Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 85365 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85365 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
The women tried to tell me, of course, though they never knew they did. Both Islan and Paisley have tried at times to warn me about who their brothers really were, what their brothers really did. And at the time, I thought they only needed a good friend to talk to.
I never dreamed that they were trying to warn me. But of course they were. Isn’t that what good friends do?
“Fran?”
Tate’s looking at me with concern, and I realize he’s been talking to me and I didn’t notice.
I give him a smile. “Sorry. Was just looking out to see what kind of view I could get.”
“Bloody gorgeous, isn’t it?” Tate says. “Wait until it’s daylight and you can see so much more.”
From where we are, I catch the barest glimmer of white-capped waves and a sandy beach. I roll down my window, the crisp night air flooding the car, inhaling the salty air. Tate doesn’t admonish me or ask me to close my window. He merely laces his fingers with mine as we look out the window in silence.
We arrive at the McCarthy family home when night’s fully settled around us. I take in every detail, dumbstruck. The Cowen homes, nestled in the Highland mountains, are where I’d like to settle for the rest of my life. But here, with the sea at our backs and the salt air christening us in benediction—well, I’d settle for a summer home.
“You’re smiling,” Tate says, tugging a lock of my hair. “Good to see you smile, lassie.”
I shrug. “Just imagining where we’d put a summer home so we’re not obstructing the McCarthy’s view.”
Tate’s deep, manly chuckle makes my toes curl.
“I think we’ll make it work.”
Lachlan and Tate take our bags and we head up to the main house. We’ve come through a wrought-iron, heavily guarded gate to get here, which doesn’t surprise me in the least.
“The Cowen’s should invest in a gate like that,” I say to Tate, then quickly dismiss the thought. It wouldn’t work as well with sprawling homes along a mountainside.
“Why gates? We’ve got Bailey.”
I nod with a smile. “Och, aye, Bailey will keep us safe, won’t he?”
Lachlan grins at us.
There’s a lovely red-haired woman waiting for us in the foyer, and the smell of tea and something delicious and freshly baked. My stomach churns with hunger. I’m starving. The sound of children’s laughter echoes from another room, and the clink of dishes in a room behind her.
“Welcome,” she says, taking Tate’s two hands and kissing him on the cheek. “Is your mother well?”
I’ve heard a rumor that Flora and Maeve are mates, and this confirms it for me.
“Aye, Maeve, she’s sent her love and says there was no time, but next time she’ll send a tin of her shortbread.”
“Making this granny plump, she is, your mother doesn’t have a scrap of fat on her.”
Tate grins and kisses her cheek.
“Maeve, meet Fran. My lass.”
My lass.
Even as early as a week ago, what I’d have given to be his lass. Now, though… I wonder what the trade-off is.
She gives me a warm embrace, as several women and blokes come out of the dining area. I hear names, though I recognize no one. Keenan and Caitlin, a stern bloke a few years older than Tate with gray around his temples but kind green eyes, and his gorgeous black-haired wife. A red-haired beauty who throws her arms around Lachlan’s neck. That must be Fiona. And a plump, vibrant brunette who grins at me and waves like we’re long-lost friends. Megan, she’s called, holding the hand of a stunning bloke with glasses, a McCarthy Clan Superman come to life.
We’re ushered into a large dining room, and I watch as the lasses kiss their children good night and nannies whisk them away. The room quiets, as we all take our seats, staff wordlessly filling teacups and passing platters of rich, decadent slabs of soda bread and iced tea cakes. I take one small tea cake, my hunger eaten by nerves, but Tate rolls his eyes and fills a plate until it resembles the platter. He shoves it between us.
“It isn’t often we get to sample the McCarthy’s kitchen,” he says. “Eat up, lass.”
“You do say the most romantic things,” I tell him, liberally buttering a golden scone. I don’t have to be asked twice.
Megan winks at me.
The room quiets as Keenan takes his place at the head of the table. “Tate,” he begins. “Tell us why you’re here.”
Tate clears his throat. I know there’s no time for sugarcoating the truth. I know what’s happened matters now, that we have to protect his sisters, and the safety of the Clan. The scone feels stuck in my throat as he tells them everything.
That I’m the writer.
That my ex-husband betrayed me.
That his last words hinted at Interpol interference.
Tate sees the question in my eyes when he mentions Interpol, and speaks as if he’s addressing the whole room, though I know he’s only speaking for my benefit.