Page 56 of Captive Mafia Wife

“Aye! Born and bred.” I hold my Tunnocks teacake up in the air with pride. “Long live Scotland.”

“How have you not been to Edinburgh?” he asks. He pours me a tassie of tea with a skoosh of milk, passing it to me.

“Thank you.” I take a deep sip of the delicious tea, confirming he’s gotten the ratio perfect.

“Do islanders not travel?” he asks.

“We’re not the only ones.” Peeling back the silver-and-red wrapper of my teacake, I inform him, “You’d be surprised how infrequently we in the United Kingdom do ‘tourist things’ even though they are right under our noses. I have a friend at the firm.” A pang for my old life hits. “She was from a small town in England, living only an hour's train ride from London, and had never been. One of the most important cities in the world.” I shake my head, stunned. “Can you imagine?”

“I cannot.” He goes pensive. “The French explore and appreciate every inch of their beautiful country, from the cities to the Riviera to the peaceful countryside.”

“Of course they do, because you all have a different wine and cheese to try at every stop.” I eye him. “France is so beautiful. There is so much culture. And my goodness, I loved the food. Do you miss it?”

He casts his gaze over his hands. “Too many memories.”

“Understood.” I keep it light. “I adore Scotland, but France beats us in the delicacy department. We have haggis and sausage. There’s only so much ground meat product one can partake of.”

His nose wrinkles as if he’s smelling the stuff. “What’s haggis?”

“Did we not have it at the pub on St. Andy’s Day?” I try to remember. Only chains and riding crops are coming to mind.

“I can’t say that we did.” A mischievous smile. He’s thinking of the same memory.

“I guess we were doing things other than eating sheep entrails—never mind. You don’t want to know what haggis is made of. Trust me.”

“I’ll take your word for it. And I think Edinburgh will make for a perfect day trip.”

I’m always so impressed with how quickly he can type. His fingers fly over the keyboard as he searches.

I am the one at Norse Garden who always steers the ship and makes the plans. I must say it’s nice to have someone besides me and Jesus take the wheel for once. With his eliteupbringing, extensive travel experience, and excellent taste, Fredrick’s almost as good a planner as me.

Och. Confession—even better than me. Le sigh.

Letting him do his thing, I flip through the newspaper he brings to the room every morning for our morning routine. I’m beginning to enjoy the feel of the paper between my fingers, missing my news app on my phone less and less. I sip at my soy latte sprinkled with cinnamon while nibbling at the warm chocolate croissant he ordered.

It's funny how quickly we’ve grown comfortable in our routine, how he’s come to know all my likes and, more importantly, dislikes—veggie quiche, I’m looking at you, spinach and onions have no place at breakfast.

Fifteen minutes later, he snaps his laptop shut. Putting my paper down, I give him my full attention. “Lay it on me, tour guide. What are we getting up to on this lovely New Year’s Day?”

“I’m so glad you asked.” His brown eyes sparkle. What I used to confuse with cockiness I now know is a mischievous warmth. “First, we’ll drive to Edinburgh.”

“Complete with our entourage, I’m sure.”

“Absolutely.”

“Can we spare a wee bit of security today? Pretty please? Everyone will be so hungover from New Year’s Eve that looking for us will be the furthest thing from their Hoaxy minds.” I gasp a breath after my monologue, trying to describe the wave of emotion that comes over me on this sunny winter day. “I want to feel…”

He fills in my thoughts. “Normal?”

“Aye. Thank you.” We’ve also been known to complete one another’s sentences, which makes Morven’s eyes roll to the back of her head. “I’d like to feel normal for a day.”

“Thankfully, there is nothing normal about you, Freya Burnes.” He waits a beat before saying, “But I’ll see what I can do.”

He loves to please me, and I try to reciprocate. I hope he sees that when I finish the garden.

Not wanting to be a problem, I say, “Whatever you think is best, of course, but I would love a casual day in the crowd, which is difficult, surrounded by burly circus men.”

“We’ve been over this. Alex is not, nor has he ever been, a member of Fossett’s Circus. Though I must admit that mustache is from another place and time.” He leaves no space for me to chime in. “Moving on. I’ve blocked the day off into four, three-hour events.”

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