Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine

“If I could have you all gather over here!” A woman dressed in a historical costume called out, and we all walked toward her. She opened a roped off door, checking our tickets as we all filed into the dimly lit room.

“This is a little eerie,” I whispered as I walked close to Kirby. The scent of old, stale air assaulted my senses as I waited in the small room with about thirty other people.

“Welcome to Mary King’s Close! I’m Jonnet Nimmo, Mary King’s youngest daughter. I’ve lived here in the close since I was seven years old, and will be taking you on the tour this evening.” Her thick Scottish accent rolled about the room, making it seem smaller yet taking a little of the creepiness from the situation.

“So it’s actors?” I whispered to Kirby.

“No, she’s several hundred years old,” he whispered back, his face expressionless.

“Ass.”

“You’re the one that asked an idiotic question, Merry.” He playfully pushed me with his elbow.

“Fine.”

The tour guide, Jonnet, started again, asking us to be careful about the steps, the dust, and such, and then she started to lead us down a small staircase to the underground.

“You didn’t say we were going underground.” Shivers started giving me goose bumps as we went down, down, and down into a dimly lit underworld. Tall buildings lined the narrow street, lamplight filtered through the overly still air but what was the freakiest was looking up and not seeing the sky.

Buildings… no sky.

“Where the hell are we?” I asked Kirby.

“Under the Royal Mile,” he spoke slowly, drawing out each word.

“Could you make that sound more creepy?”

“I could try—”

“No. I’m good.”

Jonnet took us through several streets, describing how this was once a thriving central economical part of Edinburgh during the 1600s. The buildings held shops on the bottom and residences on the higher levels. The highest level was owned by the wealthiest — like the penthouse — but it was the best real estate for one reason.

The sun.

With the buildings as tall as they were, people on the lower levels only captured brief glimpses of the sun, and lived in the shadow of the buildings most of the day.

The song, ‘Wide Open Spaces’, kept playing through my head as I listened to her talk. She led us into a small room. “This is a typical middle class home.” She gestured to the room.

“As in only this room?” I asked Kirby.

“As in, yes. This one room, and if they had a cow, it was in here too.”

“Ew.”

“T’was the way things were.”

Jonnet’s voice interrupted my thoughts. “And with no indoor plumbing, the bucket of… waste… would be dumped at two times during the day, down the slightly angled street.”

“Say what?” I whispered hoarsely.

“They’d simply call ‘Gardy-loo’ and dump away. Of course there were set aside times for this, seven in the morning, and ten at night.”

“Oddly enough, it’s why we call it the loo, when we refer to the toilet. Gardy-loo — going to the loo.” Kirby shrugged, as if it wasn’t appalling.

“I have no words.”

“That’s a first.”

We traveled down the street, and I couldn’t help but think of all the… waste… that had littered the streets. Good mercy, no wonder the plague went viral!

Okay, okay. Bad pun.

But still!

“The average life span of a man during this time was about thirty five years old, and was often cut short with the breakout of the plague.” The tour guide called over the crowd as we entered a small room with wax people in various states of torture from the plague.

“So if the life span was thirty-five, you’d only have a short time left to live.” I jagged Kirby with my elbow.

“Hilarious. And you’d have no teeth so I’d not talk, lass.”

After glaring at him, and swiping my tongue across my teeth after that comment, I glanced to the room. The sight of the creepy plague doctor with the bird mask had me wanting to hide behind Kirby.

“I hate that guy,” I mumbled, rubbing my arms with my hands to heat them from the goose bumps that broke out.

“I’m sure he wouldn’t have liked ye either… if he weren’t dead several hundred years ago. Really, Merry? I took ye for a wee bit of a braver heart. I was sorely mistaken.” He clicked his tongue.

“I am brave. This is just creepy. Being brave is different than simply being creeped out.” I couldn’t pull my gaze away from the wax figure of the doctor, with his hand raised over a little boy. I half expected him to come to life.

“Boo!”

I jumped, squealed, and bumped into the large man beside me, earning a glare. “So sorry.” I lifted my hands in surrender, but he simply sighed and walked toward the retreating form of the tour guide.

“I hate you,” I seethed to Kirby who was trying — and failing — to hold in his laughter, and stormed off.

“Do not,” Kirby countered, completely unaffected.

“You’re right. It’s worse than hate,” I said with a deathly calm.

“You look slightly deranged. It’s okay, I expect it from you.”

“I’m going to—”

“If you’ll all file in here and take a seat, we’ll have a short video on the history of Mary King’s Close.” The tour guide interrupted my threat.

I stalked into the room, taking a seat and sighing overly loud when Kirby sat beside me.

