One More for Christmas(95)

“It was selfish. I need you to have a good time so that you recommend this place to all your rich clients.”

“Whatever happens, I’m going to do that.”

“You are?” He dropped the box of matches and retrieved it. “Best if I don’t burn the place down, then. This is a little nerve-racking. You’re only the second woman I’ve ever brought here. And the first time didn’t go well.”

“What happened to the first one? Don’t tell me—her bones are buried in a shallow grave under the cottage.”

“No, but I think she would have done that to me if she’d had the tools.” Candles lit, he put the matches back in the drawer and grabbed two glasses from the cupboard. “I intended it to be romantic.”

“It didn’t turn out that way?”

“She saw a spider. Screamed.” He put the glasses down on the table. “Her scream made me jump and I dropped the bottle of expensive white I’d been saving for a special occasion.”

She grinned. “That must have shocked the spider.”

“Never seen anything run so fast. And she was close behind.” He poured wine into the glasses and handed her one. “To us. May we survive everything our families throw at us.”

He sat down next to her and she tapped her glass against his.

“To starlight walks and survival skills. And to you, for rescuing me.”

He took a mouthful of wine and put his glass down. “Not sure what you mean by that, but you’re welcome.”

“If you hadn’t bundled me into the car and brought me here I would either have gone alone and died of frostbite, or I would have had an embarrassing meltdown in the house in front of your mother. Neither of those outcomes would have been great.” Her phone buzzed and she sighed. “I should have anticipated that.” She grabbed her coat and found her phone. “It’s my sister.”

“Wondering where you are?”

“Something like that.” She replied to the message.

Am fine. With Brodie, working. Don’t wait up for me.
A few seconds later, the reply came back.

Laid by the Laird?
She shut her phone off before Brodie could see it and dropped it back into her pocket, hoping he didn’t notice her blushing.

“Is your sister okay?”

“I think so. We had a big, tell-all, confessional conversation with our mother tonight, so that was a load of fun.”

“Ah.”

“Exactly.” She took another sip of wine. “Ella is probably fine. She’s the sort of person who likes things to be fixed. Likes people to get along.”

“You don’t?”

“I think I’m more—complicated.” She finished her glass of wine. “Sometimes I think I don’t have great insight into my own feelings.”

“And that—er—has nothing to do with the wine?”

“No. Maybe wine would give me more insight.”

“Sounds to me as if you knew what you wanted when we talked on the phone that night.”

“You didn’t talk to me. You talked to inner Samantha.”

The corners of his mouth flickered. “I like inner Samantha a lot. She’s a hell of a woman. Would inner Samantha like to talk about tonight?” He topped up her glass. “No pressure. But I’m happy to listen if you need a nonjudgmental ear. We don’t have to tell outer Samantha.”

“How did you know there’s an outer Samantha?”

“I’ve met her. She’s a hell of a woman, too. A little scary though.”

“Scary?”

“Massively efficient. Competent. Driven. No flaws. And she dominates inner Samantha, which is a shame.”

She ran her finger over her glass. “So there isn’t an inner and outer Brodie?”

“There probably was at one time, but they merged.”

“I wish I was more like you.” She leaned back against the sofa, nursing her glass. “As for my meltdown tonight—I think it’s been coming for a while. Ella leaks emotion all the time, but I store it up inside where no one can see it.” She took a sip of wine. “I built a life that didn’t have my mother in it, and then suddenly she’s back in it. Only it’s complicated, because my sister didn’t tell our mother she was married, or that she had a child, or that she’s currently at home and not working and I’m expected to remember who knows what about who at what point, and that is blowing my brain. And now, tonight, I discover that apparently my father didn’t die the way my mother said—I mean he did die, but only after she’d left him because he was abusive.”

“That’s—” He adjusted his glasses. “I’m starting to understand your need to escape.”

“I can’t even tell you why I’m upset—it’s all a tangled mess. But I feel like a bad daughter for not entertaining the possibility that there might have been more to my mother’s story. I feel selfish.”

“You’re not a mind reader, Samantha. Aren’t you being a little hard on yourself?”

“I don’t think so. I thought she was this tough, ruthless workaholic, but it turns out that she became that way because she had to. And then there’s my father—I had this image of him in my head. I’d sometimes picture him taking me to the park, or reading to me, or visiting me in my office. Being proud. And tonight that image was shattered forever. And I feel as if I’ve lost him, which makes no sense at all because all I’ve lost is the false pictures I painted for myself. Does this make any sense?”