Page 46 of Captive Mafia Wife

“We can decorate?” My heart does a little flutter, skipping a beat. He wants to make me happy. I should be careful, or I might be putting on that wedding dress I just relocated to the guest room closet this morning.

He nods. “Go crazy.”

“Careful, you have no idea how Christmas-crazy I can go.”

“I’ve seen your Halloween. I’ll survive.”

I lean down, planting a big ol’ smooch on him. Just as I kiss him, Morven stomps by, mumbling something under her breath about vixens and spells and seductresses.

I call to her to stop her. “Oh, Morven, wait! I havesomething for you.” I hop down off the last stair, rushing over to her.

She stands in the center of the foyer, wearing her favorite blue apron and thick-framed glasses. Her hands are on her hips, and she gives me a suspicious glance. “Hmm…what would that be, Miss Freya?”

I slip the foiled blister pack from my pocket. “Allergy pills from the best allergist in Glasgow. I had them shipped here for you. They arrived late yesterday afternoon.” I hand her the pill package.

She takes it from me, easing her glasses down her nose to read the back. “What would I need this for?”

“Just in case you ever get a soft spot for Happy Halloween. It’s getting colder outside. I’m sure he would love to come in for the winter.”

“I have a heater in the barn?—”

“Hush, Fredrick.” I can picture Happy now, curled up in a tartan cat bed snug by the Christmas tree, looking dapper in a red collar with a bow tie and a bell, festive against his black fur.

“Harrumph,” Morven says, eyeing me, then eyeing the pills.

“I’ve heard they work wonders. Even with seasonal allergies.”

She returns her hard gaze to me, although there’s a hint of trust in her eyes. “Ihavebeen a wee bit worried about him in the cold. I’ll give them a try.” A sliver of victory brightens my smile. “But don’t think for a moment you two will bring a dog into this house. Dogs are drawn to that river, and gah! The mud in the spring! I will not be cleaning up aftermuddy footprints.” She shuffles off without a goodbye, but she pops a pill out of the foil and slips the rest into the pocket of her apron.

I clap my hands, staring up at Fredrick. “Does this mean we can bring him inside now?”

“Let’s give her a few days to let the medication work.” He leans down, planting a kiss on the top of my head. “The house hasn’t felt right without him. Thank you.”

“A few days—three—tops. That gives me time to get him everything he needs.”

“He has food, a home, and care. What can he possibly need?”

“Collars. Bow ties. Beds for every room. Scratching posts. Fancy bowls with his name on them.” I shrug. “You know. The basics.”

He smiles. “I guess we have some shopping to do.”

Online shopping is excellent, but there’s nothing like seeing the decorations in person, holding the fabric between your fingers, and smelling the scent of the candles.

“Any chance you can get me into town without putting us in danger?” I ask.

A twinkle warms his gaze. “I have a better idea.”

A few hours later, my personal Father Christmas, aka Fredrick, and I are on a private shopping spree at the Harrods in Inverness. Room after room of beautiful things, enchanting scents, and the most gorgeous store decorating I’ve seen. As a wee girl on the island decorating our mantle for Christmas by arranging dried Strawberry grass in vases with scraps of red ribbon and placing them next to plainwhite candlesticks, Harrods in December is me dying and going to holiday heaven.

And to have it all to our wee selves?

DEAD. Brilliant.

I politely ask Fredrick if they could crank up the Christmas music since it's just us. They do. Staff hit the perfect balance of bringing us cups of hot, spiced tea, bites of Christmas sweets and candies, and giving us privacy to enjoy the displays.

It’s quite romantic. I peek at Fredrick as he examines a display of cashmere sweaters for both men and women. He’s so damn handsome. And he’s here with me, making my Christmas dreams come true.

My uterus throbs, wetness dampening my cotton Christmas tree panties. I toss my hair over my shoulder, demanding my minge to calm. “Whatcha looking at.”

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