The lights dimmed even lower, and the movie started. Eerie music floated through the sound system as the narrator gave us a short history on the plague, the famous doctor, and how they would dispose of the dead. Tension was thick in the air. Like watching an old Alfred Hitchcock movie, you knew it wasn’t real but you couldn’t feel like it wasn’t real. The logic didn’t overrun the emotional state that lured you into the dark shadows of history. The doctor with the bird costume leaned over a boy, and it grew silent in the room. “Be gone!” The doctor yelled abruptly and the tour guide slammed a wooden bar against the table at the same time. I screamed, jumped, and tried to calm my racing heart as it tried to pound through my chest. Thankfully, most of the crowd reacted the same as I.

“Not funny,” I scolded to myself, even as I heard Kirby’s soft laughter.

“You almost jumped out of yer skin.”

“I think my heart almost stopped,” I whispered, almost gasping since my heart was still pounding as though I had run a marathon.

“I do think yer more entertainin’ than the Close.”

“Happy to be your side show.” We stood and exited the room. Jonnet held open the door, and I glared at her as we passed.

“She dinna care,” Kirby added.

“Well… I feel better.”

The tour ended shortly after, and as we walked outside, I wanted to kiss the ground. Glancing up I saw the sky, I whispered reverently, “It’s beautiful.”

“I take it ye don’t like confined spaces.”

“No.”

Kirby’s amusement filled the small courtyard and I walked away, irritated and still miserably affected by the rich sound of that chuckle.

“Ach, so now you learn how to move quickly.”

“When getting away from you? Yes.”

“Merry, we both know you run away from me just as much as you run to me. I ken yer secret.” His voice whispered in a thick brogue.

“Yes, my heart beats for you,” I replied dryly, trying to keep it together. “Where to now? I’m staving.” My stomach rumbled to accent my statement.

“Hmm… how about whisky?”

I turned to face Kirby, expecting to see him have some sort of expression that would tell me he was kidding.

He wasn’t.

“For dinner?” I asked.

“Part of it, yes. We are in Scotland. Whisky… it is part of a Scotsman’s very blood.” He pounded his heart with his fist.

“I’m more of a hard cider type of girl. I had this one from Sweden, it was amazing—”

“No. Whisky.” He nodded once, took my hand and led me up the street.

And I do mean up. Since we were still on the Royal Mile, we started back up toward Edinburgh Castle, the elevation taking a steep climb as we made our way up the last half of a block.

“Why are we going to the castle?” I asked, ignoring the warmth of his hand in mine.

And the fact that I didn’t try to pull away.

“There’s a whisky tour—”

“No more tours.”

“Don’t get yer panties in a twist. It’s a whisky tour. Alcohol.”

“Then I approve of this tour.”

“Of course, your highness.”

We crossed a street, leaving Edinburgh Castle row and taking a slight turn. Kirby paused before a place called Cross Arch.

“This’ll do. I know the barkeep. If it’s none too busy…” He pushed open the door, leading us into a room filled with dark wood walls, deep green accents and a long bar.

“William!” Kirby called to the man behind the bar, wiping a shot glass with a bar mop.

“Church! I dinna believe my eyes! And with a lass, no less!” William shook his head. He was a stout man of at least fifty, with long gray hair that was pulled back into a ponytail. His white beard gave him a grizzled appearance, but his face was lined with the kind of wrinkles someone gets from smiling a lot.

“Dinna get any ideas, William. This one hates me.” He nodded in my direction, even as our hands were laced together still.

“True.” I shrugged.

William’s gaze shot between me and Kirby — Church — and he simply chuckled. “That’s how the good one’s start. What can I get ye?” He set the glass down and braced the bar with both hands.

“The lass hasn’t tried our Whisky yet—”

William shook his head, his expression one of disappointment.

Kirby leaned forward, whispering, “Says she likes Sweden’s cider.” He shook his head.

William the barkeep eyed me. “So she’s not Scottish, is she? I should have known by the accent. Bloody Americans.”

“Hey!”

“He’s right. So, William.” Kirby leaned against the bar. “I’m thinking we need to start her out slow—”

“With food. The lass needs food.” I released Kirby’s hand and pulled out a menu.

Kirby plucked it from my fingers, and tossed it behind the bar.

“Why did you do that?”

“Let Church take care of you.” He gave me a sultry once-over with his eyes.

“Is there a reason you keep referring to yourself in the third person… Kirby?” I asked, tilting my head and smiling sweetly.

“Ach, so this one’s known you for a while, eh?” William chuckled. “I like her, I do. Some fire in her spirit. Lass, I’ll be right back with somethin’ for you to eat.” He left chuckling.

“I do not refer to myself in the third person.” Kirby rolled his eyes.

