Page 92 of Bonetide

“And if you got into an accident, the car rental insurance wouldn’t count. I’m the only approved driver!”

He frowns at me like he has no idea what I’m talking about, and I realize that car insurance formalities are the least of my worries right now.

I continue, getting back on track with my million questions. “Why did you bring me back here? Why not let me, you know, stay in bed and wake up in the castle like I did the other day?”

Another twitch of his lips. “I didn’t have coffee.”

My brows raise. “Pardon?”

“You wanted coffee the other morning.”

I cross my arms over the borrowed shirt. The cotton smells like him, and I hate that I’m breathing it in and noticing it despite everything.

“Yeah, and?”

“Well, I noticed,” he murmurs, clearing his throat. “You came down for breakfast and I’d put out tea and the food and you ate and drank. And you smiled and said thank you but…you’d wanted coffee. I could see it on your face. You were disappointed and, well, I suppose I didn’t want to disappoint you again.”

I open my mouth. Nothing comes out of it.

“I don’t usually drink it,” he goes on. “So, there’s none in the castle, and I’ve not had a chance to go into town for any. And I knew you’d want it.” He eyes the wood stove, where the kettle’s quietly going, then the counter behind him where I notice my French press and the bag of coffee I bought in Fort Williams open beside it and the mug I drink out of every morning—chipped and overlaid with thistles—is set out with a spoon laid across the rim. “And, well, you have it here.”

I stare at him for a moment, having a hard time comprehending it.

“You brought me home because of coffee?”

“You looked so disappointed when you drank the tea, foxglove. You were polite about it. It bothered me that I haven’t had the time to get you some, so I thought this was a simpler solution—albeit an intrusive one. Sorry if you had a fright this morning.”

I don’t know what to do. I want to laugh. I want to cry. I want to push him out the door and lock it and salt the threshold and have a quiet sit-down with myself about what kind of woman I’ve become in three weeks at this cottage, that the answer I noticed you wanted coffee strikes me as both the most romantic thing a man has ever said to me and something that has the hair up on the back of my neck.

I’m quite disturbed by his actions, yet fucking swooning at his attentiveness. Is the bar in hell?

He’s watching me work through it.

“Iris, I…”

“Give me a second.”

“Aye.”

“You woke up in the night and decided for us to move and you…dressed me in your shirt? While I was asleep, somehow without waking me? Then carried me downstairs and outside then drove my car in the dark in the rain…and let yourself into my house. How? It was locked.”

I locked it to stop people like you.

“The keys were in your pocket,” he explains. “The car key and house key. I let us in.”

Don’t let him in.

I push that voice out of my head, because I don’t want to think about that right now. “And put me in bed,” I continue. “And started the fire. Because I drank tea yesterday morning, and you could tell I wanted coffee.”

“Aye.”

“That isn’t…Alasdair. That isn’t normal.”

“No,” he agrees, “I suppose it’s not.”

“You should’ve woken me up, at the very least.”

“I tried, lass. I asked if you were all right, and you said ‘mm’ and put your face against my neck. I made the call.”