Tate (Mountain Men 3)

“What are you writing?” Tate asks one night, while I’m sitting on the sofa, laptop perched on my knees, and he’s stirring something fragrant on the stove.

“Thought I’d try my hand at vampire fantasy romance,” I say.

He raises a brow. “Oh?”

“Aye. Fancy a trip to Transylvania for our honeymoon?”

He blinks, and only stares as his lips quirk up. I don’t blame him. Even I don’t take myself seriously half the time. “Well, now,” he says, returning to the stove. “While Romania isn’t exactly top of the places I’d really want to go to, much less on my honeymoon, I could see the appeal. Castles and whatnot. And Prince Charles does rave about it.”

“Does he, now?”

“Och, aye. But don’t they have bears that like to maul unsuspecting tourists?”

“Hmm,” I say, opening up a browser. My eyes go wide when I find out he’s not joking. “Okay, so Transylvania’s out. Isn’t there a pretty good vampire population in New York City?”

“I vant to suck your blood,” he says.

“Bloody hell,” I mutter.

“If you want someone to bite your neck, darlin’…”

My pulse races. I still bear teeth marks from our last lovemaking session. The man is a beast.

“Perhaps after dinner?” I say, my heartbeat still quickening.

He gives me a devilish look. “I like that plan. Now get yer arse out here and eat dinner.”

He sets out plates, and I get my arse out there and eat dinner. He’s a damn good cook, and the succulent braised chicken and onions beside buttered potatoes and roasted vegetables melts in my mouth.

“Have Leith and Tavish decided how they’ll make things work?” I ask. Now that Tavish is back, he's the rightful Clan leader, but Leith has been acting leader for several years.

“Aye,” Tate says. “Seems the McCarthy Clan share dual leadership? Leith and Tavish will do the same.”

I nod. “Like, each have different roles?”

“Precisely.”

“Does your dad yet know that Tavish is back?”

Bram Cowen’s taken to forgetting things lately, his mind aged and forgetful as he struggles with dementia. Fortunately, he seems to have also forgotten he’s an arsehole.

“Well,” Tate says, pausing with a fork raised to his mouth thoughtfully. “Yes and no. He does know he’s here, but he doesn’t seem to remember he was ever gone.”

“Maybe that’s for the best.”

“Aye.”

We eat in comfortable silence a bit longer, and when I’m done, I clear our plates and bring them to the dishwasher. I like this, though. The peace and ease of mountain life. Togetherness. The solitude of the two of us in our home, but the option of family nearby if we choose to join them for dinner as well. It’s the best of both worlds, really.

Islan says she’s no longer with Kane but doesn’t offer any details when asked. I suspect the “no longer” part is merely a formality, though, perhaps to throw off her overbearing older brothers. I saw the way those two looked at each other.

And Kane, for his part, has kept his word. I’ve given him every detail I can, and in exchange, he’s granted the Cowens immunity from Interpol. Lucky for him, the Welsh still think him dead, but it’s best if he goes back to America to make sure it stays that way.

A knock comes at the door, and I rise to go and answer it.

“Expecting anyone?” I ask.

His eyes merely twinkle at me.

Paisley and Islan arrive, bearing bags and bags, even a wee wheelie thing.

“What on earth?”

Tate smiles and silently loads the dishwasher as they present me with brand-new luggage that looks like it cost a mint, new, stunningly gorgeous boots, and a select few new clothing items.

“Honeymoon gift,” they say, giggling, then parting just minutes after arriving.

“Have to hand it to the girls,” he says with a smile. “They do love shopping, don’t they?”

“Och, aye,” I say, distractedly, as I tear into the packages. “My God, Tate, you’ve gone all out.” I know he’s the one that funded this.

I’ve never had luxuries like this. Gorgeous leather bags, lacy, high-end lingerie, trousers that fit perfectly, soft cardigans and sweaters. Pretty colors, plush fabric, and they all fit me to a tee. I know, because I strip right in the middle of the living room and give him a bit of a fashion show.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“Thought you needed to do a little Russian research, so…” He grins. “Honestly, love, haven’t booked it. Where do you want to go?”

The truth is? I don’t want to go anywhere. I’m perfectly content right here, with him.

“Can you just take a few days off?”

“Aye, of course.”

“And can we… just stay here?”

There’s nothing more pleasurable for me than enjoying a quiet dinner with him, a steaming mug of tea by the large windows, the blue-tinged mountains our view. Snuggling up on the padded window seat with books, my feet in his lap, while the moon rises over the mountains. Building a fire in the fire pit, grilling food outdoors, sitting in the sit-out-erie with a mug of cocoa. It’s everything I want. Literally everything.