Chapter 26
Chapter
Twenty-Six
THERESA
“No. Just no,” Paris declared, crossing her arms over her chest. She looked at my outfit with the critical eye of a Vogue editor, although she was currently wearing a tutu over her jeans and one rain boot. “You look like a turtle.”
I looked down at my oversized beige sweater. “A turtle? It’s cozy.”
“It’s brown and puffy,” she corrected, blunt as ever. “If you want Patrick to think you’re pretty, you need the pink shirt. Or at least the sparkles.”
I laughed, turning back to the mirror in the hallway.
Four months ago, Paris wouldn’t have cared what I wore.
Four months ago, her observations were limited to factual statements about death and absence that broke my heart daily.
Now? She was critiquing my fashion choices and playing matchmaker, both terrifying and wonderful.
“Patrick thinks I’m pretty even in a turtle sweater,” I told her, smoothing my hair.
“That’s because he loves you,” Paris said, with the absolute certainty only a five-year-old possesses. She picked up her plastic tiara from the console table and adjusted it on her dark curls. “Like Prince Eric loves Ariel even when she wears that weird bag-dress.”
I froze, my hand on the banister. “He... does?”
“Duh,” she said, rolling her eyes. “He gave you the last piece of pepperoni pizza last week. That was the biggest piece, Mom. He loves you more than pizza.”
My chest swelled. She was right. In the hierarchy of a child’s world, giving up the biggest slice of pizza was the ultimate declaration of devotion.
“Well,” I said, grabbing my purse. “I guess I should go put on the pink lipstick then. Just in case.”
“Good choice,” Paris approved. “And wear the shoes that go click-clack. The clomp-clomp ones are for the garden.”
I was halfway up the stairs to change my shoes when the doorbell rang.
Paris gasped, her eyes lighting up. “He’s here! Do I look like a princess? Is my tiara straight?”
“You look beautiful,” I promised her.
She scrambled to the door and yanked it open before I could get back down the stairs.
Patrick stood on the porch, looking impossibly handsome in a leather jacket and dark jeans, with a small duffel bag slung over his shoulder. His face lit up the moment he saw Paris.
“Your Majesty,” he said with a sweeping bow. “To what do I owe the honor?”
Paris giggled—a bright, bubbling sound that still felt like a gift every time I heard it. “I’m not a queen yet, silly! Just a princess. Mom is putting on the click-clack shoes because she wants you to think she’s pretty.”
I groaned, covering my face with my hands as I reached the bottom of the stairs. “Paris!”
Patrick looked up, his blue eyes dancing with amusement as they swept over me. “Well, the princess has excellent taste,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. “But you look pretty, regardless.”
“See?” Paris whispered loudly, not whispering at all. “He likes you more than pizza.”
“Go find your brothers,” I told her, giving her a gentle nudge toward the kitchen, my face heating. “Michael said something about ice cream sundaes if you guys actually finish cleaning up the playroom.”
“Ice cream!” Paris took off like a shot, her tutu fluttering behind her.
The hallway grew quiet as Patrick stepped inside, closing the door behind him.
“So,” he said, stepping closer and sliding his free arm around my waist. “Click-clack shoes and more than pizza, hmm?”
“My daughter has no filter,” I admitted, leaning into him. “She also called my sweater a turtle.”
“A very sexy turtle,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to my temple.
“You’re incorrigible.” I pulled back slightly, noticing the bag on his shoulder for the first time. “What’s with the bag? Are you moving in?”
“Not yet,” he teased. “Though Mrs. Kowalski might eventually pack my bags for me if I keep disrupting her schedules.” His expression shifted, excitement in his eyes. “Actually, I’m kidnapping you.”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
“I checked with Michael and Shelly—they’re taking your kids for the weekend. Mrs. Kowalski has mine. And you...” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out an envelope. “You are coming with me.”
“Coming with you where? Patrick, I have a pile of paperwork on the dining room table that—”
“Can wait until Tuesday,” he finished. “You defeated a corporate coup, Theresa. You deserve more than a weekend of spreadsheets.”
He pressed the envelope into my hand. “Open it.”
I opened the flap, expecting a hotel confirmation or maybe concert tickets. Instead, I pulled out a passport.
My passport.
“How did you—” I started, looking up at him in shock.
“Michael helped me locate it,” Patrick said. “Check the paper inside.”
I unfolded the single sheet of heavy cream paper tucked into the passport. It was a flight itinerary with a private aviation logo at the top.