“Yes… yes, you do. A lot actually. Church this and Church that… I’ve got it! You’re afraid you’ll forget your own name so you keep saying it over and over and over—”

“I ken what my own bloody name is, wench.”

“You did not just ‘wench’ me.”

“I did. Wench.”

“Kir-by.” I bit the word.

“I dinna care. Call me whatever you want… wench.”

I huffed, my mind spinning for something smart to say back.

“Here, maybe the whisky will loosen up your brain.” He took two shot glasses from behind the bar, lifted a bottle and examined the label, then poured two measures. He carefully slid one to me. “Unless yer afraid,” he dared, then pounded the shot back, slamming the glass on the wooden bar.

“It’s not a contest.” But I knocked back the shot he gave me. The whisky trailed down my throat like a hot coal, warming my belly and spreading that heat throughout all my limbs.

I held in a cough, but damn if that shot wasn’t like swallowing fire!

“What kind was that?” I asked with a hoarse voice, my throat still tingling.

“One of our stouter varieties. ’Twill warm ye up a bit, give you an… open mind.” He filled up another shot glass and lifted it to his lips.

“You’re not getting laid.”

The whisky spewed from his mouth and all over the counter. Coughing, he turned a deadly glare to me. “What made ye think that?”

“Liquoring me up so you can take advantage. Shameful. A new low, even for you.” I shrugged. Grabbing the bar mop, I tossed it at his face. “Clean up your mess and don’t waste whisky.”

“You’re a pain in the arse.”

“Never claimed not to be.”

The kitchen door swung open and William came out carrying two trays of French fries, or chips as they called them. The steam swirled above the overloaded baskets and the heavenly scent called to me.

Fried food was a universal language.

“What happened here?” William asked as he set down the baskets and eyed Kirby as he mopped up the sprayed whisky.

“He choked.” I offered a sweet smile as I picked up a ‘chip’. It was blistering hot, and I dropped it back in the basket.

“Did not. Wench, here wanted to get laid… I told her it wasn’t proper to do it in a pub.”

“What?” I shouted, smacking him on the back of the head. “That is not what happened!” I turned to William.

“She’s a wily wench.”

“You’re a jackass!”

William’s deep laughter interrupted my anger and he shook his head. “I’m too old to be taken as a fool. Now, if you’ll stop your shenanigans, I’ll get you started with something.” He pulled out two clean glasses and raised his eyebrows, waiting for Kirby.

“Verra well.” Kirby cleared his throat. “How about…” He studied the bottles below the bar and above on the shelf behind him. “A Speyside. ’Twill be a good starter for the lass.”

“Agreed. ’Tis one of my favorites as well.” William took down a bottle and poured a generous measure of the light amber liquid into the two glasses.

I reached for mine.

Kirby slapped my hand.

“What?” I asked.

“You have to do it right.” He lifted the glass and swirled it, like wine.

Sighing, I lifted my glass and mimicked him.

“What do you smell?”

“The bouquet?” I asked.

“One and the same.” He shrugged then put his nose in the glass, inhaling deeply.

I sniffed then took a deeper inhale. “It’s kind of fruity, but a bit of smoke as well. Spice.”

“Good, good.” Kirby gave me an approving grin. “Take a taste, but only a small one. Let the flavor grow in your mouth before you swallow.”

He took a sip, closed his eyes and then swallowed. “Lovely. The finish is long and perfect, just the right amount of oak and fig.”

“Aye, ’tis a good one. Lighter, with the only the one distill.” William added.

I took a sip as well, letting the smooth texture of the whisky tease my senses, and then I swallowed. Immediately I could almost breathe the small nuances of the fruity fig and deep oak that Kirby mentioned. And as he’d also said, the finish, or aftertaste, of the flavor lasted long after I swallowed.

“Not bad.”

Both men turned to me, blinking.

“Fantastic?” I amended.

“Better. Whisky is never mediocre. It’s…”

“Poetry,” William finished.

“I’ll drink to that.” But rather than lift his glass of whisky, he lifted a glass of water.

I glanced down and saw I had one as well. “You need ta clean yer palate after sampling one kind of whisky before trying another.” William nodded to the glass before me.

“Got it.” I lifted the water and took a sip. My stomach rumbled. “Before we have any more to drink. I need to eat or Kirby here is going to have to carry me out that door.” I nodded toward the exit.

“Ach, and you’d be a heavy burden.” He lifted a ‘chip’ and took a bite.

“Not as heavy as that ego you carry around all day.” I took a chip as well and tried not to moan as I ate it.

“God bless Scotland and its potatoes.”

“Eh?” William gave me a perplexed look.

Kirby rolled his eyes. “She has this thing for the tattie scones too.”

