Instead, I just wash my hair.
“You look better,” Marcus approves as I re-emerge, dressed and feeling human again. “Lachlan’s butler? House person? Is there a new way to refer to rich people’s assistants? Anyway, he brought up brunch.”
“I see you started without me,” I note, eyeing the glorious spread. There are freshly baked pastries, omelets, a tray of sliced fruit, three kinds of juice, and a steaming coffee carafe. He’s already plowed through half of the crab omelet and well on his way to demolishing the croissants.
“Start with something greasy,” he approves as I stuff a slice of bacon in my mouth. “Takes the edge off the hangover.”
“Did Lachlan tell you I got hammered?”
Marcus makes a small, refined noise. “You know that when I say ‘drink responsibly,’ I mean just don’t spill it. But honey… youreeked. You were sweating Scotch from every pore. What were you thinking? You’re a wine girl!”
“I wasn’t thinking,” I scowl, tearing the corner off a croissant.
“Anyway, he sent Gregor over this morning to get your stuff and invited me to visit. Cheer you up a little.” Marcus scowls, “Satan’s right-hand man wouldn’t answer any questions, just sat there glaring at me, trying to poison me with his negativity.”
“Don’t lie to me,” I pull the fruit tray closer, “you were hitting on him, weren’t you?”
“If Mt. Everest is right in front of you, you have to climb it,” he shrugs unrepentantly.
I chuckle a little. This feels so nice, sitting with Marcus, having brunch out on Lachlan’s rather spectacular terrace. There are big glazed pots of brilliantly colored flowers and comfortable chaise lounges, where I can picture curling up in one with a book.
How long has it been since I read, just for pleasure?
It doesn’t matter. I have to pop this comfortable little bubble and get back into real life, the one where the King Syndicate has to stabilize our position and quell any concerns our clients might have.
“Ah, I know that pinched expression,” Marcus smirks, “you’re already back in business mode.”
“Uncle Bastard was killed yesterday,” I admit, not mentioning my or Lachlan’s part in that. “I should have been handling this issue last night. There are calls to make to our top clients, a show of strength…”
He’s wearing a sympathetic expression, which I hate. “Shouldn’t Zed be doing that?”
“Well…” I flounder. At no point in our conversation did my brother mention anything about handling the crisis.
Marcus rounds the table, sitting next to me and taking my hand. “You will note that I did not exhibit shock or surprise about the untimely death of Uncle Bastard.” I make a small noise of protest and he ignores me. “You have always done the hard things. If Lachlan has your back, this is a good thing. Now, some people might hold a grudge because he threatened to murder me, but I can rise above that. Besides, I don’t think he would havereallyshot me.”
Remembering the chaos brewing in Lachlan’s black gaze, I’m not so sure.
“All I know is that when I was plucked from my apartment, he referred to me as your ‘emotional support animal’ and had me come over and spend some time with you. That’s the sign of a man who’s not a complete bastard. That’s a man who cares about your well-being.”
“Are you forgetting about the wedding at gunpoint portion of the evening?” I ask, irritated that I’m the only one who seems appalled by this.
“It’s always been my job to show you the bright side of things,” he says primly. “I may not be in the business, but I know enough to be clear that this marriage is happening, whether you wanted it or not. The MacTavish Clan is a big fucking deal, and right now you can use the help.”
“We’ll be just fine,” I snap, and he pats my hand in a way that makes me want to strangle him with this very high-quality linen napkin.
“Why don’t you make some calls?” Marcus soothes, “I brought your laptop. Lachlan said to tell you that he will be here at 7 pm to pick you up. Until then, I’m going to relax on this beautiful terrace, keep you company and maybe order a cocktail from downstairs.” Eyeing my suddenly pale face, he amends, “Maybe not the cocktail.”
***
The internal struggle about following Lachlan’s instructions and being “ready for him” was fierce.
Why should I do anything he wants me to do? Sourly spinning my wedding ring on my finger, I allow my better half - the part with common sense - to convince me that it’s in my best interests to play along. For now.
Right at seven, Lachlan appears in a superbly tailored coal-black suit.
Just like his heart,I think resentfully.
“My bonnie bride,” he croons, kissing my cheek when I turn my face away from his lips, “you look spectacular.”
