Page 88 of Sinful Like Us

I smile all the way back to my seat, and the dance we play happens more than once, more than thrice, more than I can count—and by the time we land, I long to be back in the air with him again.

Five rental cars later and a four-hour drive through a picturesque landscape of sprawling hills and valleys—grass a blend of brown and burnt green hues for winter, and the air chill with every crisp breath—we’ve finally reached our destination.

Everyone carries or rolls their luggage into an old, family-owned inn called Mackintosh House, complete with turrets and worn burgundy stone. For one week, it’s all ours.

Charlie meanders towards the garden, studying the relic of a building. He has a quiet love of old architecture.

I glance behind me before I enter. Beyond our parked cars on the gravel path.

Land stretches as far as my eye can see. Sheep roam with leisure, and if I strain my ears, I can almost hear the babble of a stream passing through this calm little hamlet.

I begin to smile. I’m truly happy that this is a viable option for my best friend’s wedding. It’s peaceful here. Maximoff and Farrow also chose this remote spot in the countryside because it’d be an absolute pain for paparazzi to reach.

It wasn’t even easy for us.

Figuring out how to shuffle vendors and guests to this location is a brainteaser. But I love a good logic puzzle, and I haven’t been this excited in a while. Something must be in the Scottish air or the fact that Thatcher keeps stealing glances as we head inside.

His boldness should heat me head-to-toe like a boiling furnace. It usually does, but there is a glaring issue with Mackintosh House.

It’s hellishlycold.

I shiver as I wheel in my suitcase.

“This place is super creepy,” Sulli says under her breath, the wallpaper deep reds and greens, a winding banister leads to the dark upstairs, and old black and white photographs hang on the walls. Doily cloths are absolutelyeverywhere.

“I love it,” I announce.

Oscar passes me. “Retro Granny Realness.” He raises his hand for a high-five, and I tap his palm with a smile before he treks upstairs.

“I bet it’s kinda haunted.” Luna snaps photos on her phone. “Kinney is gonna love this.” She inspects the picture she just captured. “Or she’ll hate that she’s missing out.” The young girls couldn’t ditch their last week in school before winter break.

Sulli and Luna leave to go unpack, but I don’t follow.

While footsteps and voices echo around the drafty eight-bedroom house, I’m on a hunt in the rustic kitchen. Knees on the icy hardwood, I fumble through a crooked junk drawer, searching for any manuals to the heaters.

None will turn on, and Mackintosh House is far too large to be heated from a single living room fireplace.

I reach the bottom stack of papers.

“Any luck?” Thatcher saunters into the kitchen.

I blow a frizzed hair off my lip. Oh…

He’s…exceedingly tall. While I’m down here, on my knees.

His white button-down and dog tags also take me aback for a second. Even if he appears like his brother, I could never mistake him for Banks like Tony and O’Malley already have.

Neither one batted an eye on the plane.

I skim him a little more, a sweltering breath in my lungs. I suppose Thatcher seeing me dressed in all black would be just as jarring for him.

I shut the drawer. “The only manual I could find was for the washer/dryer.” I stand, a chill biting my neck, and I pull my zebra coat tighter around my breasts.

Thatcher switches on the gas burner and oven. Flames lick the stovetop grates. “Come here.” He motions me closer.

He is incredibly inviting. All six-foot-seven of him. Oh-so-warm and…hot.

So eloquent.