“Have ye tried the bangers and mash yet?” William crossed his arms, a grin on his face.

“She needs to try the haggis,” Kirby interrupted.

“No! No haggis! I don’t want to eat sheep’s bladder!” I grabbed my basket of chips and hoarded them, just in case they thought about taking them away and replacing it with haggis.

“You eat hot dogs.” Kirby crossed his arms, staring me down.

I took another chip. “Ignorance is bliss.”

“How about I make you haggis, but no sheep’s bladder. Will tha’ work?” William asked.

“Thank you, but—”

“Are you afraid?” Kirby taunted.

“No, I—”

“Yes, you are.” He mocked and flapped his wings like a chicken.

“You just look like an idiot. That doesn’t motivate me to eat the haggis.” I crossed my arms as well, still careful to hold tight to my basket of chips.

I wasn’t taking chances.

“I sense a wager here.” William smacked the counter.

“A wager!” Kirby echoed.

“No.”

“Scared?”

“Is that your question after everything I say no to?”

“No.”

“Lucky me.”

“May I suggest the terms?” William asked.

“No.”

“Yes.” Kirby answered at the same time.

“If the lass will eat the haggis, then you, Church, will bring her a full box of tattie scones for breakfast.”

“I can get tattie scones on my own,” I grumbled, even as my mouth watered just by thinking of them.

“Not the ones from my mother.” William speared me with a knowing expression.

“Mae’s? You’ll give her a whole box of Mae’s tatties?” Kirby’s expression was one of shock, then anger as he turned a glare to me. “That is not fair. What do I get? Nothin’!”

“Ach, ye want some tatties fer yourself, lad? All ye gotta do is wink in my mam’s direction and she’ll make ye a batch.”

“She’s a feisty one.” Kirby took a step back from the bar.

“Ach, she is. Randy in her old age,” William answered with a tight smile.

I glanced to Kirby, he was turning a slight green color. “Aw, is the little old granny scary?”

“That granny isn’t little, nor is she as old as ye think… Gotta protect yer manhood with a bat when yer around that one.” He shivered.

I turned to William, curious as if he’d be offended. He simply shrugged, accepting.

“I want to meet her.”

“No, no you don’t.” Kirby shook his head.

“Might not be the best idea. My mother’s a bit off her rocker these days. But her scones? They haven’t changed one bit. It’s a worthy offering, lass.”

I glanced between the two men. The idea of the scones — and the woman who made them — had me curious. But was it worth it? To try the haggis?

“Okay.” I nodded once.

William clapped once and then turned to Kirby. “Now, lass. If you like the haggis, Kirby here, gets something.”

“What… gets what?” I asked, eyeing Kirby suspiciously.

“She has nothing I want,” Kirby grumbled but sat back down at the bar.

“If you like the haggis, then you have to give the lad a bottle of his favorite whisky.”

“How much is his favorite whisky?” I asked, expecting some astronomical number, not that it mattered. I was not going to like the haggis.

“About seventy-five pounds.”

“Oh.” I bit my lip. “Agreed.”

“One other thing,” William added. “You’ll have to do yer own dishes. I gotta close up early tonight. Church here knows where everything goes, and ye have the key, laddie?”

Kirby nodded once.

“Brilliant. I’ll just go make my famous haggis, without sheep’s bladder, and be out in a few minutes.” He ambled into the kitchen, leaving me slightly confused.

“You have a key? Did you work here as kid? Wait… is William like your uncle or something? That would make the creepy old lady your grandma and that’s just all kinds of weird.”

“No, William’s mam is not my relation. And yeah, I did work here as a kid but I have the key because it’s my pub.” He shrugged, took another bite of chip and chased it with water.

“It’s your bar?” I glanced around the room, studying it differently. The dimly lit room was warm and inviting. It was impeccably clean, but strangely vacant. “Do much business?”

“Yeah, this is one of my quieter places. For that reason, it’s one of my favorites. William prefers it as well, because it’s lesser known.”

“Oh.”

“Shocked?” He grinned mischievously.

Damn, but that grin just did me in every time. Ignoring the way my blood rushed through my veins, making me hot in all the wrong places, I cleared my throat. “A little, it’s nice.”

“Is that a compliment or an insult?” He cocked an eyebrow.

“Compliment.”

“Then, I thank you,” he teased.

I picked up the last chip in my basket, lamenting that the next thing I’d eat would be haggis. Kirby must have seen the heartbreak in my eyes because he started laughing.

“It’s not your last meal, Merry. Put a stop to the dramatics.”

“You’re not the one eating haggis.”

“Says who? William will bring out two plates. You going to eat both?”

“Uh, no.”

