchers depending on that facility, clinical trials in progress?—”
“You don’t have to explain.” Her tone softened. “I know what it’s like to have responsibilities pulling you in different directions. Just... be safe, okay?”
“I will. And Theresa? This doesn’t change anything. What we talked about this morning, what we want?—”
“I know,” she said. “Go take care of your company business, Patrick. We’ll be here when you get back.”
After we hung up, I slumped in my chair. Six months ago, my life had been simple. Devastating, but simple. I had my grief, my work, my children, all contained in the stone walls of Eidheann Castle. Now I was spread across an ocean, trying to build something new while maintaining everything old, and failing at both.
Chapter
Eighteen
THERESA
Patrick’s handson my bare skin, his mouth against my neck. The hotel room dark except for city lights through the curtains. He said my name in that sexy accent, and I pulled him closer, not thinking about anything except?—
“Mom! The toast is burning!”
Austin’s voice cut through the memory I’ve been replaying in my mind all week. I blinked. Smoke poured from the toaster, filling the kitchen with the smell of burnt bread.
“Shit.” I lunged for the cancel button. Two blackened rectangles popped up, trailing smoke.
My face went hot—not from the toaster, but because I’d been standing here at six in the morning, reliving San Francisco.
“That’s the third time this week,” Austin said. His backpack was already on his shoulder, his expression pure judgment. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, sweetie.” I tossed the toast into the sink where it landed with a sad thud. “Just distracted.”
Patrick had been gone for four days. I couldn’t stop thinking about the hotel. About his hands, his voice, how his skin felt, warm and slick against mine.
I shook my head. It was six in the morning. My kids needed breakfast, not a mother lost in inappropriate memories.
“I’ll make more,” I said, dropping fresh slices into the toaster. “Can you pour juice for everyone? They’ll be down soon.”
Austin nodded and moved to the refrigerator with his usual efficiency. Sometimes I worried about him—this tiny adult in a child’s body, taking on responsibilities no eight-year-old should bear. But this morning, I was grateful.
I leaned against the counter, watching Austin fill four plastic cups with orange juice. The kitchen window showed only darkness and our reflection—mother and son, going through the motions.
Patrick would be awake now. With the eight-hour time difference, it was early afternoon in Edinburgh. I pictured him in a meeting somewhere, dealing with whatever crisis had pulled him across an ocean.
We’d agreed not to call while he was gone. “It’ll be easier that way,” he’d said. “I’ll be working around the clock, and you’ll be busy with the MacLeod deal.” I’d nodded, swallowing my disappointment. It was the responsible choice. The adult choice.
But standing there, watching smoke clear, I regretted our agreement. I wanted to call him. Just to hear his voice.
“Mom, the toast is burning. Again.”
Austin’s voice was sharper now. I spun toward the toaster where, impossibly, another set of bread slices had turned to charcoal.
“Oh, for—” I bit back the curse as the smoke detector joined in, its wail filling the kitchen. “Austin, can you open the back door?”
