“Just Davina please,” she smiles modestly, “and I’m so happy you’re enjoying it. I’ll be downstairs if ye two need anything, aye?”
The air feels charged as she leaves the room and me alone with Mason. I’m reminded that I’m not wearing makeup and that my hair looks a lot like an angry badger’s.
“How did you sleep?” Mason takes the chair Davina vacated, looking me over.
“Your bed is very comfortable.” This reminds me that he never came back last night. “Where did you sleep?”
Smooth, Afton. You don’t sound needy at all.
He straightens his cuffs. “I had some things to catch up on, but I slept in my office for a couple of hours.”
“You must be exhausted. And now you’re dressed and ready to go back to work?”
He shakes his head, giving me a gorgeous smile. “No, I’ve already been in. There were a couple of meetings I needed to take, but I am back and prepared to devote the rest of the day to you.”
My hand’s frozen halfway to my mouth, the piece of toast forgotten. “Really? I’d just assumed you’d be back behind your desk for good. I know just enough to be clear you’re pretty high up on the MacTavish business side.”
“A week was not enough advance notice to take time away from the business deals I’m negotiating right now, I’m afraid. However, I will take you on a honeymoon soon.”
The weak Glasgow sun is shining on his blonde hair, illuminating his vivid eyes and for a minute, I cannot believe I am married to someone this pretty.
But pretty things are almost always bad for you and I still don’t know who this man really is.
“That’s very thoughtful, Mason. Thank you.” It’s hard to know if he’s truly thoughtful or if he's checking off a list of things he’s put together to soothe my anxiety about being thrown into this marriage.
“As for today, I’ll show you around a bit, take you out to dinner,” he says, rising to his feet. “Why don’t you finish your food and get ready?”
He strolls back out the door and I’m left wrestling with the blankets and this massively heavy tray, trying to get out from under it.
***
“Is there somewhere in particular that you’d like to go?” Mason asks as we leave the house.
“Don’t think I’m weird, okay? I’d really like to see the Glasgow Necropolis.”
He raises an elegant brow. “Really… In the car with you, then.” He helps me into the ubiquitous black SUV, and as he leans in to fasten my seatbelt - a chivalrous, though possessive thing - I inhale. Not quite burying my nose in his neck but he smells good. Like pine and snow again and an undertone of gunpowder. It’s light, but it’s there. Did he shoot someone today? Was that his ‘meeting?’
The tall black and gold gates of the Necropolis open for us as if even inanimate objects bend to Mason’s will. I’ve watched videos about ghost stories and the history of this massive graveyard over the years and I’ve always wanted to explore it. While some people are strolling through like it’s a park, carrying a picnic basket, there’s also a large contingent of would-be ghost hunters loaded down with cameras and other electronic devices. Mason watches them with an unimpressed expression and instructs Vincent to take us into a more remote section.
“It occurs to me,” I say, strolling between tombstones, “that perhaps asking for a tour of the necropolis from a man in your profession might seem weird.”
Mason shrugs, hands in his pockets as he walks with me. “It’s not like I put any of them here.”
Pausing, I lean in slightly. That frosty-gunpowder smell again… “Are you sure of that?”
He looks down at me with the most wicked smile. “Well, not completely.”
I don’t want to end this little moment and it takes me a second to understand why. His smile - devilish though it may be - is genuine. I can see it in his eyes, the tilt of his head. It fits so well on his handsome face that it makes me wonder if this is the first sincere expression I’ve gotten from him.
He breaks the moment, looping my arm through his. “Up ahead is one of my favorites here.” It’s a two-story monument, elaborately carved granite with a statue of a woman curled over the top. “The sculptor was a genius,” he says, running his hand along the carved entry. “Look how her hand droops over the stone.”
“Her expression.” I lean in, “The anguish on her face.” Checking the plaque, I understand why. “She lost all eight of her children to a house fire? That’s heartbreaking.”
“Hmm…” He’s right behind me, one step closer and his broad chest would press against my back. An oddly comforting, solid presence. “She also perished, running back into the inferno to try and save them, even though the part of the mansion where the children slept had already collapsed.”
“Of course. Of course, she did. I would. How could you not? Even if there was the slightest chance I could save my child, I would run into the fire.”
Mason looks down at me with a little frown. “Even though you knew it was essentially suicide?”