“Then I’m planning on eating one, if ye don’t mind. William’s haggis is one of my favorites. And since you’re so uptight, we’re going to loosen you up a bit more.” He slapped the bar and stood, walking around the bar. He started to set up six glasses. Turning, he selected a few bottles from the rack behind him, then a few more from below the bar. He refilled the water glasses and started to pour whisky into the empty glasses, placing a small amount of each kind in a separate glass.

“We started out with a Speyside, but I’m going to take you on the tour.”

“Tour?”

“Yeah, we’ll visit the Highlands with a Dalmore, the Lowland Ladies with a Glenkinchie, and an Islay Lagavulin, or Lag.” He slid a glass toward me and lifted one of his own.

“Am I supposed to know what you’re talking about?” I asked, sniffing the light amber liquid in the glass.

“This one is the Dalmore. You’ll love it because the nose is like a warm coffee house in Seattle. It has a coffee nuance you’ll appreciate, since you’re addicted to the little black bean.” He lifted the glass in a toast, and took a sip, following the same methodology as before with the Speyside.

“If it has anything to do with coffee, this one gets my vote.” I took a sip, closing my eyes and immediately understanding what he said about the first taste — the nose — being like a coffee house. The flavor was warm and inviting, slightly acidic like coffee, but not bitter. As the flavors swirled in my mouth, I also tasted a fruity flavor I couldn’t name, and a sweet chocolate flavor. How, I had no idea, I only knew that I could taste it, ever so slightly. I swallowed, noticing the afterglow of the flavors didn’t last as long as with the other kind I sampled.

“That was my favorite so far.” I opened my eyes, noticing Kirby’s approving grin.

“Told you. It was the coffee, eh?”

“Yeah, but it also had this chocolaty and fruity thing going on. I’m a fan.”

“Marmalade. The fruity thing, it was a marmalade note.”

“Yes!” I shouted, then calmed down. “Uh, yeah. I couldn’t think of the name, but it was that!”

“You American’s don’t have it as often as we Scots. Shame, that.”

I rolled my eyes. “What’s next?” I asked, studying the glasses and ignoring his jab at America.

“Water. Drink yer water.” He handed me my glass.

“Right.” I took a few swallows, and set it down, waiting.

Who knew whisky could be like wine tasting?

“Next we’ll try the Lowland Ladies.”

“Ladies?”

“It’s what we call ’em. I picked a Glenkinchie. It’s a lighter one, but I’ll not give away the flavor. I want ye to think on yer own.” He handed me another glass. “But dinna drink yet. Check out the feints, look at the color.” He lifted his glass, studying it.

“Feints?”

“In wine, you’d call it the legs. It’s the strands of whisky that run down the glass after you swirl it.”

“Oh, wow.” I swirled the glass and watched as the ‘feints’ trailed down the glass.

“Now we sip.”

This one was immediately different than the other two. It was lighter, almost earthy and green tasting — if a color could have a flavor. It had a fruit note, but it was camouflaged.

“What did you taste?” Kirby leaned on the bar counter, watching me. It struck me how he seemed so completely at ease, as if this was where he was most comfortable.

“Green. Almost like a salad, but with some fruit mixed deep within.”

“Well done.” He smirked. “Apparently you can be taught some things.”

“Ah, well. You never did give me much credit. Which ironically, always came back and bit you in the ass.” I smiled sweetly.

He laughed, filling the room with the sound. “Verra well, lass. Here’s your final stop on the tour of Scotland. What do you smell?” He handed me the final glass.

I inhaled deeply, fully expecting something similar to the other whiskies.

I coughed, set the glass down, and gave Kirby a confused stare. “What is that?”

“That, lass, is an Islay Whisky. Distinct, is it not?” He took a big whiff. How he didn’t cough, I had no clue. The scent was strong, like iodine and old hospital; neither were appetizing smells.

“Try again, this time look beyond the iodine.”

“Easy for you to say,” I grumbled but took another, more cautious, sniff. Sure enough, it had changed as I swirled it and I picked up the essence of tea and smoke, vanilla and sweet spice.

“Better?”

“How does it do that? It changes. So weird.” I took a sip, shocked that it tasted and smelled so differently. I had expected the old hospital scent to translate to taste.

I was wrong. It was like a mouthful of malt and sherry, but then shifted to a smoky oak flavor. Bold, punch-you-in-the-gut powerful, but good. So good. The finish was long and spicy, lasting long after the swallow.

“Okay. So it’s not my favorite, but it was probably the most complex.” I set my glass down.

“Indeed. It’s the peat.” He took a sip of water.

“Like moss?” How did moss have anything to do with whisky?

“Yeah, Islay whisky is produced on the Island of Islay, off the west coast of Scotland. It’s the salt in the air that makes the peat different, and in turn it affects the flavor of the whisky.”

