Chapter 2
After a fifth of whisky, Malcolm’s blood was swimming. Or maybe that was his head. He wasn’t entirely sure, but he definitely recognized the clear attraction he felt to this numbing sensation. The pain that was his constant companion had gone quiet. Even through the haze of alcohol, he understood that this was how he’d fallen into the bottle all those years ago. Trying to escape down the rabbit hole. Through the looking glass. Or something.
He eyed his empty glass and picked up the bottle to pour another. When only a single drop rolled out, he closed one eye and squinted into the narrow neck, as if that would explain what had happened to the whisky. Neither the glass nor the bottle was refilling itself. Before he could decide what to do about that, someone knocked on the door.
Malcolm recognized he wasn’t in fit condition to handle anything, but as he was the estate manager, whatever it was fell to him anyway, so he pushed himself to unsteady feet and stumbled to the door. He really hoped nobody had gone off into a ditch and needed their vehicle pulled out with one of the 4x4s or the tractor.
Charlotte stood on the stoop, the faint glow of the exterior light by her own door casting a small halo over her dark hair. She looked like some kind of angel, which put Malcolm’s back up.
“Why are you here?”
As usual, she didn’t even flinch at his impersonation of a bear. “I noticed you left the party early, so I came to check on you.”
He scowled. He didn’t need anything from this woman who made him want things he couldn’t have. “Why would you do that?”
On a shrug, she lifted something. “I thought you might like to have a drink with me.”
His gaze tracked the squat bottle in her hand. The liquid inside was paler than the whisky he’d been drinking, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. If the gods wanted to gift him this ready supply, he shouldn’t turn it away.
A very quiet voice in the back of his mind shouted that this was a terrible idea because he had no business drinking any more, regardless. Plus, he didn’t actually like this woman.
But she was so bonnie, and she smelled nice, and that southern drawl did things to him, so he found himself stepping back to allow her inside.
She walked over to the coffee table, where he’d left his glass and empty whisky bottle. Without comment, she dropped onto the sofa—the only place to sit in the tiny lounge—and poured them each a glass. Look at her, being all prepared. She’d brought one for each of them!
Setting the bottle down with a thump, she held one of the glasses out to him.
Concentrating very hard on walking, because the floor seemed to pitch a little with every step, he crossed to her and took it.
Charlotte lifted her own. “Salud.”
“Slainte.”
They both tossed back the contents.
Malcolm wheezed a cough as the liquid fire hit his chest. “What the bloody hell is this?”
“Tequila.”
Definitely not his normal drink. Not that he had a normal drink anymore. He seldom had more than a pint at the pub, and that no more than once a month. But tonight was about breaking all his rules, so he’d embrace the chaos.
With that in mind, he let himself look at her, drinking in all that thick hair, those lush curves. And even through the film of alcohol, he registered the sadness. Without his defenses in the way, he recognized that this was not the normal, bubbly Charlotte he was accustomed to. Right in this moment, there was no bright, happy mask in place, just the pain underneath. He saw it in her as clearly as he felt it in himself, and he found he hated the idea of something hurting her. He wanted to know what had happened, so he could go beat someone’s ass to make it right.
Carefully, he lowered himself to the other end of the sofa. “Why are you drinking tonight?”
She poured herself another shot. “Tradition, partly. Raleigh’s birthday is a tough day for me. Well, all of his milestones have been hard, because his mom isn’t here to see them and share the joy.”
Confused, Malcolm held out his glass for a refill. “What does that have to do with you?”
“Lily and I were best friends from the time we were little girls. We figured we’d end up marrying at the same time, buying houses next to each other, having kids together, and growing old together as one big extended family. But that wasn’t how it happened. She married Raleigh’s daddy, who absolutely didn’t deserve her, straight out of high school. Had Raleigh right off. And things were fine for a while. I ended up doing the career thing instead of the marriage and family track. Then she got sick.” When her voice hitched, Charlotte drank again, slower this time.
Malcolm’s gut clenched because he instinctively understood where this was going.
“It was bad. Cancer. Luther couldn’t handle it and checked out, so I took a leave of absence and moved in to take care of her. I was the one who took her to all the doctor’s appointments, helping to oversee and manage her treatment and take care of her son through all the grueling, horrific months. Until she ran out of fight.” She swallowed the rest of the glass, and when she’d finished, grief had carved lines around her mouth and eyes. “There’s not much worse than losing someone you love by degrees.”
God, he felt that on a visceral level. He knew it. He’d lived it first hand. And it had all but killed him. For a long time after, he’d wished it had. Some days, he still did.
He never would have imagined that they’d both be members of this terrible club of knowing.
Charlotte twitched her shoulders and set the glass down, linking her hands. “Anyway, every year on Raleigh’s birthday, and whenever he has big life stuff happen—like his wedding—I have a drink with Lily and tell her about how our boy is doing.”
She drank as a tribute. A way to remember instead of a way to forget.
How different they were.
“Why did you decide to share that with me?”
The gaze she lifted to his was just a little haunted. For a long time, she said nothing. Then she jerked another shrug. “I don’t know. Tonight, it just seemed like you’d get it.” She held up the bottle, offering him another shot.
He accepted. “Aye. Aye, I get it.”
She refilled her own glass. “So, why are you drinking tonight?”
Malcolm had no intention of telling her. His was a private pain he didn’t share with anyone.
