‘Fuck the charity. And fuck this whole goddamn castle.’ I keep my hands on her face, forcing her to meet my gaze. ‘I’m taking you home, baby.’
For a moment, she looks like she might argue. I see the fixer trying to reassert control, to do the sensible thing.
Then, a small, exhausted dip of her chin. ‘Okay.’
The relief that washes through me is so intense it almost knocks me off my feet. I keep one arm on her waist as we walk back inside, a line of defence. We rush through the crowd, my hand a firm pressure on her lower back, guiding her in the direction of the exit.
Charlie’s gaze finds us across the room and her smile dies. One glance at Theo’s face and she’s halfway out of her seat. I shake my head. Not now. Brodie registers it too, his gaze narrowing on Theo’s face before flicking to mine. He gives me a short nod. Go.
We don’t stop for coats. We don’t say goodbye.
My girl needs out. So I’m taking her home.
Chapter 15
Theo
There’s a man in my kitchen wearing a tux who’s arranging biscuits into a castle.
This is not a metaphor.
The same man who drove me home from Stirling Castle. The same man who stripped off my heels, unzipped my dress, and helped me into my oversized hoodie without his hands straying once.
I’m watching Leith’s streetlights flicker through the bay window, swaddled in the chunky knit blanket Gran made me when I was a girl, shortly before she passed away. My face is tight from dried tears, but the panic has receded, leaving behind only exhaustion and a hum of comfort in my chest.
Finn just witnessed me detonate. A full, snot-and-tears implosion. And he didn’t back away, didn’t call me dramatic, or try to patch me up with empty phrases. He listened, got me the hell home, and put the damn kettle on.
He moves around my tiny kitchen space with efficiency. His bow tie hangs loose around his neck, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows. The tux trousers hug his thighs as he stretches to reach the biscuit tin I keep on the top shelf. Thighs built for scrums and sin.
‘Want shortbread with your chocolate digestives?’ he asks without turning.
‘Of course.’ My voice wavers a bit. ‘I’m emotionally compromised, so calories don’t count.’
The soft sound of his low laugh fills the quiet flat. Elvis weaves between his ankles, purring like a motorboat.
Wee weirdo.
We didn’t speak on the way back. I stared out the window while Finn drove, his hand occasionally squeezing mine at red lights. No questions or platitudes. Just his presence.
He brings over a mug of hot chocolate topped with mini marshmallows and a plate stacked with biscuits.
‘There. Dig in.’ He plants the plate on the coffee table. ‘Biscuits are a key part of any post-meltdown debrief.’
The care in this simple act cuts right through my defences. He puts it in front of me like it’s no big deal. But it hits somewhere deep, where no one ever bothered to look.
‘Thank you. For getting me home.’
His little finger grazes mine as he passes me my favourite glittery mug. The contact sets off a chain reaction. Something sparks under my skin, like someone lit a match inside my bloodstream.
He sits down beside me. ‘I’d have carried you out over my shoulder if needed.’
‘That would’ve been a dramatic exit.’
‘Aye.’ He dunks a shortbread finger into his hot chocolate. ‘MacGill can rot in hell, by the way.’
I take a sip. ‘You didn’t have to defend me.’
‘More defending basic human decency.’ He scratches the back of his neck.
