Cecilia

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Cecilia froze at Colin’s question, struggling to comprehend, her brain still foggy from sleep.

No. Her brain was a mess because she’d woken up in Colin’s arms.

“Cecilia,” he said, and her fingers drifted up to the name tattooed just beneath her hairline.

She was unused to people noticing it since she usually wore her hair down or in a low ponytail, but she’d just gotten her hair cut and liked the feel of the air hitting her scalp where the stylist had used clippers to trim it short. There was something about the way it felt . . .

Free.

She rolled her eyes.

Or so she’d thought.

“Who’s Hunter?” Colin snapped, dropping his hands from her arms, preferring, apparently, to glare down at her.

CeCe stiffened. Hunter was . . . well, he was special. The special-est—was that even a word?—boy she’d ever met. And she—

“I love him,” she said softly, not thinking what the words would mean to Colin, who couldn’t begin to understand her relationship with Hunter.

He was hers but not.

Kind of like the man sitting next to her had been.

Colin made a noise very much like a growl and scowled at her. “You love him?”

It was truly a pleasure to make a man like Colin McGregor squirm. One might be frightened because he was huge, with arms like tree trunks, shoulders nearly twice the breadth of hers, brows dark black and yanked together, but Colin had never hurt her.

Not physically anyway.

And besides that, he couldn’t possibly begin to understand what her relationship with Hunter was.

She’d been part nanny, part mother, part sister, and all friend to the sick little boy before he’d gotten a heart transplant the previous year. Now he was still a friend and a little brother and a son and . . . not hers. He belonged with Abby and Jordan. He had a family. He was happy and adjusted and finally, finally healthy.

But he would always hold a chunk of her heart.

“He’s eight,” she murmured. “Or rather, he’s nearly nine now.”

Colin stiffened. His eyes were wide, almost panicked, and it only took her a heartbeat to understand why.

“Your math’s off,” she said lightly. Because she understood with crystal clarity why he was so concerned. “If you’d knocked me up, we’d have a seven-year-old.”

They’d slept together eight years ago. For the first time. She internally sighed since it had also been for the last time. But the crazed look in Colin’s eyes wasn’t so much because of Hunter or her tattoo or even whether or not she’d been pleased by the events (and yes, she had been, despite fumbling on both their parts). Instead, the terror was because he was worried she might have kept a child from him.

Rage filled her. Did he honestly think she wouldn’t have told them when they’d nearly gotten married? What would she have done after the wedding? Surprise! Here’s the two-year-old you helped create!

Fucking moron.

“Hunter isn’t mine,” she snapped. “Or yours either.” One earbud in. “He was just a boy I nannied for.” She shoved in the other. “And while you may hold important information back, information that could make or break another person, I would never do such a thing. You didn’t get me pregnant, Colin, and I thank God every day for that fact.”

“What?” His brows rose. “That’s not—”

But she didn’t hear the rest of his words because she cranked her audiobook.

And then heard all of one sentence.

Colin plucked the buds from her ears and snatched her phone from her grip. He glanced down at the screen. “This rubbish comes in audiobooks now?”

Once the brogue would have sent warmth down her spine. Today that warmth was still present, though it was in the form of embarrassment.

Because the audiobook was about a Scot and an Englishwoman, the former stealing the latter away and teaching her all there was to know about pleasure and life in the Highlands. It was filled with kilts and beards, with sporrans and fabulous dresses and it was . . . so fucking embarrassing.

Once he’d been her Highlander.

She’d drooled over his kilt, admired his legs as he’d straddled his mount.

He’d shown her pleasure. A single night of glorious, soul-shattering pleasure before disappearing from her life for years.

“Give that back,” she hissed, but he merely ignored her and put one of the earbuds in and—horror of all freaking horrors—began to listen in.

A strand of black hair curled across his forehead as he turned his stare to hers.

His innocent stare. Except it wasn’t innocent. The man next to her was about as far from that sentiment as one could humanly be.

“Stop,” she snapped, extending her hand. “You’re not cute and the guileless little boy eyes won’t work on me. Give. Me. My. Phone.”

“I don’t sound like that,” he muttered, but took out the earbud and returned her cell. “That is the most inaccurate genre of books I’ve ever come across. I can’t believe you still read—”

“I don’t care if it’s accurate or not”—she glowered—“but these authors do a ton of research, so I have faith in them. And plus, it’s fiction. I’m allowed to get lost in the story, just for the pleasure of it. Just because I enjoy it.” She stopped, chest heaving, cheeks hot. She hated when people judged her because of the books she read. So what if she read romance? The stories and writing were good, and didn’t everyone deserve a happily-ever-after?

Even if those HEAs didn’t always materialize in real life.

“If you want to really learn about Scotland, you should read a history book,” he said. “Or maybe a biography. Or visit.”

Her heart squeezed tight at the old argument they’d had on a regular basis. “I’ve read loads of history books,” she whispered. “And I did visit. Or don’t you remember?”

Blue eyes held hers. “I remember.” A pause. “All too well.”

Ouch.

She blinked before glancing down at her hands. “Yeah, well. I wasn’t exactly planning on this.”

“On what?” He turned more fully, his elbow encroaching on her armrest, his scent teasing her nose, that damned lock of hair still falling across his forehead and making her ache to smooth it back into place. “On being trapped next to me for twelve hours?”

She shook her head. “On ever seeing you again.”