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“What more can I do?” I ask.
She widens her eyes, pleading. “The kitten.”
I threaten to pluck another cube. “No kitten.”
“Fine!” She tosses the letter-playing piece back into the box. “How ‘bout you try being sweet for a change?”
I give a belly laugh. “Me? Sweet? When have ye ever heard someone use that word to describe a Burnes man?”
Fiona returns before Freya can dole out any more useless advice.
We quickly mask our faces from our disagreement, focusing on Fiona’s return to the game room.
Her face is paler than usual.
Freya and I share a glance.
“Come sit.” Freya pats the seat of Fiona’s open chair. “How was your da, honey?”
She looks at Freya. “He said he’s quitting drinking.”
I put my glass down. “That’s fantastic.”
“Aye. He was clear, present… and apologized for all those years—” Overwhelmed, she reaches up to brush away a tear. Pushing back her seat, she stands right back up. “You know, I’m growing tired. Can we leave the game for tomorrow? I need my bed.”
“Of course, sweetheart.” Freya stands to hug her.
Fiona gives me a polite nod. “G’night.”
“Goodnight.” I swirl my glass, watching the dark honey whisky move.
When she’s out of earshot, Freya joins me, curling into the open leather chair at my side.
“Good for her da, but whisky for me, please.” Taking the cup from my hand, she takes a deep sip. “God. This is good.”
“Fredrick’s stuff,” I say. I grab the bottle from the side table and fill the glass for her.
“Thanks.” She takes another sip, savoring the warm, flavorful liquor. “From Frisky Whisky? The new one on the West End?”
I nod. “The very place.”
“That distillery is supposed to be the city’s new hotspot. The girls and I are going as soon as it opens next month.”
I stare at Fiona’s wake. “Don’t invite her.”
“Why not?” Freya eyes me.
I shake my head. “The wildest bar she’s been to is the Hobgoblin. She’s got no need to be in nightclubs.”
“Be nice,” Freya says. “She’s our guest.”
“It’s not about being nice,” I say. “It’s about being safe. She’s too naive. I don’t want her out.”
“You can’t control her every move,” Freya sighs.
“I can and I will. I brought her here to be my bride. I’ll not wait much longer.” I run a hand over my beard. “You still have the contract, right?”
She nods. “One marriage certificate. Forged for the bride, signed by the groom, and two witnesses, sealed, and only has yet to be delivered.” She eyes me. “But as I’ve told you, Callum. I have my own morally gray code, and I’d really like this to be our last resort?—”
