Page 31 of A Memory Not Mine (Sanguis Amantium #1)

Chapter thirty

Mira

I was still asleep in the massive carved bed when something cold and wet nudged me.

I blinked my eyes open to find Bunny’s solemn face inches from mine, watching me expectantly.

I smiled, drowsy and amused—the wiry silver hair around her eyes reminded me of Jonathan Blackwell’s unruly white eyebrows.

Footsteps echoed down the hallway, and a moment later, Baird appeared in the doorway.

“Oh, Buns…why’d ye wake her?” he chided softly, a tentative, almost shy smile tugging at his lips.

I watched him through half-lidded eyes, trying to read his expression. Something about the way he avoided my gaze made my stomach flutter—not with excitement, but with uncertainty.

Did he regret last night?

He didn’t seem cold or distant, not exactly. But there was a caution in him this morning that hadn’t been there the night before. I wrapped the sheet a little tighter around myself, suddenly unsure of where we stood now that the fire had cooled and daylight had settled in.

The heavy drapes had been redrawn sometime after I’d fallen asleep, leaving the room in a cocoon of darkness, save for a narrow sliver of morning light pouring through the stairwell window just outside the door.

My clothes, which had been left in a careless heap on the kitchen floor the night before, were now folded neatly at the foot of the bed.

“I stopped at the bakery for pastries when I took Bunny to the park,” Baird said, his voice casual, kind. “I got an assortment—almond croissant, pain au chocolat, raspberry strudel…or I could fry ye up an egg?”

He gestured vaguely back toward the hallway. “I’ve got tea on and coffee in the kitchen, and some juice too. Come down whenever yer ready. Bathroom’s across the hall.” With that, he turned and disappeared down the hallway, Bunny trotting faithfully behind him.

I took a quick shower in a marble-tile bathroom, then pulled on my jeans and sweater, skipping the bra. I towel-dried my hair and padded barefoot into the kitchen, bra in hand, ready to shove it into the pocket of my coat hanging in the closet.

Baird looked up as I approached, taking in the sight of me.

“I like the edit to yer outfit, Miss Garvie,” he said with a teasing smile, a lascivious glint in those sparkling green eyes he tried—and failed—to suppress. “I agree—the bra was redundant.”

Okay, maybe he didn’t regret last night after all. Maybe I’d been projecting.

“Coffee or tea?” he asked, already reaching for the carafe when I pointed toward the coffee maker.

“What shall it be?” he added, gesturing to both the plate of pastries on the island and the frying pan on the range behind him.

I grabbed an almond croissant and bit into the flaky end. “Mmm… I’m ravenous, and this is delicious,” I mumbled through a mouthful.

“I’m glad,” he said, leaning across the marble island to kiss my forehead. “How did ye sleep?”

“Like the dead. I don’t think I’ve slept that soundly in months.”

He stood behind the island like some absurdly handsome short-order cook, but I noticed he wasn’t eating.

“Have you eaten?”

“Nae,” he said with a shake of his head. “I don’t eat much breakfast.”

Baird said he had some calls to make and sat down at the kitchen table with his laptop open. “Make yourself at home,” he said, his voice casual—but it landed with unexpected weight.

I already knew the layout of the first floor, but up a flight of stairs on the winding staircase, I discovered a formal living room, anchored by an exquisite carved Italian marble fireplace. Wood floors stretched beneath antique Oushak rugs, their patterns softened with age.

A smaller, more casual family room occupied the northeast corner, outfitted with a large television and a comfortable sprawl of furniture. Across from it, a guest bath was tucked discreetly into the wall.

On the third floor, down the hall from the master suite, there were two smaller guest rooms connected by a shared Jack-and-Jill bathroom.

The walls in every room were painted in deep, rich colors: a moody moss green in the family room; dark coffee-colored walls in the formal living room.

One guest room was done in a muted fawn, with matching painted twin beds, the other in a serene French blue, centered around a brass bed with a wooden trunk at the foot.

Art hung in a curated blend of styles—contemporary works by Elliott Puckett and Caio Fonseca—originals, perhaps?—mixed with traditional Scottish plein-air landscapes. The contrast kept the otherwise classical interior from feeling too formal, too preserved.

There was something strikingly familiar about it all. The way this house had been decorated—layering modern and traditional elements with intent—reflected the very approach I’d used to build my own business. It made me feel unexpectedly at home .

Maybe too much so. And that realization brought with it a flicker of unease.

I wasn’t sure yet what this was between us, or what it might become.

