A Necessary Sin (The Sin Trilogy, #1)(55)

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We’re sitting at a booth table at the Royal McGregor looking at the menu. “What will you be having?”

My options are limited, as always. I’m not a huge fan of Scottish cuisine. “I think I’ll go with the French toast.”

He peers over his menu at me. “I brought you out today to show you authentic Edinburgh and you’re going to start the day with French toast and Canadian maple syrup? I don’t think I have to tell you that’s not the least bit Scottish. You should be having the traditional breakfast.”

I look at what it includes. “Your sausage isn’t like what I eat at home. It’s … ugh. And your bacon isn’t bacon. It’s ham from a weird part of the pig. And you can forget me touching black pudding or haggis. I’m not eating anything that includes blood or intestines. I don’t do that at home and I’m not doing it here. French toast and coffee are safe, so that’s what I’m going with.”

He places his menu on the table. “You can try mine.”

He’s wrong if he thinks I’ll be budging an inch. “Oh … no, sir. That won’t be happening.”

He smirks, appearing confident he’ll have his way. “We’ll see.”

We’re halfway through our meal when he makes his first offer of haggis. I don’t as much as glance in his direction. “Try it. You’ll love it.”

“No, thank you.”

“Come on, Bonny.”

“I said no.” He places a small portion on my plate and my stomach immediately churns. “Get that off my plate. It’s going to make me sick.”

He smirks at me. “You’re being childish.”

The churning is worsening. “This isn’t taking care of me.” I bring my napkin to my mouth hoping the nausea will pass.

“What’s wrong with you?”

I point in the general direction of my plate. “That! It’s grossing me out.” I toss my napkin over my plate because now I have an aversion to everything on it. “Excuse me.”

I get up from the table and go to the restroom. I pat my face with a cool, wet paper towel and breathe in deeply and slowly.

I must’ve been in the restroom for a while when I hear a knock at the door. “Bonny? Are you all right ?”

“I’m fine. Give me another minute and I’ll be out.”

Of course, he hasn’t returned to his seat when I open the door. He’s standing there waiting for me.

I’m pissed off so I walk past him but he grabs my arm. I yank it from his grasp. “You’re a total ass for doing that. I told you that stuff made me sick.”

He cups his palm around my cheek. “Are you going to be okay?”

I’ve always had a strange aversion to some types of meats and the medication I take for my insulin resistance with the polycystic ovarian syndrome isn’t helping. “It’s debatable, thanks to you.”

“I’m sorry. I thought we were having fun. I had no idea it would make you feel ill.” He puts his curled finger under my chin and lifts, forcing me to look at him. “How can I make it better?”

“I’d like some water with more than five ice cubes.” No way I can look at that stuff again. “And have those plates taken away from the table.”

“They’re already gone.” He loops his arm through mine and leads me back to the table. “She needs water over a full glass of ice, please.”

I feel somewhat better after a few sips. “I think I’m okay now.”

He cups his hand over mine. “We can tour the city together another day if you don’t feel well.”

“I’m really fine. It’s passed.”

“I promised you not even two hours ago I was going to take care of you and now you’re ill as a result of something I did. I feel bad about that.” He shakes his head as he looks down at his hand covering mine. “That doesn’t instill huge confidence about my ability to care for you.”

“It was a piece of haggis—not the end of the world. And I take medicine for the ovarian stuff. It’s a diabetic medication for insulin resistance. It often nauseates me so it’s likely that contributed as well.” I lean forward and grasp the back of his neck, pulling him close for a kiss, not giving a damn who’s watching. I press my forehead to his. “Not another word about it,” I whisper. “Got it?”

He nods, causing my head to move with his. “Got it.”

We leave Royal McGregor’s, walking hand in hand up the steep incline of the Royal Mile. We go into several shops along the way but most are full of souvenirs and things you buy when you know you’re leaving soon. I can’t bring myself to purchase anything because it feels symbolic of my approaching departure.

“MacAllister is Scottish. Have you ever studied your genealogy?”

Harry has done some research into his family tree but I’m not a MacAllister by blood, so none of what he has learned applies to me. “No.”

“You should. I bet you’d find some interesting facts.”

“I should. I have lots of free time on my hands, being a claimed woman and all.” I feel a few scattered raindrops against my face. I look to the sky. It’s suddenly dreary, the complete opposite of the way it looked only fifteen minutes ago. I’ve learned that’s typical weather for these parts. “Looks as though we’re going to get wet.”