“Are ye ready?” William came from the kitchen, his two hands lifted with plates of steaming haggis.

Oddly, I wasn’t nearly as contrary to the idea as before.

Blame it on the whisky.

Or Kirby.

Both, I’d blame both.

The scent was heavenly, rich and deep and promising me to make my still-starving belly full.

That was a siren call I couldn’t ignore.

“Here, lass, I’ll give you the honor of the first bite.” William handed me a fork. The plate was a mountain of mashed potatoes, fluffy and creamy with a side of some minced meat that had a rich, almost beefy scent.

“Try a bit of the haggis with a wee bit of the mash.” William coached.

Tentatively, I took a small forkful of the haggis and bigger portion of the mashed potatoes and blew across the bite.

“Don’t stall, Merry,” Kirby taunted.

“Bite me.”

I took a small taste.

The flavors melted in my mouth. Onion, garlic, creamy potato, and a grainy texture all blended into a sweet harmony of delight. There was a slight mineral flavor that completed it all, almost like strong beef. I swallowed, trying not to let my approval leak through to my expression.

I failed.

“Ha! I told you that ye’d like it!” William smacked the bar counter, then high-fived Kirby.

“Not a soul could turn down your haggis, William.”

“It’s okay.” I shrugged.

“Yer a poor liar, Merry. Dinna even try. You love it.” Kirby wagged his eyebrows and dug into his own haggis with enthusiasm.

“Ach, yer not gonna break my heart, lass? Tell ol’ William how much you liked it.” William gave me these sad, puppy dog eyes.

And damn it all, it worked.

“It’s… actually really good,” I admitted, taking another bite.

“I know,” Kirby added.

“Now that my work is done, I’ll leave you two to enjoy your meal. Dinna forget to do yer dishes. I know the boss is a hard ass and will fire me if there’s a dish left in the sink.” He shook his head.

“He’ll fire yer ass for being a pain in his.”

“Threats… empty threats.” William winked at me, took off his apron and grabbed his hat from the rack on the wall. “I’ll lock ye in.” He flipped the sign closed, exited through the front door and locked it. With a final salute, he walked away into the darkness.

“Eat yer haggis, ’tis bad when cold.” Kirby pointed to my plate with his fork.

“I hate that you were right.” But I took another bite, loving how my stomach was growing fuller and fuller by the minute. I hated being hungry.

“Think of it as simply expanding your education.” He gestured broadly with his arm.

“Or I can just give credit to William,” I said after I swallowed.

“That too. But I’ll still take credit.”

“You would.”

We finished our haggis, and Kirby stood and collected the plates. “I’ll wash, you dry.”

“If I must.” I sighed.

“It’s the least you can do after I bought yer supper.”

“So you’re saying that if I pay you, I won’t have to do dishes?” I badgered, following him back into the kitchen.

“I’m saying if you are a brat then I’ll leave you to do the dishes alone.”

“Threats. Empty threats,” I teased.

Kirby turned on the water, and grabbed the hand sprayer, cleaning off the last of the haggis.

“You do know that while there was no sheep’s bladder in the haggis, there was liver, kidney, and heart. Right?” He asked calmly, handing me the clean dish.

“Say what?” I asked, pausing mid wipe with the towel.

“All William said was that there was no bladder. And truthfully, it’s quite easy to omit the bladder, since the bladder is what you cook it in — rather that’s the traditional way to cook it.” He handed me other dish.

“I ate liver and heart… and what else?”

“Kidney.”

“Oh.” I wiped again.

“Ach, Merry. Where’s your sense of adventure?” A stray spray of water smacked me on the cheek.

“Kirby…” I warned, glaring.

“Honest, that was not intentional.” He held up both hands, one with the sprayer. “But this is.” He squeezed the handle and I ducked, but not soon enough. Warm water saturated my head and started dripping down my shirt.

“Kirby!” I shouted, then reached for the water handle to turn it off, but he blocked my attempt, spraying me directly down the back.

“That’s it!” I shouted and lunged for him, not caring the sprayer was aimed at my face.

“Shit.” Kirby squeezed the handle again but it was too late. My palm covered the nozzle, and the water flowed around my hand and trailed water down his shirt, and pants even as I wrestled him for control. Water sprayed in all directions from my hand blocking it. As Kirby tried to get away, I jumped, wrapping my legs around him, holding on to his neck with one arm while the other hand held the sprayer.

“Merry!” He shouted as the water continued to flow, soaking him through, and me in the process. “Fine!” Kirby yelled and reached out, turning the water on full cold, and squeezing the spray handle as it continued to soak us both.

