Chapter 10 #2
I’m hungry, achy, and emotionally distraught.
I take in a deep breath and square my shoulders and tell myself it's nothing a good strong cup of coffee won't fix.
I push myself out of bed, aware of the way that my ass aches from the punishment he gave me.
Aware of the fact that I'm still naked, and my arm is still sore from the accident.
I reach my fingers to my head, and wince when I feel a slight bruise.
God. I'm a fucking mess.
I'm not too keen on the idea of walking around stark naked, so I walk over to his dresser. Predictably, the T-shirts are neatly arranged in tight little packets, all folded and smelling slightly of clean laundry and man, a scent I quite enjoy.
I tug a gray tee out and snap it open. AC/DC.
I smile to myself. Tate might be a feared mobster, but he’s got decent taste in music anyway.
I tug the T-shirt on and start humming Highway to Hell as I head out to meet him.
I’m not as lighthearted as I might seem, but sometimes you have to fake it to make it, and AC/DC’s good medicine.
Bailey trots over from the sofa to say hello to me when I walk out of the bedroom. I don't remember Bailey coming home with us, so maybe he trotted down to visit earlier this morning. What time is it, anyway?
I yawn again, so widely my eyes water. Groggy.
I pause before I go much further. From here, I have a vivid view of the snow-capped landscape outside this window, the early morning sun radiant and near-blinding.
I spy a bird on a nearby tree and squint.
I smile to myself. A crested tit, one of the fearless birds of the Highlands that doesn’t mind the brutal cold.
They’re adorable, all gray and black with a little feathery tuft of feathers on top, a little bit of color against white.
I can see Bailey’s paw prints leading to the front door.
“Mornin’.”
I look to the kitchen to see Tate smiling at me, a mug of steaming hot coffee in his hand as he leans a hip against the doorframe.
Oh, Lord, I was not prepared for this.
He’s wearing a faded tee and joggers, but is barefoot, his hair all tousled and messy, his voice still gravelly with sleep.
“Morning.” I feel suddenly shy, like I don’t know what to do with myself.
“I like the look of my T-shirt on you.”
I look down, as if I forgot I was wearing it.
I nod. “Didn’t want to walk around here naked…”
“But you will if I tell you to.”
A jolt of heat slashes across my chest. I nod tentatively. “Will I?”
“Och, aye, love.” He pushes off the doorframe and hands me the mug. “For you.”
“Thank you.”
I take it from him and sip, as he heads to the kitchen. It’s good and strong, laced with milk and plenty of sugar. I let out a pleased sigh.
“Delicious.”
“Glad you like it. Hungry?”
My stomach growls in response, and he looks over his shoulder, his lips quirked up at the edges. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
“I’m starving.”
He lifts a spatula and points it to one of the chairs by the kitchen table. “Sit.”
“Need some help?”
He shakes his head. “I need to come up with a plan with you.”
“Fran with a plan,” I say with a sigh. “On it.” I pull out a chair and sit down.
He doesn’t talk for long minutes, as he walks over to the large, stainless steel refrigerator and removes a few things. He arranges them on the counter and gives me a wicked smile.
“Sleep well?”
“Aye, thanks. You?”
He shrugs. “Not bad. Haven’t slept on the couch in ages, but it’ll do.”
Oh, ouch. That stings more than it should. So he did sleep on the couch after all.
“Why didn’t you sleep in bed with me?”
He turns the heat up under a frying pan. He doesn't answer right away, until the steam rises from the pan and he cracks an egg into it. It sizzles, and my stomach growls again.
"Didn't trust myself to sleep next to you. Had a raging fuckin’ hard on.” He looks over his shoulder at me, and the look that he's giving me right now makes heat rise in my belly.
The way he says it… all possessive like that.
“Needed some space between me and you, if I’m going to have any sense of professionalism whatsoever. "
“Aye. I get that, but honest to God, it’s your bed.”
He shrugs. “Maybe I’ll join you tonight.”
So I guess I'll be here another night then.
At the very least, anyway.
We sit in silence while he fries eggs and sausage.
He puts some bread in the toaster, and when it pops up, he slathers it with butter.
The food up at the main house is delicious, but this looks perfectly fine.
"More coffee?" I shake my head. "No, thanks.
Too much coffee makes me jittery, and you may have already realized that I'm a little high energy. "
"You don't say."
"Hey!”
He smirks as he slides fried eggs, sausages, and buttered toast onto a plate.
“Here. Eat.”
I take it from him gratefully. “Thank you.”
