“Whatever happens in the next few hours, you’re with me. You have nothing to prove.”
A small smile curves my lips. “I guess it’s time to see if the teacher was a good student.”
He barks out a laugh before cupping his hand around the back of my head and pulling me close for a quick, but thorough, kiss. “You ready?”
“I just—I can’t believe I’m here.”
“I can’t picture you anywhere else.”
I look at him, really look at him. I study the familiar laugh lines around his bright blue eyes. The intelligence, determination, and steadfastness I’ve grown to lean on in the last year. The man who makes me feel braver just by being near. “Charlie?—”
“What is it, my coo?”
A grin spreads across my face at his pet name for me. “We’re about to step into your world and it could change everything.”
His craggy face softens. “You already changed mine.”
It’s that little burst of love that releases me from my fears. I press my lips against his before pulling back and reaching for the door handle. “Let’s do this.”
I push open the door, nerves humming. I swear I feel his gaze on my back. I should have looked. If I had, I would have recognized the expression on his face—the same one he wore the very first moment he saw me.
The day everything changed for him—before I even knew his name was Charlie Henderson.
CHAPTER TWO
PRESENT
By midnight,it’s a guarantee someone’s going to ask if I’m about to get married again. For the first time since my life became entwined with the extended Freeman family, I’m not certain of the answer. After all, when you’ve struck out not once, not twice, but five damn times, the idea of promising “’til death do us part” feels less like romance and more like tempting fate.
But that doesn’t mean I’ve stopped believing in love. Hell, you don’t get married five times if you don’t have at least a little optimism. But after number five, I stopped trusting in any kind that didn’t involve the men, women, and children I consider my extended family.
After all, betrayal, the likes of which I recovered from, is difficult to forget.
I was content to remain a bachelor for the rest of my days—the badass, overprotective uncle. The benevolent great uncle. It was simpler to stand watch over the people who mattered the most than invite anyone close enough to do real damage.
There’s just one thing I never factored on—meeting historian Rhoswen Campbell, when I took a trip to Scotland to see where my ancestors were from. Oh, my ancestors tried to rise from their graves when she introduced herself on the tour bus.
Then, at the site of the Massacre of Glencoe—where my ancestors were slaughtered by a branch of hers—I found myself whipping out my multi-tool to help her dig up a rock as a souvenir.
I should have known then I was a goner.
Instead of listening to the tour guide prattle on, I tuned him out. Rhoswen entranced me with details about Scotland I’d never find in history books such as which glens were rumored to be haunted, which lochs were safe to swim in—and after the tour, I’d never dip a toe in Loch Ness, and which villages treated strangers like kin—as long as you didn’t botch their slang.
But what the tour wouldn’t be able to tell me, that Rhoswen showed me, was how the mist along the Highlands wouldn’t just become something to reminisce about as weather but a precious memory. Every time I recalled it, I’d remember the way the dew clung to the ancient walls of Stirling Castle as well as the dark waves of her hair.
I’ll never forget the way she made me spew out my whisky tasting at Glenturret Distillery—which claims to be the oldest inScotland. Granted, I had good reason after Rhoswen murmured into her own glass that, “A castle isn’t considered proper unless it has confirmed sightings of at least three ghosts, two scandalous love affairs, and one sheep with a grudge from being upstaged by a “hairy coo.”
Every time she drops the Scottish abbreviation for a Highland Cow with her proper New England accent, a grin tries to break free.
I knew my heart was falling over the Edinburgh Castle walls when she convinced me to try haggis, mashed potatoes, and needs—a combination of turnips and rutabaga—at Makars Mash Bar.
But it was when we arrived at the airport that I felt the immediacy of loss. I couldn’t imagine never being able to follow her through a field of heather ever again. After all, it takes more than just a pretty face to have me tramp through a cemetery to discover Arria—Angel of the Nauld.
It takes someone who might be worth risking my battered heart. Still, despite being late for the post New Years get together with my extended family, I can’t help but recall that pivotal moment at the Edinburgh airport. Staring into her fathomless dark eyes, I’m beyond grateful I dug down one last time for the bravery that kept me alive for years as a former SEAL.
I blurt out, “I want to see you again.”
“When?” Her voice holds much the same distress as when she realized I was not willing to cause an international scandal by smuggling a cow from Scotland into the United States for her. Still, I’m touched that her anguish is worse than when she realized Clan Henderson of Glencoe is related to the longago Clan MacDonald—the very ones her ancestors tried to eradicate.