“That’s freezing!” I gasped, letting go of my viselike grip on the nozzle and darting to the sink. My cold and wet hands slipped so I wasn’t able to turn the knob well. Before it was completely shut off, Kirby’s arm snaked about my waist and hauled me back.

“Like hell you will!” I kicked my legs, fuming as his laughter echoed in the sterile kitchen. Then, he wasn’t laughing, rather he was swearing like a sailor as his feet started to slip on the wet tile.

“Don’t you take me with—” We crumpled into a heap just in front of the sink.

“You broke my legs, lass,” Kirby groaned.

“You’re fine. My ass is going to be black and blue tomorrow from landing on your knees. Seriously?” I moaned as I slightly adjusted my position.

“At least you had something to break yer fall,” Kirby groaned.

I glared. “Yeah, and your knees are so much softer than the hard ground…”

“You have more padding.” He arched a brow, challenging me.

“You did not just—”

“I did.”

I stared him down.

“Are you going to try and kill me with that glare or do you have something to say?” He leaned forward, taunting me.

I couldn’t back down… it would mean he won.

And he could never win.

Ever.

But I couldn’t think of any sort of comeback that wasn’t completely lame.

Damn.

“It’s okay, Merry. I didn’t actually expect an intelligent response.” He shrugged.

That. Was. It.

I stood, found my footing, and grabbed the discarded nozzle. Kirby was slow getting up and even as he shouted a warning, I turned the water on cold and sprayed him once more. “I’m more of a actions speak louder than words girl.”

“And here I thought you were all talk, no balls.”

“That’s you.” I shrugged and turned off the water. “And I think that about sums it up.

Kirby wiped his hand down his face, shaking off the excess water, then slicked back his dark hair away from his eyes. There was no way I could ignore the way his blue eyes sparkled, or the way his long-sleeved Henley clung to his torso, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination.

Damn, he looked good wet.

Down girl.

I took a deep breath, pried my gaze away, then tried to give an easy shrug as I set the nozzle back in the sink.

When really, all I could do was think about how the water had somehow magnified his cologne.

“Merry.”

How? I hated that nickname, yet when he said it… somehow I didn’t hate it as much.

He made me like it… want it.

Want to hear him say it.

Over and over and over again.

I didn’t turn around. I didn’t trust myself to.

“Merry,” his voice was closer.

My body was finally registering the cold, and when mixed with the charged atmosphere of the kitchen, had me starting to shiver. A warm hand reached around my waist, pulled me back gently. For a moment Kirby’s soaked shirt felt freezing against mine, then the cold evaporated into an inviting heat. His other arm reached around my waist as well, holding me tightly as he rested his chin on my shoulder. If I closed my eyes, I could feel each breath he took, every shift of his body.

And even though ten seconds ago I was freezing… I was now on fire.

“Merry.” He caressed my name with his voice. His nose traced the line from my neck to my shoulder and back, his warm breath teasing me.

I leaned into him.

He nipped my neck. “You’re freezing,”

No, I’m actually burning alive right now… thanks to you. “Hmm?” Was all the response I was capable of.

“Come with me.” He released my waist, grasping one of my hands in the process, and tugged me toward the back of the kitchen.

Silently I followed, mentally tracing the outline of his body through his soaked clothes. His dark denim jeans clung to his legs and outlined every sculpted line of his body.

I bit my lip and forced my gaze away.

We reached a door at the end of the kitchen and he opened it. The hinges creaked as it opened, and displayed a narrow wooden staircase. Kirby tugged my hand as he started up, and I followed, curious. “Where are we going?”

“It’s a flat. Usually I have it rented out, but it’s vacant at the moment. Thankfully, it’s partially furnished and has a washer and dryer.” He shrugged as he cast a glance back to me.

“Oh, I guess that would make sense.” The bar was located on the bottom floor of a building, and I hadn’t really given thought to what was above it, but now I knew.

“So, are there clothes up there too?” I asked, as the full implication of what a washer and dryer meant registered. I mean, if my clothes were in the dryer… that meant they were not on me…

“Shy are we?”

“You’re not getting laid.”

Kirby barked laughter. “Wasn’t planning on it.” He took the last step. “At least by you.”

I glared.

The landing ended in a short hallway with one door before it started up into another flight of stairs. Kirby stopped in front of the door and pulled a set of keys from his pocket. The door unlocked with a small click. Damp and chilly air flowed through the doorway, causing me to shiver just before Kirby hit the lights. My hand, snuggly tucked in his, was the only part of me that was warm, and I bit my lip trying to keep back another shiver.

