His shoulders shake with a silent chuckle, his broad chest brushing against my back. “Since this wedding was a surprise, I’m assuming you didn’t get to select this dress.”
“No.” I can feel the cool air on my skin as he unbuttons me, the fabric falling open bit by bit. “This dress is something that could only be created if a Southern belle met a Las Vegas hooker and they decided to have a fashion victim baby together. I’mbetting that this is the dark work of Mimi, professional wedding planner.”
This time, he laughs out loud, looking a bit surprised by it. “I know better than to criticize a woman’s wedding dress, but yes, this doesn’t seem to be your style.”
I cross my arms to hold up the bodice, which is sagging now that he’s halfway finished with the buttons. “We’ve known each other for… what. Twelve hours? What do you think my style is like?”
His fingers slow. “Sleek. Uncomplicated. Elegant. I’m thinking lots of blues and greens in your wardrobe.”
I’ll be damned. He’s correct.
“How could you know that?”
His eyes meet mine in the mirror. “I did see you arriving this morning. Perfectly fitting jeans, ballet flats, a green silk shirt with a navy-blue blazer.”
Laughing, I nod. “Cheater.”
“Merely observant.” He’s unbuttoned me to the last few pearls holding the dress together at the base of my spine, and the cool brush of his fingers makes me shiver. He’s focused on his work, head bent to see the buttons. In the mirror’s reflection, I see the thick fan of his dark lashes over his sculpted cheekbones. This man is almost too pretty to be Mafia.
“Finished.” His hands gently spread my dress wider. “Do you need help getting out of it?” His hands rest on my hips and he looks up, eyes meeting mine in the mirror. Even with heels on, I barely come up to his shoulder.
“I can do it.” He’s too close, the sharp scent of pine and snow, the bulk of his muscled body against mine. “Um, thank you.”
“Of course.” His hands slide from my hips and he smiles briefly as he backs out, closing the door.
***
“Where do you live in Glasgow?”
We were met at the jet by two large, serious-looking men in suits and a black Maserati SUV and now, the car’s gliding through the downtown entertainment district, bars upon bars, boisterous and bright with neon and spotlights stabbing into the night sky.
“In the West End,” he says, attention focused on a text as he rapidly writes out a response.
Mason puts down his phone as we turn onto a street that ends with a cobblestone driveway, blocked by a large black iron gate. There are four houses, two on one side of a large green space, two on the other. They’re facing each other and it surprises me that he’d be comfortable with this kind of closeness.
“I pictured you living in some remote castle in the hills.”
“Really.” The one word instantly makes me nervous as he leans forward. “Something out of a horror movie?”
Meeting his intent jade gaze, I paste a smile on my face. “It’s just… this is a lot of closeness, these four houses being all together. You seem like a man who prefers his privacy.”
“You’d be correct,” he says as the iron gates open. “This was a wise choice, though. Michael - the oldest son of our Chieftain lives next to me. Our cousins Kai and Logan live across the green. Easier to defend, we can combine our security.”
I’m Mafia enough to know that’s a brilliant idea.
The SUV curves around the homes and stops behind a stone Gothic-style house with a tower attached on either side. “This isyours?” I ask as he helps me out of the car, “It’s beautiful, the best one on the block.”
“Thank you darling.” He leans down, whispering in my ear. “Just never say that to my cousins. They’re endlessly competitive.”
“Never,” I agree gravely.
The entryway soars up two stories, our steps echo on the polished parquet floor with an elaborate herringbone pattern. It’s all in masculine colors, the dark grey walls in the living room with heavy, leaded glass windows.
An older woman walks out of the kitchen as he’s guiding me in that direction, wiping her hands on a towel, and beaming at the sight of us. “Ah, the new Mrs. MacTavish, then? Welcome, and many good wishes for your happiness.”
She’s got a thick Scottish brogue and I catch enough of the sentences to piece together what she meant. “Thank you, that’s so kind of you,” I smile warmly. I can use all the friends I can get here.
Brushing back her dark hair, cut into a sensible bob, she nods and smiles back. “I’m Davina, Mr. MacTavish’s housekeeper. I must be on my way, but I’ve left a nice bit of grilled beef from the MacTavish Ranch, asparagus, and neeps and tatties, aye? Ye should have something hearty after wedding food. It’s always tiny and not enough of it.”
