“Cocktease.” A group of girls in my Honors Biology class after I turned down the boyfriend of their Queen Bee. You’d think she’d be appreciative, but no.
Jack, Maisie’s twin, heard a conversation about me one day at rugby practice and kicked the shit out of Malcolm Stewart andRoss MacDonnell. That stopped most of the nasty comments until we graduated from secondary school.
When I started college, I tried. I really did. I didn’t want to be the pathetic girl mooning after someone she could never have. It didn’t matter how kind the MacTavishes were to Mom and me. The future Chieftain of the clan was not going to be marrying the housekeeper’s daughter.
Which is why I feel like the ground just disappeared out from under me as our silent car ride takes us into West End, one of the most expensive neighborhoods in Edinburgh and onto a private lane that ends at a cobblestone driveway, blocked by a large black iron gate, it swings open, then shuts behind us with a terrifying finality.
I already know there’s four houses there, two on either side of a green space, facing each other. The other houses belong to Michael’s cousins, Kai and his wife Luna, Mason, who’s married to Afton, and the house with the bell tower belongs to Logan and Arabella.
When Ian pulls up to Michael’s house, he looks in the rearview mirror at us. His face is carefully expressionless, but I know what he’s thinking. Why did Michael save Mom and me? Bymarryingme, of all things?
Sorry, Ian. I don’t know, either.
Michael walks through the downstairs, turning on lights as he goes. It looks the same as I remember, beautifully decorated, plush oriental rugs, wood wainscoting, lots of windows. A little cold and rigidly spotless.
“Are ye hungry?”
The sound of his voice is so abrupt that I jump a little. “No. Thank you,” I add quickly.
He loosens his tie, putting away his phone for the first time since we left the estate. I can vividly remember Mom’s heartbroken expression as she waved goodbye to me, standing in the driveway, flanked by two guards. My eyes sting and I turn away, not wanting Michael to see me cry.
“I’m just tired. Do you mind if I go to bed?”
Oh,god.The wedding night. Was he planning to havesexwith me tonight? Did that just sound like I was hinting at it?
“Follow me.” He could not sound less interested, and I’m alternately relieved and a little insulted. I remember the guest room he offered to Maisie and me the night he rescued us from that godawful party. It’s just past the master bedroom at the end of the hall. He opens that door and nods. “You’ll sleep in here.”
Rubbing my sweaty palms over my leggings, I nod rapidly, stepping into the room. “Okay. Sure. I’ll just… Goodnight.”
He doesn’t bother saying it back, shutting the door in my face. My heart drops into my stomach when I hear the unmistakable sound of a key turning in the lock.
Note to self:
Never fall asleep crying. Ever again.
Oh, mygod.
Apparently, crying yourself to sleep is about the same as getting shitfaced when it comes to giving you a brutal hangover the next morning.
I roll over, burying my face in the pillow. The morning sun is shining aggressively through the tall windows in the room and drilling through my weak and fragile cerebellum. I fell asleepon top of the silky mint green comforter in my clothes. There are mascara stains on the expensive cotton pillowcase and my eyes are puffy. The whole nightmare of yesterday comes flooding back and I put the pillow over my face. Maybe it’s just better to smother myself.
The knock on the door ruins my plans for the moment. “Mrs. MacTavish, are ye awake?” It’s a woman’s voice, light and kind-sounding.
It takes me a full minute and another polite tap on the door to realize whoever is knocking is referring tome.
“Um…” I slither off the tall bed, shoving back my hair. “I’m awake. Give me a moment, please.”
“Not to worry. Take your time.” I hear her unlocking the door and I blush an unattractive brick red, humiliated that whoever this is knows I’m a prisoner. Not to be trusted.
Washing my face, I try to straighten my snarled mass of hair and pull down my sweater. There’s nothing else I can do, so I leave the opulent bathroom and trudge toward the door. Should I open it? Does she have to open it? Whoever it is solves the problem by knocking again.
“May I come in, Mrs. MacTavish?”
“Oh, yes, of course.” Again, it takes me a second to realize she means me.
The woman has a pleasant smile for me, she’s older, maybe late forties, early fifties. She has dark hair, cut in a no-nonsense bob. “I’m Davina, Mr. MacTavish’s housekeeper. I wanted to let ye know that Ian has brought your belongings. If you’d like to come down and have breakfast, he can bring everything up for ye.”
Slowly putting one foot over the threshold and then the other, I stand there for a moment, feeling odd, and out of place. “It’s nice to meet you, Davina. I’m Sophie. Is Michael- Mr. MacTavish here?”
