Jesus, would I ever be attracted to another man as much as I was attracted to this one?
“New Year is about new beginnings,” Mac answered, his deep voice rumbling through me in a way that made me shiver.
Nope. It was highly doubtful I’d ever be attracted to another man as much as I was attracted to Mackennon Galbraith. It was like everything about him had a direct line to my erogenous zones.
“And new beginnings cannot help but remind us of the past and what we’re trying to move on from.”
I exhaled slowly and forced myself to ask, “And what part of the past are you trying to move on from, Mac?”
I was so afraid it was a woman, selfish as that may be.
He didn’t answer. Instead, he pushed up from his chair, and my gaze followed him. Mac was a large man, standing six feet four, broad of shoulder, his waist tapering into that perfect V film superheroes strive for. The first time I’d noticed his biceps in a tight T-shirt, the mere sight turned me to jelly. I hoped I wasn’t a deeply shallow person.
I’d never considered myself a woman who cared much about physique—my ex-boyfriends had come in all shapes and sizes—but Mac’s strength certainly did it for me. It was the combination of that with his utter ruggedness. He was so far from pretty-boy handsome; it was almost ludicrous how masculine he was. From his bold brow to his aquiline nose to the defined line of his jaw that not even his perpetually unshaven cheeks could hide.
When you looked up the meaning of the word masculine in the dictionary, Mac Galbraith’s damn picture was right there next to it. As evolved as I liked to believe I was, something about Mac’s physicality spoke to something primal within me I couldn’t deny.
And maybe I could’ve gotten past my physical attraction to the potent bloody man, if he hadn’t also been the most wonderful and caring friend these past two years.
Mac gave me his back as he crossed the short distance to a sideboard on the opposite wall. His kilt swayed against his muscular calves. I bit my lip, trying not to think about easy access and all that.
Such a perv.
The man was clearly distraught, and I couldn’t stop thinking about sex.
Shaking myself, I tried to focus as he pulled a bottle of whisky and two crystal tumblers out of the sideboard. “Drink?”
I’d had two glasses of champagne, and those had made me brave enough to seek out Mac. Who knew what the whisky might make me brave enough to do? “Sure.”
As he approached with the drink in hand, I held his stare and commented as I took the glass, “You wear a kilt well, Mac.”
The corners of his very kissable mouth quirked up. “Thank you.” His gaze flicked over me and then danced quickly away. “You look very nice.”
I wrinkled my nose. “Thanks.” I think. I took a fortifying sip of Clynelish and enjoyed the burn down my throat, spreading warm heat across my chest.
“Why are you depressed on New Year’s?” he asked.
He remained standing, so I had to tilt my head back a little to look up at him. I imagined sex with Mac was a little like being conquered, and while I was a fully independent woman outside the bedroom who chafed at the idea of anyone trying to control my choices, I enjoyed the idea of Mac holding me down to conquer me. Mind you, I also fantasized about tying his arms to my bed frame and riding him until we both saw stars, so there was that.
I swallowed a larger gulp of whisky than I’d normally, needing the jolt back to reality.
“Arro?” Mac’s brow furrowed.
Remembering his question, I shrugged. “It’s just strange seeing the estate like this, filled with people … none of whom are my dad.” Stuart Adair had been a difficult man to get to know, and truth be told, Lachlan had been more of a father figure to me during my early childhood. But I’d known my dad loved me, and since returning to Ardnoch upon graduating from Aberdeen University, we’d grown closer.
It had been almost two years since he’d died of a heart attack. We’d been walking down the beach with his dog, Bram, a big Scottish deerhound he’d adopted while I was at uni.
I couldn’t help him.
I couldn’t save him.
The powerlessness was …
I swallowed another drink of whisky, biting back tears of remembrance. Of guilt.
“Hey.” Mac reached out to tip my chin up, forcing my eyes to his. His expression was tender. “You need to let the guilt go, Arro.”
“Are you a mind reader, Mackennon?”