Page 40 of Captive Mafia Wife

“Oh. Hmm.” His voice drops. “Honestly, holidays for meare a bit like driving for you. I don’t have much experience in celebrating them.”

The thought of not celebrating holidays hits me square in the chest. It’s unthinkable. “Like, any of them?”

He shakes his head.

Aghast, I pry further. “What about birthdays?”

“My father didn’t believe in frivolous—his words, not mine—silly sentiments. He saw celebrations as time wasters.”

That’s cold. Ice cold. Island waters in the dead of winter cold. “And your ma? Did she not wish ye a happy birthday?”

“No.” He shakes his head. “Not that I remember of her anyway. She died when I was young.”

Gah! “I’ve put my foot in it, haven’t I?”

“No, it’s just truth. It’s what happened. My mother died. My father realized a child wasn’t a tiny adult. He didn’t know what to do with me. I was shipped off to boarding school at a very young age. Not a lot to celebrate, unfortunately.”

“Would you like to celebrate holidays? You have your own grand house now. You can host half of Glasgow here.”

“I’d need a wife for that. Wouldn’t I?” He turns those deep brown eyes on me. While holding a kitten.

I shake my head. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“You looked phenomenal in that wedding dress.” He leans over so Happy Halloween can jump down. The cat rubs his ankles. “Let’s not waste such a gorgeous gown.”

Ah. The dress. The one that would have had to be ordered weeks ago.

“It’s lovely,” I agree. “The loveliest I’ve ever seen. And it fits me like a glove. Sheer perfection.”

“You are sheer perfection. The dress is just a bow on a perfect package.”

“Pretty words, but they bring up a pertinent question.”

Happy’s green eyes and Fredricks’s brown eyes stare at me in unison. “Which is?”

“You only brought me here yesterday. A dress like that? Hmmm.” I look up at the blue sky as if calculating days. “It takes some time, aye?”

Realization settles uncomfortably on his face.

I narrow my gaze, going in for the kill. “Who ordered the dress, and when?”

He runs a hand over the back of his neck. “I fear I’m not at liberty to say.”

“It’s Callum. Isn’t it?” Hands go to my hips. “He didn’t just fear for me after the court case. He’s been planning this forever.”

He doesn’t answer. His gaze says it all. Callum and he had been planning this way before I represented Jack Maclean.

I give a low moan of frustration. Happy meows. Fredrick sighs.

Callum’s not trying to save me. He’s trying to get rid of me. The realization hits hard.

Awkwardly, I say, “Thanks for letting me meet your sweet kitty. I’ll head to the house for a bit to warm up.” I leave the barn, rushing toward the castle for the solace of my room before the tears come.

Since Fiona moved in with us and christened our place Norse Garden Estate, I thought things were even better than when it was just Callum and me, as if he had gained a wife and me, a sister.

I likened us to the three musketeers.

Maybe I’ve had it all wrong.

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