Chapter 4 #3
“So sorry I have to go. I don’t want them to know I’ve had anything to do with this, and the masters of the house are not to be crossed. Please keep that in mind, miss. I very much appreciate working with you. But I’m off to my cousins in Wales, and need to no longer work with you.”
I tried to reply to her email but it was returned to me. She’d deleted her account.
I still feel guilty about that. So fucking guilty.
It’s a chilly day, though the sky is brilliant and clear. I feel if I could stand on the front step to the house, I’d be able to see for miles. There isn’t a cloud in the sky, and the mountains look as if a painter brushed them onto the landscape with magical strokes of his brush. It’s gorgeous.
“Wow,” I breathe, wrapping my coat around myself when a brisk wind makes me shiver. “This view. It never gets old.”
Tate pauses, standing next to me, his own eyes fixed ahead of him on the snowcapped mountains.
Sunlight beams down, so warm in sharp contrast to the biting wind, little flecks of golden light illuminating everything around us.
Even the slate-colored flagstones that lead to the main house look brilliant and vivid under the brilliant sun.
For one brief moment, the seriousness fades from his eyes, and they twinkle a bit. “I love coming out here of a morning with a cuppa, sitting down and watching that sunrise.”
“Oh, lovely,” I breathe. “How early is sunrise, though? I’m not much of an early riser. Could you still catch it at, say… ten?”
He snorts. “Maybe in Norway.”
“Norway?”
“Och, aye. You didn’t know?”
He goes on a tangent about Norway, their location and proximity to the sun, and how they have unusual variations in daylight.
"People do things in the middle of the night, with the sun up overhead.
They sleep in, and the sun doesn't rise until much later the next day.
" It's the calmest I've seen him, talking about facts and interesting things like this.
He's lost some of the detached anger that he had earlier, and I wonder why.
It's as if the cool morning air brightens his mood. Hell, it does mine.
"You know, they say the people that rise early in the morning tend to be happier. Are you an early riser?"
"Of course," he says. “I love getting up early. My brothers and I come out and like to spend time in the mountains. The three of us lift in the morning, sometimes go for a run.”
“And chop wood,” I supply, “even though you all probably have staff that will do that for you…”
He looks at me sharply. "How do you know that?"
"It's no secret," I say. How can I tell him that every single woman that's ever come in contact with the Clansmen knows about their bare-chested wood-chopping routines?
"I've seen you do it when I was visiting, lots of times.” More like drooled from afar.
He nods. “Aye. We do have staff to do chores for us, of course.
But we were raised to welcome hard work.
There's something about physical action early in the morning that grounds you. Something about physical labor that keeps things real. We do everything we can to stay on the land. We repair fences, we do our own landscaping, when it snows we shovel and salt the drive. We like to be out in nature.” He shrugs. “We like the physical connection."
My dirty little mind says that I like the physical connection too, in an entirely different way, but I choose not to say that out loud.
He chooses a gorgeous silver sports car, and I squeal silently in my mind.
I've never ridden in a car like this, even when he would drive me and the girls to places when we were younger.
He always took a really sensible sedan, probably so that we wouldn't have an audience. I wonder why he takes this one now.
"Why this car?"
He smiles. It's the first time I've seen him smile since the incident last night. I like the way it makes me feel, like I've lifted the shade on a sunny day and I'm basking in the glow of warm sunlight. It's not even a huge smile, just a little glimmer of tipped lips. But it makes my heart soar.
"Bought this car last year," he says, with a note of pride in his voice. “I like how it navigates the road when it’s icy.”
Like hell he does.
He clicks the unlock button on his key fob, and there’s the muted sound of the doors unlocking.
He walks around to the passenger side, and I know he’s prepared to open the door for me.
That’s another thing about the Cowen boys.
They've always been gentlemanly, in their own interesting way.
There's nothing about them that's normal or complacent, nothing about them that would even fit into polite society.
Beneath their overbearing nature is an authoritative manner, but they were raised to treat others with respect. I've noted it for quite some time.
“Thanks very much,” I say, my cheeks flushing because for some reason, this feels oddly intimate.
It’s a car ride, you idiot, I chide myself. Get over it already.
But this is no mere car ride.
Where other cars might have a console or distance between them, this is literally one extended seat with hardly any distance between us. Like those seats at the cinema with no divider, a date car. Now I know why he chose this one.
I reach for my seat belt, and he sits there literally waiting for me to buckle it, as if he doesn't trust that I will. "I'm going to buckle my seat belt," I say, and it sounds silly even to my own ears.
He doesn't move. He doesn't say anything. He just waits until I actually click the buckle, gives a curt nod, and then goes over to his side.
Of course. Captain Overprotective, as always.
Why do I find that so hot?
I hold my breath as he slides in next to me, because I wonder how close he’ll get to me. He smells clean and strong and masculine, but muted. It's nothing overt, like an expensive cologne. I wonder if he even wears cologne.
Sigh. Sometimes my romance writer imagination gets the best of me. Hell, who am I kidding? All the time, the romance writer in me gets the best of me.
Like right now, I’m so crazy aware of his large, powerful hands gripping the steering wheel.
Hands that are confident and strong, with a light smattering of dark hair on those powerful, large fingers, just enough to make them look manly.
I swallow, as I let my gaze gently roam from his hands to his thick, corded forearms. He’s slightly tanned even though it’s cold outside, and I let myself imagine him chopping wood with no shirt on, all sweaty and hot.
He's got traces of black ink on the underside of his right arm.
Am I objectifying him?
“Is that new ink?" I ask him. "I've never seen it before." As soon as I ask him, I wonder if I should have. Does that let him know that I've looked at his ink before? Is that… wrong? Maybe only people in the mob know what the ink means.
He glances down at his arm as if just remembering he has a tattoo there. He frowns and doesn't reply at first. I actually give up hope that he's going to reply when he finally shrugs and shakes his head. “It’s new, aye.” But he doesn't say anything else.
He answers some questions readily and others with reluctance. There's a mystery about Tate Cowen. And I make it my mission to find out what.