Mac (Mountain Men 2)

I finish my pint with a snort. “Well, that’s not that perceptive. Any red-blooded man will say that.”

She laughs. “And any red-blooded woman! Honestly, you men think you’re the only ones that enjoy sex?”

We’ve caught the attention of the bartender, but I don’t bloody care.

I lean toward her, brushing my thumb across the top of her hand that lies casually on the bar. “I’ll tell you what, Bryn.” I lower my voice so she has to lean in to hear me. “If I got you alone, I’d absolutely prove you wrong.”

She takes such a big chug of wine, she half-empties her glass. “Wrong about what?”

I grin at her. “That men don’t think women enjoy sex.” I lean in even closer, my mouth to her ear. “And if I had you alone, even if you didn’t enjoy sex, you would when I was done with you.”

She touches her fingers to her throat and swallows hard. “Oh?”

“Oh.”

I nod and raise my hand for the tab.

“Tell you what, I’m famished. Let’s get something to eat?”

The bartender brings over the tab, and I hand him cash.

“Yes, I’d love that. Where to?”

“I’ve got a specific place in mind. But first, how did you get here tonight, and where’s your bodyguard?”

“Drove on my own,” she says with a sigh. “And he’s out there, waiting. I’m sure he’s got us on his radar one way or another.”

I shrug. “I can deal with that. Just taking you for dinner.”

She nods. “Fair enough.”

But she won't meet my eyes. It's the first time I wonder if she knows who I am. I can't imagine she'd ever suspect what my real purpose is, but if she had any idea who I am… I’m not exactly sure how we’ll navigate this.

“Ride with me, then we’ll come back later to pick up your car. Deal?”

She nods. “Deal.”

I brought my McLaren, my fucking pride and joy, and parked it on the street outside the pub. I like a large car to support my large frame, but this beauty’s fast and it will make it easier to lose her bodyguard.

She whistles. “This is yours?”

“Aye,” I say with pride. “You like it?”

“It’s gorgeous.”

I smile bashfully. “Thank you.” I open the passenger door for her and she climbs into the passenger seat. I trot around to my side.

“Wow, this is bloody brilliant,” she says.

I snort. “I feel like the king of the fucking road.”

“Where are we going to eat?”

“Soirée.”

She gasps. “No. Seriously? It takes ages to get a reservation there.”

I shrug. “I pulled a few strings.”

She’s quiet for a moment. “That isn’t code for breaking a few legs, is it?”

I laugh out loud, and it startles her. She jumps at the sound.

“No,” I assure her, shaking my head. “Absolutely not.”

Not that I wouldn’t. Not if I had to, for a good reason.

She breathes more easily. “Okay, good. I can abide many things, but violence…” She winces.

She’s a tree-hugging vegetarian, daughter of the most brutal mobster in Scotland. Of course she doesn’t like violence. I’ll have to remember that.

“So tell me, Mac. How many brothers and sisters do you have?”

“Two brothers.” It gets easier to say that over time. There was a time when I’d have answered three. “And two sisters.”

“My God, what a big family.”

“Aye. My mum’s got her work cut out for her. How about you?”

“Two older sisters and one younger brother.”

“So we’re both smack in the bullshit middle.”

She laughs. “Aye. Sentenced to hand-me-downs and oppressive parenting because they fear they’ll fuck us up like they did our older siblings.”

Jesus, there’s some truth to that.

“Yeah,” I say, shaking my head. “Agreed.”

“What’s your dad like?” She asks the question so unexpectedly, it takes me by surprise. Nobody ever wants me to talk about my dad, especially not someone who’s a rival. But right now, we're just two people on a date. At least if anything I've done has prepared us, that's all that we are.

“My dad was older when he had us, so he’s getting up there. Gray hair, difficulty hearing, and he’s got a terminal illness.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she says.

I shrug. Sadly, my father’s done little to ever earn sympathy. “Don’t be. He does fine.”

“What’s he have?”

“Hodgkins. It worsens as he ages. He’s currently in remission, but not well.”

She frowns and nods. “But what’s his personality like?”

I shrug. “Domineering. Overbearing. He was a strict disciplinarian with me and my brothers. My sisters, not as much.”

She sighs. “Isn’t that funny. I think my own father was the opposite.”

Yes, Bryn. Our fathers are opposites in many ways.

“How so?”

She rolls her eyes. “He was ten times stricter with his daughters than his sons.”

Fucking bastard.

I reach for her hand and give her a squeeze. I try to make light of it.

“Don’t blame him,” I mutter. “If I had a daughter like you, I’d lock you up and never let you out of the house.”