Page 39 of Captive Mafia Wife

“He sounds like a sweetie.” The man I found so infuriatinga moment ago now tugs my heartstrings. “Halloween…so he’s all black?”

“Yes. Well, no. He has a tiny white fur bow tie just here.” He runs a finger along the hollow at the base of my neck. My skin responds with a trail of heat in the wake of his touch. “Other than that, he’s your favorite color of couture: midnight black.”

“He sounds very handsome.”

The quaint barn is painted a soft brown with white trim and large windows, a place you could host a rustic wedding.

Fredrick calls the cat’s name once. A moment later, a black streak is running right toward him. He scoops up the tiny cat, holding him in the crook of his arm as he tells me how, on a stormy night in Glasgow, he was taking his trash down to the bin behind his apartment above the distillery—he takes out his own trash?—and heard a distressed meow coming from the street.

In the pouring rain, he got down on his belly, reached into a storm drain where he heard more meows, and coaxed the little kitten into his hands.

Happy Halloween is obsessed with the man. Like Ginger, he wants NOTHING to do with yours truly. Seeing Fredrick so tender, caring for the helpless little kitten, knowing he had no parental love to mimic? The gentle display gives me a few healthy throbs in my uterus.

“I like your cat.” I press my thighs together, telling my minge to shush. “You know I have a soft spot for All Hallows Eve.”

“I’m aware.”

“I really like his name. I’m just surprised you would choose something so…fun.” I stare at the adorable kitten. “I’m thinking, Cat. Maybe Mr. Cat. Or if you were feeling frisky, perhaps Midnight?”

“You don’t think I’m fun?” he asks, bemused.

“You’ve spent the first half of the morning rattling off dates and facts about the history of the town of Inverness.”

Flashing a wicked grin. “You find me quite amusing when I’m under your skirts.”

“Och. Boy.”

“Here’s a fun fact,” he says. “Did you know the name Frisky Whisky was because I lost a bet? My friend knew I would hate it, so he bet me twenty grand in a card game. If I won, I got the cash. If he won, he got to name my brand.”

“I can see why you wouldn’t have wanted that name,” I say. “Not a fun fact, though. Not as fun as naming your cat after my favorite holiday.”

“I know it’s your favorite—I’ve been to your party. Twice.” He grins. “I especially like the taste of the dessert I stole at the last one.”

I blush. “You’re mad.”

“Top three?” he asks.

I raise my brows. “Holidays?”

He nods, nuzzling his cheek against the cat.

“I think you can guess my number one. Then Christmas. I go over the top at Norse Garden. Fresh greenery, red bows, about ten thousand strings of white lights. You should see it.” I go quiet momentarily,realizing this mess may not be cleared up by then. “Anyway. And number three, being a loyal Scot, St. Andy’s Day.”

“Ah—St. Andrew’s Day, the feast of the Apostle Andrew,” he confirms.

“The very same. Also lovingly referred to as St. Andy’s for a beloved tennis player of ours—you know what? Never mind. You can call it whatever you like as long as you partake in the festivities.”

“Years ago, I arrived in Scotland for the first time on November thirtieth. That was quite an experience.”

I try to picture Fredrick in his dark gray suits and perfect manners, trying to navigate sidewalks filled with inebriated Scots. The image tickles me with a giggle.

“On behalf of Scotland, I do apologize. Every Scot you bumped into was probably dead blootered,” I laugh. “We go to church, of course, but after service, St. Andy’s Day is an excuse to get wreaked and stuff ourselves silly with our beloved traditional foods.”

“For you that means mounds of sweets and pounds of crumbly tablet, which I quickly learned not to call fudge.”

“I eat sausage!” Happy Halloween looks up at me, and I take the opportunity to reach out and let the little cat sniff me. He seems content enough with my presence, so I stroke him under his silky chin. He doesn’t seem to mind.

My fingers brush against Fredrick’s skin as I pet the kitten. He doesn’t seem to mind, either. I ask him, “What’s your favorite holiday?”

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