In which Scarlett is handling this pretty well.
Wallace…
“I feel like I’m handling this pretty well.”
My lass looks a wee bit like she got hit on the back of her head with a cricket bat. That happened to me once during college, I remember the expression; the wide eyes, skin pale.
Leading her out of the meeting room, I take her up a set of stone stairs to the Inner Sanctum Suite at the Witchery. She stops at the suite’s door, boasting an enormous gold door knocker with a snarling lion’s head. She eyes it suspiciously.
“If we knock on this, I’m pretty sure we’ll transform into Jacob Marley, come to haunt Ebenezer Scrooge.”
That surprises a laugh out of me. I realize Scarlett’s made me laugh more in two days than I have for… I’m not sure.
“You’ve entered the Witchery,” I intone in a dark voice. “Time has no meaning here.”
“You’d make an excellent Ghost Tour guide,” she says dryly, “though I’m sure they’d have to let you go after the first five or six unexplained fires.”
“I create fire for a job, not for kicks.”
Well, now, at any rate, I think.
The Inner Sanctum is my favorite suite at the Witchery. Dark, blood red walls interspersed with those covered with fine wool in a good Scottish tartan. The main room has elaborate iron scrollwork and an excellent fireplace, a good deep one that can hold a lot of wood.
Scarlett looks at me meaningfully.
“Have a look at the bedroom, then,” I grin.
The butler left an ice bucket with two bottles of champagne. I pull one out and examine it. I’m not sure which direction this night will take.
“Hey, just so you can sleep easy,” she calls from the bedroom, “there’s another huge fireplace in here.”
“Aye, I’m aware," I call back, taking off my jacket.
“Oh, you’ve been here before?” She’s standing in the doorway, her brows drawn together.
Ach. She thinks this is my fuck palace.
“Alone,” I clarify. “I’ve been here alone, a couple of times when I was too tired to drive home.”
“Well, that’s good.” She’s looking anywhere but at me.
Popping the cork on the champagne, I wince internally as she jumps half a foot before leaning against the couch, attempting to look composed.
“I’m drinking this one with ye because I’m a gentleman,” I say, handing her a crystal flute. “Then ye can finish off the bottle and I’m going back to scotch.”
Her hand shakes slightly as she takes it, her fingertips brushing mine.
“I can’t- I can’t do this,” she says, gulping down the champagne like it’s spring water.
“Which part, lass?” I know which part. Stripping down. Baring herself to me. Giving up too much in one day.
“This…” she swings her hand out to indicate the entire room, what’s left in her champagne glass spraying out onto the rug.
“Oh, crap. That’s going to stain, I-”
“Nae worries, you’re not cleaning the rug and it’s not going to stain.” I take her hands as they wave frantically, like she’s conducting an invisible orchestra. “You’re not back home in Beacon Hill, cleaning up after your shite-stain of a stepfamily. You’re a MacTavish and a Taylor and you’re nobody’s servant.”
“It’s been two days, Wallace.” She’s looking everywhere but at me. “I don’t know you, not really although it seems like you and the Chieftain know all about me.”
