“Maybe.”
“Poor lass,” he says gently. “Why don’t you get some rest?”
“Alright, I’ll rest.” I yawn widely and think to myself it isn’t possible for me to actually sleep, not when I’ve got so much weighing on my mind and heart. It surprises me, then, when I wake a while later with Mac shaking my shoulder.
“We’re home.”
Why does that make me feel so sick to my stomach?Home.
“We’re home, darlin’,” he repeats softly, as if he doesn’t want to speak too loudly and rouse me from sleep. “I hated to wake you, you slept so soundly.”
I yawn and stretch. “I’m surprised I fell asleep. I thought I’d be too wired.”
“Wired? You’re knackered, love.”
He doesn’t know, of course. Maybe I fell asleep just for a chance to forget it all for a little while, to pretend I don’t have to make the hardest decision of my life.
What’s the brave choice here? What would someone who truly loves another do in this situation?
Telling him is a selfish choice. It puts the onus of decision on him, and I can’t do that. It would guarantee war with our clans, and could I ever forgive myself if one of his brothers—or, God forbid, Mac himself—was hurt because of me?
Though I long to tell him the truth, to beg him to run away with me, it’s the selfish choice. If he feels about me the way I do about him—and something tells me he does—I couldn’t live with the result.
Running is the cowardly choice.
If I leave him… and go home without fulfilling the obligation and promise I made to my father… I'll end up wed to my father’s friend’s son. My stomach flips.
My thoughts go to deeper, darker options, ones I don’t even like to entertain. It seems so hopeless, though.
“You still feeling poorly, darlin’?” Mac asks. Tears prick my eyes at the concern in his voice.
I nod dumbly, unable to trust myself to speak. If I do, I’m apt to cry.
“Aw, lassie,” he says, reaching to give me a hug. “C’mere.”
When he embraces me, I swallow hard so I don’t cry. His familiar scent, so strong, so masculine, makes me sigh. I hate what this has come to.
His bags are already packed, and the car waits to take him to the airport.
“Please take me,” I say, but I don’t push hard. I want to go with him, but if I do…
Mac’s eyes look stern, his jaw firm, and it makes me wonder if he suspects something.
“Are you okay?” I ask him. I long for the time we spent together that was carefree, when he looked at me with tenderness.
“Aye, lass,” he says, reaching for my hand and giving me a little squeeze. “Just a lot on my mind is all.”
He must think me ridiculously insecure, asking him all these questions.
I wish I could believe what he tells me.
“I’ve never been to Paris,” I say softly. “Please, Mac. Take me?”
“I wish it didn’t have to be so rushed,” he says with a sigh. “I’d take you to all the places you want to go. We’d do every touristy thing from the Louvre to the Eiffel Tower.”
“Do you speak French?” I ask.
“Oui, je le parle assez bien.”
