Chapter Eleven
Sophie…
Bake until you’re not so deep into self-pity.
Keep baking.
If that doesn’t work, move on to cleansing rage.
If that doesn’t work, hit Michael on the back of the head with Davina’s cast iron frying pan. Then clean it properly so as not to ruin the finish.
That is, if he ever comes home.
“This looks like a massive cocaine bust gone bad.”
Shrieking, I whip around and almost hurl my wooden spoon before realizing it’s Michael, standing in the wreckage of his kitchen. “Oh, it’s you.” I manage, pressing my hand over my pounding heart.
“Aye. I live here,” he says. His suit jacket is slung over his shoulder, his collar’s unbuttoned and his tie loosened. All he needs is to shout, “Honey, I’m home!” for the perfect image of domestic bliss.
After this baking frenzy, I’m all out of flour and sugar and definitely all out of bliss.
While there are piles of cooling cookies covering the island, a cake waiting to be frosted on the counter next to the fridge and two more pans of brownies in the oven, it’s not because I was ready to greet him at the door with a drink and a plate of sweets.
I am, however, tempted to throw a mixing bowl at him.
I may be wearing an apron, but I’m no 50’s housewife.
“Did ye get tired of Davina’s cooking?” he asks, rolling up his sleeves.
I’m mesmerized by each inch of tanned forearm being revealed, thick with muscle. His fingers are long and elegant, and…
“Oh! No, her cooking is incredible,” I turn away, hastily stacking two cookie sheets in the dishwasher. “I was just trying out some new recipes.”
“So I see.”
Looking over my shoulder, I see an amused smile flicker over his lips before disappearing. “I’m used to being busy,” I say, shutting the dishwasher door a bit harder than is necessary. “There’s not much to do here.”
His tone is biting, like the first frost of winter. “Until I know what you’re responsible for, I’m keeping ye under close watch.”
My fingers tighten on the counter. “Mom and I told you-”
“I know what you told us,” he says sharply. “That means nothing. You’re going to have to earn my- my family’s trust back.”
Such a pompous asshole.
“I see,” I manage to grind out. When I turn around, he’s already out of the kitchen and heading upstairs.
The kitchen is clean again, I’m searching for containers to house all these baked goods and Michael has gone from the master bedroom to his study, shutting the door firmly. It’s sound-proofed, of course, so I have no idea what he’s doing there.
A conference call, complaining about treacherous brides? Drinking heavily and regretting his decision to marry me? Calling Celia and arranging a date?
Oh, that last thought burns like a sugar cube against a canker sore.
I stop piling cookies in the container as I think about it. That had never occurred to me. Would Michael keep seeing Celia, now that he’s got me safely locked up at home? It seems unimaginable, MacTavish men are notoriously faithful and devoted to their wives.
But none of them got married to a traitor.
Does that change the rules?
“The kitchen looks better.” Michael’s leaning against the doorway, arms folded.
He must have just showered, his hair’s still wet and curling over his forehead, and he’s changed into a white henley and jeans.
As much as I hate him right now, there is no denying that his ass looks spectacular in them.
“It is possible that I might have gone overboard,” I admit, eyeing the stacks of cooling sweets. “Maybe I could take some around to the other houses here on the square for your nieces and nephews?”
He doesn’t seem displeased by the idea and for the first time since he brought me here, my heart doesn’t feel like it’s cracking in my chest. New MacTavish brides have always been surrounded by the wives and cousins and welcomed into the family, but I have no idea whether they’ll be willing to offer that to me.
Maybe an olive branch of baked goods is a start.
“I made lavender shortbread, chocolate fudge chip cookies, snickerdoodles, ginger crisps, salted caramel swirls, and mint brownies. Kids always love the snickerdoodles.”
Ian chooses now to abandon his post of hovering by the door and steps between Michael and me, opening his big mouth. “Mr. MacTavish, I think these should be tested first to make sure Mrs. MacTavish dinnae… uh… add anything,” he finishes awkwardly.
I frown, “I’ve been baking long enough to know the difference between sugar and salt.”
Ian’s still looking at Michael. “In case something poisonous was added.”
I never understood what people meant when they said “seeing red,” but I do now. It’s like a blood vessel burst in my eye because everything is sheathed in a red haze.
“You’re kidding me,” I hiss. Grabbing a snickerdoodle, I jam the entire thing in my mouth, chewing furiously.
“Oh, maybe I didn’t dose those ones in arsenic so I’d have some saved for me after I murdered everyone, right?
” The brownie is next, the sharp mint of the frosting making the fudgy texture easier to swallow.
Next, I seize a ginger crisp in one hand and a piece of lavender shortbread in the other, taking a huge bite of both and then frowning.
“That was a mistake. Those two don’t taste good together at all.
” I swallow past the lump of shortbread threatening to choke me.
“I’ll bet the salted caramel cookie and the fudge chip ones will be pretty good together. ”
Ian’s looking between us and Michael with acute anxiety. I guess bodyguard school didn’t teach him how to handle an enraged woman with a metric ton of baked goods. Michael, on the other hand, is looking amused and not even bothering to hide it.
“I’d throw the cookies at your heads but they’re too good to waste,” I say, my throat thick with frosting and cinnamon. “I do have a coconut cake over there. It would make a better weapon for a moving target.”
Michael doesn’t look alarmed. “Dinnae throw the cake,” he says. “Coconut is my favorite.”
Oh, it is. Of course, I chose to subconsciously make the one he likes best. That’s just pathetic.
“You don’t deserve that cake!” I’m throwing a tantrum. It’s ridiculous and childish and I know it but I can’t seem to stop. I’m tired of being labeled a monster. A monster who apparently is willing to poison cookies to murder children. “I’m taking my arsenic-laced cake up to my room.”
Michael doesn’t move from the doorway leading to the hall, so I’m forced to brush past him.
His arm goes out to block me, and he draws his index finger slowly through the coconut frosting before putting it between his lips.
I stare, mesmerized, as he sucks the frosting off his finger. His lips glisten as he leans closer.
“Delicious.”
No word has ever sounded so filthy.