Page 75 of Bonetide

But at least he bakes a damn good bread.

He clears his throat when he’s done and his plate is pushed away.

“I would keep you here today,” he begins quietly.

“Oh?” I finish the rest of my tea and the thick dregs of sugar at the bottom. I can’t help but feel disappointed because it sounds like he’s asking me to leave. “Why don’t you? I have no plans.”

“Because if I keep you today, perhaps you won’t come back tomorrow.”

I frown, not sure what he means by that. Then again, what else is new with Mr. Cryptic?

He takes my hand across the table, he turns it palm up in his, and kisses the inside of my wrist.

“Foxglove?”

“Yes.”

“Walk down to the gateway with me.”

And I guess that’s my cue that I need to get going.

I head back upstairs and get dressed while he does the dishes. I get changed into the outfit I wore yesterday, then run my fingers through my hair in the small mirror in the ornate stone bathroom—complete with normal plumbing, thank god. I look older somehow, still as fresh and alive as the other day, but there’s something about my reflection that reflects a maturity I don’t think I’ll ever feel.

When I’m done, he’s waiting at the bottom of the narrow staircase and offers me his arm in the old-fashioned way and I take it, pretending for a moment that I’m in an episode of Bridgerton. In this place, with this distinguished, old-fashioned man holding on to me, it’s not hard at all.

He walks me through the front hall, then across the courtyard. The foxgloves are still standing in the joints of the stones. The wild roses have gone over, the petals dropping in the gravel. The hawthorn in the window arch is heavy with red berries now, hard and dark.

We come through the gateway and he stops. He turns me to him and holds both my hands in his, strong-fingered and cool.

“I want you to know something before we go any further,” he says, choosing his words carefully. “It’s very, very important.”

I wait.

“When this happens between us—when you let me have all of you—things will change.”

“What do you mean? What this? What change?”

“This. When you let me have all of you, the version of me you fall asleep next to won’t be the version you wake up to. Do you understand?”

I look at him and do my best not to smile. He’s always been a very serious man but now he looks positively grave.

“Alasdair…” I begin. “Most women have heard this before, in less interesting accents. I’m not naive, I know what this is. It’s just sex. I’m not asking you to be soft for me forever. You can be…whoever you want to be. Whoever you are.”

He looks at me for a long second.

I go on. “And I’m not going to freak out on you after. We can just keep this as it is. I promise I won’t turn into a stage five clinger.”

His brows knit together. “A stage five clinger?”

“You’ve never seen Wedding Crashers?”

From the continued puzzlement on his face, I’m gonna say no.

“What I’m saying,” I continue, trying not to laugh, “is I don’t need the warning. I appreciate it; that’s more than most people get. But I know what I’m getting into.”

A strange look passes over his face for a moment, almost like…grief.

Then he nods.