“Exactly.” I’m trying to shove down a cautious bloom of excitement. Mason actually volunteered information about himself. “So, if your mom lived in Nova Scotia, how did she end up with your dad?”
“She mistakenly tried to hire my father as an assassin.” I can tell he finds this hilarious.
“Oh, my god! What happened?”
“Well,” he shrugs, “he liked her, so he went ahead and did the job.”
“Wow…” I’m not sure how to respond. “Was this considered romantic?”
“It sure as hell was for Dad. I suspect my mother took some convincing.”
“That’s quite a story. How long have they been together?”
“Almost thirty years,” he says. “I came first, then my twin sisters, Edin and Eilidh.”
“I remember meeting them at the reception.” Sort of. “They seemed really sweet.”
Chuckling, he says, “They’ll be happy to tell you all the worst things about me. Any of the female cousins will. It’s their specialty.”
This reminds me of his comment to throw me to the female cousins to, ‘keep me busy,’ and I fall silent, trying to hold on to the good parts of today.
A server clears away the remains of our lunch as Jacques approaches the table.
“I remember you mourning our untouched wedding cake,” Mason says.
“Oh? I don’t see how I can eat another bite.”
This certainty disappears the instant Jacques reverently places a silver cake stand in front of me, pulling off the dome with a flourish.
“Chocolate sponge cake with raspberry glaze, vanilla custard and as requested, a marzipan top.”
“Wow… Jacques, thank you. This is even prettier than the one at our reception.” I take the plate he hands me with an enormous piece of cake, digging my fork in. “This has to taste better than that cake,” I sigh rapturously, “because I do not think I willeverput anything more delicious in my mouth.”
“Don’t be so sure,” Mason murmurs, but I ignore him. He takes three polite bites of the cake and watches me finish a second piece. I should be embarrassed at taking seconds, Dad would have something snide to say right now. But my husband seems to enjoy watchingmeenjoy the cake, he’s smiling slightly and switches to a glass of Jameson.
Rising with a groan, I try to walk off the marzipan masterpiece I just consumed. “So, this is your yacht?” I ask, wandering around the deck, admiring all the high-tech speakers and the retracting roof.
Mason leans back in his chair, watching me. “It’s registered under the Developmental Finance Division of MacTavish International.”
I roll my eyes. “So, it’s yours.”
“If you keep rolling your eyes like that, I’m going to have to consider some correction.”
How could he know? I had my sunglasses on.Wait.What?
“Correction?You do remember that I’m not a pet, even though you treat me like one?” Shit. I’ve snapped and now things are just tumbling out of my mouth. “Correction? Like slapping me on the nose with a rolled-up newspaper? Because that isnever-”
He moves from relaxed and lounging to a blur, wrapping his arms around me and taking his seat again, holding me down calmlyas I kick and thrash for a while longer until I’m still,angrily panting and feeling like all that cake and champagne might have been a bad idea.
“We’ve hit a trigger, I see.” His mouth is right next to my ears, lips moving against my cheek and he’s got a grip on me that I can’t shake loose. “Tell me why.”
“There’s nothing to say,” I grit my teeth. “You got what you wanted, well, what the familyrequired, so all of this?” I wave my hand at the beautiful sunset and the cake and the yacht, “It's not necessary.” I try to squirm loose again but his arms tighten.
“Something changed the day after we slept together.” His voice is calm and matter of fact, like we’re talking about the weather. “Do you regret losing your virginity?”
I lean back to glare at him. “I’m not a 19th century Victorian maiden. No, my virginity was only important to my father and you.”
Mason shrugs. Heshrugs.“You being a virgin or not was immaterial to me. But I did want your first time to be good.”
