Chapter Seventeen
Michael…
The next morning…
It was not the first all-nighter I’ve had to pull, dealing with yet another disaster. But it is the first time I’ve had someone waiting at home for me, and it’s surprising how satisfying that thought is.
Is Sophie asleep in my bed? The image of her curled up, hugging a pillow to her chest is making my dick sit up and take notice. The little bastard dinnae care that I’ve not slept in thirty hours or that I just navigated a shite night of damage control.
Cracking my neck, one direction and then the other, I step out of the car.
There’s a light thread of melody drifting through the garden behind my house.
Looking up, I see Sophie, perched in the open window of her bedroom, her delicate fingers moving along the silver line of her flute.
The sight is so unexpectedly lovely that I lean against my Maserati, enjoying the music until she looks down.
Sophie pulls the flute away from her lips and calls down.
“You’re back! I’ll be right there.” She must have galloped down the stairs, already in the kitchen by the time I unlock the door.
“Have you been up all night?” There’s a worried crease between her brows that I sometimes see when she’s watching her mother. “I can make you some breakfast.”
Pulling off my tuxedo jacket, I flex my shoulders in relief. “Formal wear is not meant for all-nighters,” I sigh. She’s wearing soft lounge pants and a tank top, and she’s even more beautiful than she was last night in that expensive evening gown. “Ye haven’t lost your touch, ye play beautifully.”
“Thank you,” she flushes, looking pleased. “After we talked about it the other night, I realized how long it’s been since I played. It was nice to get a feel for it again.”
“Did ye find the right spot to hear your acoustics?”
“Not yet,” she says, “my bedroom isn’t quite right.”
I’m appreciating the sight of her, here in my kitchen. I always looked forward to coming home before because it was blessedly quiet. No one badgering me, no problems to solve. This, though, it feels good. Having her here feels welcome.
“Um,” she tucks a glossy strand of hair behind her ear. “Maybe you’d like to get some sleep? Or I could make you breakfast while you shower and get into something more comfortable than Christian Dior?”
“The latter,” I agree, rubbing the back of my neck. “Xenia and Georges have nothing in their offices but stale takeout and energy drinks.”
“Oh, and terrible candy,” she laughs, shaking her head. “Does Georges still have that weird obsession with candy corn?”
“He does. There’s a giant jar of it on his desk,” I say. “Dinnae ye get him hooked on those wee bastards?”
Laughing, she pulls a copper pan off the rack hanging by the big Aga stove. “I gave them to him once! He’d never had them before and wanted to try the ‘offputting American candy,’ he said. Now it’s my fault? I promise that there will be no candy corn in your pancakes.”
“I’m trusting ye,” I warn. As I head out of the kitchen, I catch a glimpse of her smile, vulnerable and warm before I realize what I said.
Trust.
It takes seconds to strip off what’s left of my rumpled tuxedo and step gratefully into the shower. My leg is on fire, but heat usually helps. Head bent under the stream of hot water, I try to wash away the fury of the last twelve hours.
When we went through the Morozov security breach last night, Xenia asked me, “Does Sophie have access to your study at home?” She bit her lip, looking uncomfortable about asking. Da’s green gaze went to me, waiting for the answer.
“No,” I’d said sharply. “My study door is always locked, and I dinnae keep encryption codes anywhere but here in my office.”
“Good,” she nodded quickly, seeming relieved to get the awkward question over with. “That’s good. One less variable.”
I wanted to snarl at her that she should be looking at her department’s internal security, because these breaches - mistakes, slip-ups, compromised intel - seemed to be hitting us faster than we can patch up the last problem.
But a Chieftain dinnae condemn others when the last line of responsibility lies with them.
Da never shifted blame, and neither will I.
The welcome smell of bacon greets me as I head back downstairs, freshly showered and in a pair of blue joggers and a t-shirt, worn soft from a hundred washings. Sophie’s darting like a butterfly between the stove and the counter, piling a plate high with the promised pancakes.
“You look much more relaxed,” she says approvingly, putting the plate down in front of me, along with another covered with strips of crunchy bacon and a pitcher of maple syrup.
“This looks grand, thank ye.” I dig into the pancakes, they’re crisp on the edges and soft in the center, perfect. “Do your culinary skills extend beyond dessert and breakfast, then?”
“Of course,” she says haughtily, sipping her coffee. “Who do you think helped Mom make your family’s meals all these years?” Her shoulders droop, likely recalling that her mother is now on house arrest in the cottage behind my parent’s mansion.
I smile to soften the mood. “Even when we all couldn’t stand the sight of each other, we’d all make it home for your mum’s dinners, they’re that addictive.”
“Couldn’t stand the sight of each other?” She shakes her head. “You’re the tightest family I’ve ever met, extended family, too. All the cousins are as close as brothers and sisters.”
Crunching on a strip of bacon, I push back a surge of unease. My people, I’d trust them with my life. But this avalanche of disasters is making it feel like the enemy is already within the gate.
Who’s betraying the clan?
Sophie’s lounging on her stool, long legs crossed, watching me with that concerned little furrow between her brows.
“I get the feeling last night was frustrating,” she volunteers.
“I hung out at Arabella’s with Sloan and Maisie.
Everyone wanted to wait up for you guys to come home but we gave up around 2am. ”
I knew where she’d been, Arabella texted me, asking if it was okay to have Sophie over. “Did ye have a good time, butterfly?”
My bride’s smile is huge, and her beautiful eyes are glinting silver under the warm light of the kitchen.
“Yes! I got to hear Arabella and Sloan’s stories of how they met Logan and Ethan.
” She’s giggling, trying not to spill her coffee.
“No one will ever accuse a MacTavish man of a boring ‘meet-cute,’ that’s for sure. ”
Leaning closer, her sugar-cookie scent is wrapping around me and now… I am fecking ravenous.
“Did ye get any sleep, butterfly?”
Her eyes widened. “Uh, yes?”
“Good,” I say hoarsely. Sliding my hand through her hair, I pull her to me, finally having what I wanted all night.
Sophie, in my arms, my mouth on hers and hearing the little sigh escape her lips before I kiss her again.
The feel of her… soft curves fitting with my hard angles perfectly and when her arms hesitantly go around my neck, I scoop her up and head for the stairs.
“The true mishanter of last night,” I murmur between kisses, “was not finishing what we started. I get a taste of ye and nothing more? Unjust, it was.”
Her legs wrap around my waist, and I know she can feel my stonner rubbing against her center as they tighten, her heels digging into my arse.
“I know you’re fond of your lists, little butterfly,” I say hoarsely. “I have quite a lengthy list of items for ye to check off.”
Sophie bursts into a round of giggles and damned if it isn’t charming. “Oh? I’ve never heard it called that before, but…”
With a growl, I throw her on my bed, hard enough to bounce twice and sending the pillows flying.
***
Mishanter - Scottish slang for disaster.
Stonner - Scottish slang for an erection.