To do list:
1. Get out of this fancy ass gown.
2. Get something to eat.
3. Explore. Well... snoop, if we're being honest.
I’m sitting at the granite island, the thought of eating alone in that majestic dining room is a little depressing. I look at my sad, abbreviated list as I eat a lovely little Scotch pie Davina had left in the fridge. The lamb is tender, and the pie crust is flaky perfection. I wonder if she’ll give me the recipe? Maybe I can do some cooking, now that Michael seems convinced I’m not planning to poison anyone.
After I’ve checked off the first two things on my list, I explore. The great room is my favorite in the house, other than the kitchen. There are glossy, wide-plank wooden floors with deep,leather couches, as well as beautiful side tables and an enormous chest that all look hand-carved. The heavy edges are softened with lots of glossy green plants in colorful pots and an enormous arrangement of flowers on the chest. Everything is taller and wider than typical furniture, scaled for a 6’5 giant and less accommodating for us normal-sized human beings.
I settle down in one of the armchairs, trying to choose between a trashy romance I brought down from my room or navigating the complexities of Michael’s elaborate TV. Glancing out the windows, I see lights turning on in the other three houses on the square, and I imagine the MacTavish women are putting their kids to bed. Are their husbands gone, too? Maybe also trying to handle whatever new disaster that sent Michael out of the house?
Trying not to laugh and failing, I remember him straightening his jacket and glancing irritably down at the rather impressive erection tenting the front of his tuxedo pants. There’s a little surge of power, knowing I did that to him, and that even the mighty Michael MacTavish could not do a damn thing about it.
There’s a phone ringing somewhere down on the ground floor, and it’s mine. I recognize Maisie’s special ringtone, “How You Like That,” I’d assigned it as a tribute to her deep love of Korean girl bands. Following the sound, I stop in front of Michael’s study. My phone’s in there, still ringing, muffled by the closed door. Did he throw it in a desk drawer? Forgotten, like my need to communicate with the outside world? I try the doorknob, already knowing it’s going to be locked.
It is.
My phone goes silent and I rest my forehead against the door, mumbling, “This is bullshit.”
“I’ll say.”
I let out a scream, stumbling back and hitting my head on the opposite wall.
Maisie and Logan’s wife Arabella are standing in the front entryway. “You’re awfully jumpy,” Maisie says disapprovingly. She’s still in her evening gown from the Gala, but Arabella’s changed into a soft-looking sweater and jeans.
“Sorry,” I sag against the wall, rubbing the back of my head. “I wasn’t expecting guests. Do you have a key?”
Arabella’s been watching me closely and smiles, holding up a silver key. “I do. Michael’s always forgetting something and sending one of us across the square to get it for him.”
“Which I dinnae understand,” Maisie says crossly. Both of us automatically orient to Arabella so she can read our lips. She lost the last of her hearing from a degenerative nerve disease shortly after giving birth to Brodie, but her skill with reading lips is uncanny. “The man has an executive assistant. And his assistant has an assistant.”
“The life of a Chieftain in training is a complex one, aye?” Arabella shrugs.
“We dinnae get to see ye at the Gala.” Maisie looks sincerely distressed. “I was bragging on about your gown and ye looking like a movie star.”
Arabella gives me a bit of a wink. “Hmm… seems like ye left in a hurry. Ye two are newlyweds, after all.”
“Oh, god dinnae put that image in my head!” Maisie wails. “Anyway, we’re having a bit of a Hen’s Night over at Arabella’s. Sloan’s there already.”
“Aye,” Arabella says dryly. “Makin’ sure my precious Brodie dinnae find a way to escape his bed and take off into the night. The lad’s a runner, that’s certain.”
“I do have a memory of a certain toddler tearing across the green the other day, roaring triumphantly as Logan ran after him,” I laugh. “Those short little legs can really cover some distance when motivated, huh?”
“Ye have no idea,” she sighs. “Come on, then. Ye dinnae want to knock about this giant house when there’s cocktails and conversation to be had, aye?”
Maisie nods vigorously, and I swallow past the lump in my throat.
“I’d love to.”
One glass of wine turns into two, and we’re all sitting beneath the clock tower on the roof of Logan and Arabella’s house. Underneath the four-sided structure, there’s a big scatter of comfortable wicker furniture. It’s after midnight, but it’s clear I’m not the only one who can’t sleep until the men get home.
Sloan, who’s married to Michael’s cousin Ethan, is telling the story of how he crashed his private jet shortly after kidnapping her. “So, we’re spinning like a worm on a hook, he’s rappelling us down a steep cliff and I’m shooting his insanely heavy gun over my head.” She’s beautiful in an unearthly, fairy princess way, with silver blonde hair and violet blue eyes.
“How did you pull that stunt off with any kind of accuracy?” I ask. I’ve had my wineglass held halfway to my lips, spellbound by her story.
“Please,” she shrugs. “I’m from the U.S. too, remember? The whole, ‘there’s more guns than people’ statistic?”
