Well, I’d had three glasses of champagne but my stomach had lurched at the thought of food.
“We didn’t even cut our wedding cake!” I blurt, realizing we’d abandoned the reception before I could get a bite of the magnificent six-tiered cake, covered in fresh roses and marzipan.
Mason’s lips twitch slightly. “I’ll get you another cake tomorrow, yes?”
It looks like Martin’s trying to smother a grin and I nod at him. “You understand. I mean, it’s cake.”
“Absolutely, Mrs. MacTavish,” he says firmly, “you dinnae just abandon a perfectly good cake.”
I like this man already.
The jet’s covered in walnut paneling with six dark grey leather seats facing each other and a low table between them. It’s already set with a crisp white tablecloth, a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket, glasses, and a crystal bowl of strawberries. Beyond that, there’s two long, comfortable looking couches and a polished door leading to what I assume is the bedroom.
“I thought you might like a toast before we take off,” Martin says as Mason puts me down in one of the seats.
“Why don’t you pour Mrs. MacTavish a glass,” he says. “I need to speak with the pilot.”
He keeps referring to me as Mrs. MacTavish, as if he likes the sound of it, shaping his words precisely. I want to protest and ask Martin to just call me Afton, but maybe I like how it sounds, too.
Mason’s not back by the time we take off, and I press my nose against the window, watching the lights of Seattle fade and disappear in the clouds as we fly away.
Chapter Six
In which there are new beginnings and neeps and tatties.
Afton…
“Darling. We’re close. Would you like to change?”
Mason’s crouching next to my seat as I open my eyes, his hand on mine. “I’m sorry.” I sit up abruptly, subtly touching my face to make sure there aren't any drool marks. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”
He shrugs. “Well, it has been a long and eventful day.”
I let out an awkward chuckle and nod. “This is true.”
“Your luggage is back in the bedroom,” he says. “Why don’t you change and freshen up?”
I must have missed a couple of drool marks.
Once in the bedroom and then the surprisingly roomy attached bathroom, I groan when I see my reflection. Yep. The raccoon eyes, mascara dripping down my face, lipstick smeared across my cheek. No surprise that he didn’t try to lure me into the bedroom for something more salacious than “freshening up.”
A surge of relief hits me. I never thought I’d be grateful to wake up to a face full of makeup more resembling a half-melted clown. I know Mason’s within his rights – at least in our world - to insist on sex, but I’m certainly glad he seems to have some common decency.
After pulling out some jeans and a sweater, I find my next problem. I can’t unbutton myself out of this godawful, overly complicated wedding dress. The only flight attendant is Martin. It seems unlikely that I can search downtown Glasgow when we land, looking for a nice, motherly-looking lady.
Which leaves me one choice.
“Mason?” I call. “Could you come give me a… uh… hand?” Wincing, I wonder if that sounds like an invitation. He appears almost instantly and I add, “With my dress? There’s a lot of buttons.”
He arches one elegant brow and nods, walking into the bathroom and gently turning me to face the mirror. “It would be easier to get you out of this thing with a blowtorch or a chainsaw, but I think we’ll go the old-fashioned route.”
And the stupidest possible thing comes out of my mouth.
“You say that like you’ve used a chainsaw and a blowtorch before.”
He’s still focused on my buttons, his cool fingers beginning at the base of my neck. This close, he smells sharp and clear. Like pine trees and snow. “A gentleman never tells,” he finally says.
“That sounds even worse, I have to be honest with you.”