The food’s delicious. The eggs are cooked perfectly, crispy and buttery on the edges. The sausage is plump and golden brown, the toast thick and hearty.
We eat in comfortable silence.
“More?” he asks.
I shake my head. “I’m full, but thank you. That was delicious. Do you cook down here often?”
He nods. “For breakfast and lunch, aye. Rarely for dinner. Even though we’re all older now, and we’ve got all sorts of obligations and some of my brothers have families of their own, we eat dinner together often. It helps keep the connection, make sure everyone’s abreast of everything.”
I’ve witnessed so many family meals, I've lost count.
I've never told anyone, but eating meals with the family is one of my favorite parts of visiting. It isn't just because the food is excellent—and it is, everyone knows that—but I’m a good cook myself. It was a lot more than that. It’s the bond that grows between them, the connection of loyalty and honor and love only a family could have.
Their family is imperfect, and I know that.
But they are still family. They love each other.
And their loyalty runs deep, deeper than the roots of the gigantic pines outside this chalet.
Deeper than the deepest river in Scotland.
No matter what happens, they have each other's backs. And I know that.
“What is it?” he asks, before he eats half an egg in one huge bite. The Cowen men are serious about their food, and Tate’s no exception. I shrug, while I watch him put away four eggs and as many sausages.
“You got all serious there for a minute,” he says, reaching for a slice of bread. I watch as he slathers marmalade on the toast, and polishes that off like he hasn’t seen food in a month.
“Nothing.”
He bites the last bit of crust and washes it down with his coffee, wipes his mouth with a napkin, and leans back in his chair.
He laces his fingers behind his head, relaxed and content, and I don’t miss the way his muscles effortlessly bunch beneath his shirt, his neck and shoulders imbued with latent energy.
When he speaks, he’s grown serious again. Placated. On task once more.
“Thought I made it clear last night I wouldn’t tolerate any more lying.”
“Am I lying?”
I pick at a bit of toast on my plate.
“Aye. I asked you what was wrong, and you said nothing, yet for a moment there you looked as if someone ran over your cat.”
I shrug. “Sometimes it’s hard to put my thoughts into words is all.” I look away from him, working my lip. “I’m not intentionally hiding anything from you.”
I am, though, and I feel guilty. I don’t mean to lie. Haven’t I learned my lesson at all?
So I let the truth come out before I can polish and refine it. It’s ragged and raw, and it hurts to say it aloud.
“I think sometimes I just get a little jealous. I didn't have what you all have. I think that sometimes you take it for granted."
There's no bitterness in my tone, and I'm not lecturing.
I'm just trying to state facts. "You all drive each other crazy, but that's what siblings do. I know that now. I have no siblings, no living father, and I haven’t seen my mother since last Easter, and the only reason I did was because she wanted to borrow money.” I shrug.
“You have a mother and father, brothers and sisters, a grandmother…” I sigh.
“So sometimes I just wish I had that, too.”
He nods, accepting this. He doesn’t tell me it isn’t all it’s cracked up to be or some other such nonsense, and I realize for the first time that he’s likely aware of the gift of family he has.
“Do you remember the Christmas I spent here?” It’s a memory that I haven't thought of for a long time, but I can’t help thinking about it.
I’d been spending the night with the girls, and Islan rallied for me to stay on Christmas Day.
It stung that my mum didn’t care and was almost relieved I wouldn’t be home, but the Cowen family made it better.
We baked mince pies in the large, spacious kitchen, and put a large slab of it aside for Santa.
“We went to midnight mass in town,” I say, remembering. “Father MacGowen was long-winded, and your dad was ready to leave halfway through.”
Tate grins. “And Mum persuaded him to stay because she wanted to hear the carols.”
“Aye. Leith fell asleep midway through, and Tavish tickled him with a sprig of holly.”
“Oh, Lord,” Tate says, chuckling. “He damn near jumped right out of his seat, and if Mum hadn’t wrangled him, he’d have decked Tavish straight across the altar.”
I laugh along with him. “But there were so many people half drunk, singing their hearts out, no one even noticed.”
He laughs out loud, his face splitting wide in a rare grin. His eyes dance with the memory, and I can’t help but laugh as well.
“And then Islan and I snuck into the kitchen when everyone was asleep to get a late-night snack…”
He snorts. “The turkey was in a brine, wasn’t it? You knocked it straight to the floor and the dogs got it. We had roast chicken and ham on Christmas Day.”
“Oh my God, I forgot about that. Thought I’d never be welcome in your home again after that.”