But here, in this beautiful, thoughtfully lived-in space, surrounded by objects and choices that mirrored my own taste so precisely, I felt a strange and growing sense of belonging.

And that scared me just a little.

I wandered back to the master suite and realized just how little attention I’d paid to the room the night before. Every hour I'd spent in it had been focused on Baird—either staring at his face, tracing the lines of his body, or lying face-down under the heavy velvet coverlet in a dreamless sleep.

Unlike the painted walls throughout the rest of the house, this room was wrapped in rich wood paneling, lighter than the almost ebony oak of the carved bed. A large painted wardrobe stood against the far wall, and wide side tables flanked the bed, each topped with a brass reading lamp.

I stifled a giggle as a thought struck me—I couldn’t imagine ever using one of those lamps. Not with Baird Campbell occupying the space beside me. Reading in bed seemed laughably optimistic.

I opened the door to a built-in closet tucked into the corner of the room, its interior lined with cedar. I wondered if this was the source of the scent I’d come to associate with Baird—subtle, earthy, and ever-present since the day we met.

Inside, a few pairs of jeans were neatly stacked on a shelf beside folded T-shirts and sweaters, all in the same muted, natural tones that echoed throughout his home.

A handful of finely tailored suits and an assortment of crisp dress shirts hung on wooden hangers.

Below them, a shoe rack held several pairs: tennis shoes, the low-heeled boots he’d slipped off the night before—now returned to their rightful place—polished black and brown dress shoes that looked rarely worn, and a few pairs of rugged boots that clearly saw regular use.

This was the closet of a man who knew how to dress up but clearly preferred to dress down.

Baird found me about an hour later, curled up in an overstuffed chair in the formal living room, a book open in my lap.

“Do ye have any plans today?” he asked as he stepped into the room.

It struck me then—he might be wondering why I was still here. The warmth of the house, of the morning, suddenly gave way to unease.

“Oh—gosh, I should probably head back to the hotel,” I said, already shifting to sit up. “I’ll just call an Uber—”

“ Whoa , lass,” he interrupted, brow furrowing as he tilted his head. “Are ye plannin’ on doin’ a runner?”

“A what ?” I asked, blinking.

“Unexpectedly runnin’ out on me,” he translated, lips curving into something halfway between amusement and concern.

“Oh.” I hesitated, unsure how to explain what had taken root in my gut. “I just realized I’ve been here almost eighteen hours—you probably want your house back to yourself.”

It sounded flimsy, even to me, but I couldn’t ignore the sudden weight pressing in my chest.

“Are ye projecting, Mira Garvie?” he asked, voice light, not unkind. “Does the independent introvert need her alone time?”

His tone wasn’t judgmental. If anything, it felt like curiosity, like he was trying to understand me, not push me away .

“I mean, come on,” I said, attempting levity. “If I picked up some guy and took him home, I’d absolutely want him gone the next morning.”

He stepped closer, gaze steady. “Do ye want to be gone?”

I cleared my throat, the truth prickling just beneath my skin. “No,” I said quietly, shaking my head. “I don’t.”

The admission sat between us like a fragile glass—exposed and delicate.

“You’re not tired of having a stranger wandering around your home,” I added, glancing down at my feet tucked beneath me, “barefoot and curled up on your furniture?”

“No,” he said simply. “If ye want to know how I feel about something, just ask. That’s part of getting to know someone—something ye might not be all that familiar with.”

His tone was gentle, not scolding, and the honesty in it quieted the storm in my chest.

“Now, if I’ve calmed your fears,” he continued, “I was hoping we could spend the rest of today together. I can drive ye back to the hotel to grab a change of clothes, and then… we could take a drive, go sightseeing, maybe a hike…or,” he added, that wicked grin spreading across his face, “we could spend the rest of the day in my bed. Your choice.”

Just the look in his eyes made my sex-sore muscles ache for him all over again.

“Hmm…I like these à la carte menu options,” I purred, arching a single eyebrow. “I choose a change of clothes…and your bed, please.”

“For clarity’s sake,” he said in a tone that could’ve belonged to a contract attorney, “I should point out that the term bed will not restrict us exclusively to an actual bed. If ye recall, last night also featured the kitchen table…and a window frame.”

“Duly noted,” I replied, biting my lip .

“Then let’s start with a run to the hotel,” he growled, stepping closer. “Because once we start the second item on that menu, I don’t think we’ll want to stop for anything.”

And with that, he leaned in and kissed me—savagely, thoroughly—until I forgot where I was, what day it was, and why I’d ever considered leaving at all.