It’s just before dawn. I’m half awake, sleepily reminding myself that I’m not in my own bed. I roll onto my side and look over at Keir, who is splayed out across the bed and snoring very lightly.
In the gray light from the window, he is so handsome that I almost can’t breathe. His eyes are closed, revealing a fringe of long, dark lashes. His patrician nose juts proudly out. His high cheekbones and strong jaw are carved as though they were made of marble and hint at a divine origin.
Keir’s dark hair is matted down just above his temple. I smile and run my fingers over it, my touch gentle. It’s funny… I don’t think I’ve ever seen him have a single physical flaw in the waking hours. He’s always just so very rigid and perfect at every moment, even when he’s dressed to go running.
But just now he has bedhead. And for some reason, it’s endearing. It’s the smallest thing and yet it makes my heart clench.
God, what would happen if Keir was actually open and vulnerable around me? I would probably up and die from elation.
Keir shifts in his sleep, rolling onto his side. I know that I need to sneak out of Keir’s bed and back to my own room soon. But this is one of the rare occasions when I’m awake before he is and I can’t bear to disturb him yet.
I wrinkle my nose. Just another few minutes. Then I’ll go.
Keir wouldn’t say exactly what happened yesterday afternoon at the office with his father and brother, but it must have been ugly. He was so angry and frustrated when he came home that he was an absolute bear, his words short and clipped, a black cloud over his head. It took all evening for him to even begin to relax.
There was no doubt in my mind that he was still blowing off steam when he pulled me into his bedroom late last night and practically ripped my clothes off. The sex was hot, of course—it always is with him—but I couldn’t fully lose myself in the moment because I kept wondering what they’d done to get under his skin so badly.
It was pointless to ask, though. The chances of him opening up and sharing any of his feelings while he’s still so angry are pretty close to zero. Actually, scratch that.
Keir never shares his feelings unless they are anger, impatience, or desire. It’s a pretty limited palette that he paints with.
So I’m letting him sleep now and hoping his dreams are at least a little more peaceful than his reality has been lately. It’s in these quiet moments that I remember why I’m drawn to him. It’s not just his looks. Not just his muscles. Lord knows it’s not his way with words most of the time.
But underneath that tough, gruff exterior is a heart of gold—a lover and a father and a caring, protective man who has good intentions even if they’re hard to see and understand sometimes.
His phone buzzes on the bedside table and he’s instantly awake. So much for trying to let him get a little extra sleep.
“Just leave it,” I try to distract him with a kiss as I tug at his bicep. But I can only slow him down for a few more seconds before he squints at the phone screen and the familiar frown that he’s been wearing for the past twenty-four hours reappears on his face.
“Shit,” he mutters, then points to a dish on the beside table which holds the remote to the huge flatscreen. “Can you please turn on the TV?”
His words are clipped but still polite enough. It’s his quiet, almost strangled tone that makes me wish we could go back to sleep and start the morning over again.
I grab the remote and flip the TV on, my heart in my throat.
“What is it?” The words are barely out of my mouth before I see the answer for myself. The channel is already set to the local news station and it’s impossible to miss the headline that’s scrolling across the bottom of the screen. “Is that…”
LADY GRAYROSE OUT PARTYING AGAIN WITHOUT HUSBAND AND DAUGHTER.
“Dammit, Kinsley,” he mutters as the picture turns to footage of his ex being ushered from a sketchy-looking building to a waiting car. She’s thin—too thin, with dark circles under her eyes—and the men flanking her look like they could have stepped right out of a movie about the mafia. “What the fuck is she thinking?”
“Who are those guys?” I ask even though he’s already furiously typing out a text. “Where do you think she’s going?”
“I don’t know, but she’s obviously here in Glasgow. Don’t be surprised if she shows up at the door asking for money.”
I feel a rush of conflicting emotions. I want to stay right here next to Keir so I can support and comfort him, but it’s clear from his expression as he fires off one text after another that he would probably rather be alone. I’m also not sure how I’ll react if and when Kinsley shows up.
Will she ask to see Isla? Unlikely, going by what Saffron told me, but who really knows?
One thing is certain—I can’t deal with any of this while I’m naked in Keir’s bed.
“I need to get dressed,” I whisper, giving his arm a reassuring squeeze. I want to kiss him, want to do something that will help, but I feel like lingering next to him might be making things worse.
“I do, too,” he says. He rolls out of bed and tosses his phone aside, taking the option of a quick, comforting kiss out of my hands completely. “Will you make sure Isla doesn’t see the TV for a while? If there’s a shit-storm coming, I don’t want her to know anything about it.”
“Of course,” I nod, bundling myself into a fluffy robe and hurrying for the bedroom door. “I’ll keep her busy for as long as you need.”
I have no idea how I’m going to carry out that particular promise, especially since Isla is a smart little girl who usually can’t be deterred from doing exactly what she wants.
Can’t imagine where she learned that.
That stubborn tenacity is a personality trait that will probably serve her well in life as she deals with a bunch of rich, entitled men, but isn’t especially helpful for me at the moment.
Still, I’m going to keep her away from the TV even if I have to throw it out the window. The thought of her seeing what I just saw is… no.
That’s simply not going to happen. It isn’t even an option.
“But why can’t we watch cartoons, Ella?”
It’s the question I’ve been dreading. The question I’ve been role-playing and rehearsing over and over again in my mind for the past half-hour while throwing on some clothes and waiting for Isla to wake up.
Unfortunately, I still don’t have a good answer.
“We could play a game,” I offer instead. “A board game or—”
“No.”
I blink. She truly is her father’s daughter. “I bet there are some fun games around here somewhere. A video game, maybe?”
I can be stubborn and tenacious, too, but I know it’s a losing battle. If I can’t come up with a better alternative to the TV, I’m going to be in serious trouble. The paparazzi are waiting downstairs, so I can’t take Isla anywhere without risking them shouting questions about Kinsley. And this penthouse apartment might be big and luxurious, but it’s not exactly full of kid-friendly distractions.
Her eyes narrow and she pins me with a hard stare over the top of her cereal bowl.