But against his will, his mouth opened, and the words spilled out.
“I had a daughter.”
* * *
“I had a daughter.”
The past tense of the statement struck Charlotte like a bullet, because absolutely nothing he could say that would lead to that state could be a good thing. Her heart was already aching for him when he spoke again.
“She died. Cancer.”
Oh God.To lose a child at all was horrific. To lose one like that. To watch the sickness devour her from the inside, robbing her of the bloom of youth, of health…
Charlotte laid a hand on his thigh, needing to offer some sign of connection, to show him he wasn’t alone. “God, I’m so sorry. Cancer is the worst fucking thing in the world.”
If he noticed her touch, he didn’t show it. “I’ll drink to that.”
She poured them more shots. “Do you want to talk about her?”
He looked like he wanted to say no, and she didn’t blame him. But his mouth had other ideas.
“Her name was Miranda. She was a bonnie little thing. All full of smiles and sunshine. She loved stuffed animals and cartoons. She had a particular fondness for the Powerpuff Girls.” His mouth twisted in a parody of a smile. “She wanted to be Blossom because Blossom was fierce. But I always thought she would be more like Bubbles because she was so bright and happy. She was eight when she died.”
Every word was just another gut shot. Obviously, this was the reason for his perpetually surly attitude. Because he’d lost a child. A young one. If ever there was a reason to be the kind of grumpy he was, this was it.
Charlotte didn’t think he was aware of the tears streaming down his cheeks. She couldn’t stop herself from scooting closer and hugging him, though she had every expectation he’d push her away.
Instead, he wrapped those big, strong arms around her and buried his face in her hair.
She held on tighter. “How long?”
“Twenty years today.”
It was the anniversary of his daughter’s death. No wonder he hadn’t wanted to celebrate. And how incredibly terrible the timing, that this should be Raleigh’s birthday. Charlotte did a little hazy math in her inebriated brain and realized that if Miranda had lived, she’d have been almost Raleigh’s age.
Her gaze slid to the whisky bottle on the table. She hadn’t thought much of it when she’d come in, but with this new information, she realized there was a very good chance it had been full when he started. And she’d given him three shots of tequila on top of that.
Okay, no more alcohol for either of us.
They held each other for a long time, well past the point her back began to ache from the angle. But Charlotte didn’t move. If ever someone needed comfort, it was this man, in this moment. And it wasn’t exactly a hardship to be pressed close to all that heat and muscle.
At length, he turned his head, nuzzling her neck. “Why do you always smell so good?”
Despite the frisson of heat that shuddered through her at the brush of his skin against hers, alarm bells began to clang in the back of her mind. Of the two of them, she was the more sober. This was absolutely not a good idea.
With one last squeeze, she pulled back. “I think you need to go to bed. It’s been a long day. A rough day.”
“Okay.”
It became rapidly apparent he was not going to get to the bedroom under his own steam. Charlotte eyed the narrow stairway and wondered if she could possibly get him up it or if she ought to leave him down here. Presuming this flat was laid out as hers, the only bathroom was upstairs. He’d need that later. Better he be closer to it.
“On your feet, Malcolm.”
“Bossy.” He staggered up from the sofa. “Why do I like that?”
“Because it’s a wise man who appreciates a woman who knows what she wants.” She wedged her shoulder under his armpit and wrapped an arm around his waist. “C’mon.”
As she struggled to get him up the stairs, she reflected that the massive size she so appreciated looking at was a whole other thing when said size was one step above deadweight and not in full control of itself. There were a few terrifying moments she thought he might tumble backward down the stairs and break his neck, likely taking her with him, but at last she got him into the bedroom.
She tried to steer him toward the bed—neatly made, she was surprised to see—but he plopped down into a nearby chair instead.
Okay, fine, she could work with this. Carefully kneeling—because she felt that third shot herself now—Charlotte unlaced his boots and tugged them off. Good lord, the man had enormous feet. Everything about him was huge compared to her. Sitting down, he was almost as tall as she was standing. She wondered if other parts of him lived up to the promise. Even in her inebriated state, she knew looking under his kilt to check would cross a line, so she tugged his T-shirt up and off.
He had tattoos high on one shoulder and along the curve of his other biceps. Her fingers itched to trace the designs and the muscles they highlighted, but that, too, would cross a line. Moving away from temptation, she crossed to the bed and pulled back the covers. Now she just had to pour him in. He could sleep in his kilt.
“Okay, just a few more feet.”
She got him up again and navigated him toward the waiting bed.
His arm was heavy where it curved around her shoulders. “I’m glad you came over.”
“I think I am, too.” Their legs bumped the edge of the bed. “Here we go.”
“Oh, good. I dinna want to be alone.”
Then he toppled like a tree, taking her with him.
Charlotte landed on the bed with an oof. Malcolm wasn’t quite squishing her, but his bulk was sprawled half on top of her, and one brawny arm curled tight around her waist.
“Um, Malcolm?”
Her only answer was a soft snore in her ear.
She wriggled, trying to ease free of his grip. His only response was to tighten his hold, tucking her against his side like a giant teddy bear.
Well, it wasn’t like he’d hang on to her all night. She’d sneak out later when he rolled over. In the meantime, it was rather nice to be held.
Resigning herself to hanging out for a while longer, she toed off her shoes and settled against his pillow.