PASSENGER MANIFEST DEPARTURE: San Jose International (SJC) - Private Terminal DESTINATION: Edinburgh Airport (EDI) TIME: 19:00
“Edinburgh?” I read the destination, my breath catching. I looked up at him, stunned. “Scotland? You’re taking me to Scotland?”
“I want to show you where I come from,” he said simply. “I want you to see Eidheann. My home.”
“Patrick, that’s... that’s across an ocean. We can’t just leave.”
“Why not?”
“Because... the kids... the company...” I trailed off, running out of excuses. The kids were safe with family who loved them. The company was secure for the first time in months.
“Four days,” Patrick said, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw. “The jet leaves at seven. Say yes.”
“You chartered a jet?” I stared at him. I knew Patrick had money—serious money—but I also knew he drove a five-year-old Land Rover.
“I know,” he said, looking almost sheepish. “It’s a colossal waste of money, usually. I’d normally just book on BA via Heathrow—business class is perfectly adequate, and owning a plane is a financial black hole. But for this? For you? I didn’t want to waste a single second in a terminal.”
I looked at him—this man who had fought beside me, who was practical and grounded but would break his own rules to give me the world. I looked at the passport in my hand.
Then I thought of Paris, telling me to wear the sparkly shoes. Telling me to live.
“Yes,” I said, a smile spreading across my face. “Yes. Let’s go to Scotland.”
I slept for most of the flight, curled against Patrick in the private jet’s bedroom. The release of tension after months of constant vigilance knocked me out almost as soon as we reached cruising altitude.
When we landed in Edinburgh, the light had a distinct quality—softer, more diffuse, as if filtered through memory rather than air. A sleek black Range Rover waited on the tarmac with a gray-haired man in a tweed jacket standing beside it.
“Mr. McCrae,” he called, his Scottish accent much thicker than Patrick’s. “Welcome home, sir.”
“Douglas,” Patrick replied warmly, shaking the man’s hand. “Good to see you. This is Theresa Carideo.”
Douglas gave me a small bow. “A pleasure, Miss. We’ve heard so much about you.”
“You have?” I glanced at Patrick, who had the grace to look slightly embarrassed.
“I may have mentioned you once or twice when I called to arrange things,” he admitted.
“Twice an hour, more like,” Douglas said with a wink, opening the car door for us.
The drive north from Edinburgh was like entering a storybook. The landscape unfurled in rolling waves of green and purple, old stone walls cutting across hillsides like the stitches of time itself. Mist clung to the valleys, shrouding everything in an otherworldly haze.
“It’s beautiful,” I murmured, pressing my face to the window like a child.
“Wait until you see Eidheann,” Patrick said, squeezing my hand. “We’re almost there.”
We crested a hill, and suddenly it appeared through the mist—a castle rising from the landscape as if it had grown there, stone by stone. Not a cold ruin but a living, breathing structure, its gray walls softened by ivy, sprawling gardens stretching from its base toward a glittering loch.
Douglas turned onto a long gravel driveway lined with old oak trees. As we drew closer, I could make out turrets and towers, windows glinting in the afternoon sun, a massive wooden door set into an arched entryway.
The car crunched to a stop in a circular drive before the entrance. I stepped out, tilting my head back to take in the full height of the castle walls.
“It’s been in my family for four hundred years,” Patrick said, coming to stand beside me. He looked almost embarrassed. “A bit much, I know. Drafty in the winter, impossible to heat properly, but... it’s home.”
I was rendered speechless. This wasn’t just a home; it was history, generations of lives embedded in stone and mortar. And it was Patrick’s—this man who had walked into my life in a conference center in San Jose.
He took my hand, his expression suddenly serious. “Welcome to Eidheann, Theresa.”
The castle’s interior was full of contrasts—rustic walls housing modern comforts, centuries-old portraits hanging above sleek furniture, history and present-day coexisting in a wonderful balance.
Patrick led me through the great hall with its soaring ceiling and massive fireplace, through a formal dining room that could seat thirty, past a music room with a grand piano and tall windows overlooking the gardens. Each room told a story, revealed another layer of Patrick’s heritage.
“The library,” he announced, pushing open a set of heavy doors.
I gasped. Two stories of filled bookshelves lined the walls, accessible by a wrought iron spiral staircase and a gallery that ran around the room’s perimeter.
Leather sofas and reading chairs were arranged before another fireplace, this one carved with the McCrae family crest—a stag’s head surrounded by leaves.
“This was always my favorite room,” Patrick said, running his hand along the spines of leather-bound volumes. “I used to hide in here for hours as a boy, reading everything I could get my hands on.”