CHAPTER 24
Frankie
I’m still laughing.
It’s been a minute since I dropped the butter knife and nearly choked, but I can’t seem to stop giggling.
Finally, I take a deep breath and get some words out. “Special K? Like the cereal?”
“Like the cereal, but not in honor of the cereal. There’s a difference.”
“Oh, I gotta hear this. I mean, if your nickname was Bruiser or Chewbacca, or He-Man, I would understand. But a breakfast cereal? Mind if I keep eating?”
MacLaine’s faint smile indicates that he’d be okay with any of those other nicknames. “Please do,” he says. “I’m glad the food won’t go to waste. You just enjoy your tasting menu while I tell you about how I got my nickname.”
“Did you pack all this up for me?”
“My Aunt Phyllis did. She’s my uncle’s widow. When he died, she stayed on as kind of a den mother to all of us.”
He’s right—it would be a shame for this to go to waste since it’s out-of-this-world delicious. “My compliments to the chef,” I tell him. “And the delivery guy’s not so bad, either. So, go on. Tell me your origin story.”
It’s dark outside by now, and it’s growing chilly. I watch MacLaine—Special K MacLaine—hold Pussy close while tossing two more logs on the campfire. My cat seems perfectly content just to hang out in his arms or snuggle in his lap.
Seriously—it’s the damndest thing.
“I’m the youngest of the family,” he says, scratching Pussy behind her ears. For a man who claims he’s not a fan of cats, he sure has a way with one cat in particular. “I have four older brothers. I was unexpected.”
“An accident, then.”
“More of a surprise.”
“Got it. You were a happy accident.”
“Exactly.” He removes his cowboy hat and sets it on the log near his chair. Then he ruffles up his curls. MacLaine cuts quite a figure in the firelight. Relaxed and handsome. Powerful shoulders and arms. Long, long legs.
And completely in his element here in the dark wilderness.
I’m glad one of us is.
“I’m the only blond in a sea of black-haired sons. My mother started calling me her “special surprise” pretty soon after I was born.”
“Ah,” Frankie says. “So, zero cereal connection.”
“Zero,” he says.
He keeps talking. He talks and talks. There’s so much talking going on that I can barely get a word in. The man keeps unraveling facts for me, like he wants me to know everything about his world, his life.
Like he needs me to know who he is.
He tells me all about Yosemite Ranch—the history, the staff, their business goals, and how they’ve become well known for their pasture-raised luxury beef with its distinctive marbling. I’ve never even heard the term luxury beef before.
“We’re known for our American Wagyu. We supply many of the finest restaurants in Las Vegas and all along the West Coast.”
I swallow my mouthful of green beans. “Wait. I love that stuff. I’ve ordered it a few times in Vegas.”
“So, you live in Las Vegas.”
I shouldn’t have said that. “I did, yes.”
“Not anymore?”
“It was a recent move.” Real recent—like a few nights ago. “But please go on. Tell me more about your family.”
He does, and they seem like quite a collection of strong personalities. He describes his brothers in such vivid detail that it’s like I can see them in my mind’s eye, almost hear the sound of their voices.
There’s the stoic and serious Cal, the CEO of most things happening around the ranch. Then there’s the angsty tech genius Finn. The fancy-boy attorney Evander. And Declan, the goofball computer programmer and pilot.
By the time I clean my plate, MacLaine has moved on to describing his precocious niece Jasmine, Finn’s daughter from his first marriage. Next, he moves on to his sisters-in-law. There’s the Ivy League business guru Victoria. French chef Emma. Nurse Phoebe. And all-around ranch goddess Summer.
He says that Summer’s the one who accompanies him on the range most days—at least she did before she got pregnant. Now he’s on his own more often than not, and he says he likes it that way.
I sit back in the comfortable camp chair and cross my legs.
My belly is full and the fire’s warm. It occurs to me that if I found MacLaine’s emotionless drone oddly compelling, then he’s tied me up and carried me off with his storytelling.
His voice has a soft lilt to it. He chooses his words precisely, and his sense of humor shines through every sentence.
Special K is a natural-born teller of tales. Which means the silence must be an act. How interesting. And it seems I’m calling him Special K now in my head. Also interesting.
He speaks of his father Jamie with heartfelt respect, telling me that the family patriarch has a spine of steel, and his word is law.
But I notice he hasn’t mentioned his mother. “What kind of spine does your mom have?” I ask.
He nods and stares into the fire. “She died of cancer when I was little.”
My heart drops. That was such a hurtful thing for me to say. Way too flippant. I should have picked up on how she was absent from his family stories, and how his aunt became a den mother. Ah, shit.
“Hey.” I lean toward him and reach out to rest my fingers on the back of his hand.
A spark flies between us, and I instantly snatch my hand away, pretending nothing weird just happened. “I’m sorry about the spine comment. I didn’t mean to be insensitive.”
He shrugs. “It’s okay. You had no way of knowing.” He tips his head and looks at me for a long moment, frowning. “Be right back.”
I watch him carry Pussy to the trailer. He reaches in to grab a blanket and brings it to me, somehow wrapping it around my shoulders with one hand while carrying my cat with the other.
That damn cat is thrilled to be in his care.
I get it. I understand why she feels that way because I think I’m having the same reaction. There’s something about Special K MacLaine that makes a girl feel safe.
It’s only a false sense of security, of course. He’s gentle and kind, but he’s not a superhero.
As long as Niko Koslov breathes, I’ll never be safe.
I tug the down-filled blanket close and wait until Special K is seated again before I say anything more.
“I lost my mom when I was little, too,” I tell him.
“How long was she ill?”
I hear my own bitter laugh. “That’s a loaded question. She ran off when I was three and then overdosed when I was twelve. But her death hardly even registered with me, since she was never a part of my life.”
He stares at me, the golden firelight flickering against the masculine planes of his face. “I’m so sorry, Frankie,” he says.
“Thanks. I’m sorry too. About a lot of things.”