“Give me a moment.“ Kirby released my hand, and immediately I missed the small amount of heat it offered. He knelt before a brick fireplace and started to crumple up newspaper. “’Twill be faster to light a fire than to turn on the heat. I ken yer chilly, Merry so why don’t you find yerself a blanket and change out of the wet clothes. There’s a water closet to the right.” He turned slightly and nodded toward a door.

“Got it.” I padded to a closet and searched for a blanket. I had to jump for it, but I finally pulled one from the top shelf. The old quilt promised much more warmth than my wet clothes, and I shivered my way to the bathroom Kirby had pointed out.

I flipped on the switch and slowly checked the sink for anything that crawled then exhaled a sigh of relief when it was empty.

I hated spiders.

Bugs.

Anything with more than four legs.

Just realizing I was holding an old quilt, I decided it would be wiser to shake it out now, rather than discover a spider crawling out of it when I was buck-naked.

Thankfully, nothing fell to the floor but a piece of lint, and I set the quilt over the toilet while I undressed. My jeans stuck to me, refusing to leave my legs until I finally wrenched my feet free.

“You okay in there?” Kirby’s voice startled me from the other side of the door.

“Yeah, just fighting a losing battle with my jeans,” I shot back.

“That would explain the growling.”

“Shut up.”

“The faster you undress the faster you can sit in front of the fire,” he taunted.

“Believe me, I’m going as fast as I can.”

“If that’s what you call fast…”

As I heard his footsteps retreat, I blew out an exasperated breath. Stripping my shirt off, I debated whether to keep my bra on or not. I wasn’t particularly endowed so all my bras had padding, which simply acted like a sponge in the water fight. But I wasn’t exactly thrilled with the idea of being completely naked around Kirby… talk about an invitation for disaster.

A trickle of water dripped from my padded bra and down my stomach, making me shiver.

Screw it. I was stripping completely naked.

The air felt warm as I shed the last of my clothes. Wrapping myself in the old quilt, I glanced in the mirror and groaned.

Waterproof mascara my ass.

I blew a stray hair from my eyes and glanced around for a towel and soap. As I scanned the room, all I could find was my wet clothes and a shower curtain.

Not promising.

I peeked behind the curtain — just in case a spider was lurking in the tub — and sighed in relief when I saw a small bar of soap. I swept the rest of the shower curtain to the side and leaned forward.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw something fall from the curtain and land with a thud into the tub. Leaping back, I screamed and slammed my back into the bathroom door. A large brown spider flipped from his back and started racing up the side of the tub.

“Like hell you are.” I swore and searched for my shoe. When I found it, I bent down only to have Kirby barge into the room and in the process smack my ass with the door, sending me face first toward the advancing spider.

“Shit.”

“Kill it!” I scrambled to my feet, ducking behind Kirby.

“That?” Kirby pointed to the spider that now seemed much smaller than I originally thought.

“It shrunk, kill it!”

He shook his head, walked over to the spider and smashed it with his thumb.

“Gross.”

His eyebrows rose, then he grinned.

“No.”

“’Tis nothing but a wee spider, a dead one at that.” He shrugged but I knew what he was thinking — what he was planning. That twinkle in his eye couldn’t lie, and I started to back away.

“Take a peek.” He took a step toward me.

“Bite me.”

“Where?” His gaze raked over me and I glanced to the floor where my old quilt lay in a heap, then to my naked toes and upward.

“Shit. Close your eyes!” I wrapped my arms around myself — as if that helped.

“It’s not like I haven’t seen your bare arse before.” Kirby grinned wolfishly, but thankfully walked to the sink and washed the spider off his thumb and down the drain.

I grabbed the quilt.

He stepped on it.

“Do you mind?” I narrowed my eyes as I tugged on the blanket with one hand while my other covered the girls.

“Terribly.”

I tugged harder.

“Say please.” He raised his dark brows, a teasing smile spreading across his face.

Damn it if his dimples didn’t wink at me.

Good Lord.

I gritted my teeth, in anger and a now familiar frustration. “Please.”

He lifted his foot.

I swept the blanket around myself, huffed, and turned around to walk toward the fire.

“Why do you still have your clothes on anyway?” I asked as I sat in front of the fire. Its crackling heat warmed the quilt.

“Is that all the game you’ve got?” Kirby chuckled.

“You know what I mean, and it’s not that.” I rolled my eyes.

“If you must know, I was building a fire and then went back downstairs to get a few things. I opened the door to your scream. You haven’t said thank you yet, by the way.”

The sound of wet clothes hitting the floor struck me. “Thank you.” I cleared my throat, trying not to think about what was happening behind me.

I wanted to peek. Really bad.

But I didn’t.

“What were you getting downstairs?” I asked, trying to distract myself from the rasp of a zipper and the whisper of jeans sliding off his body.

Damn, I was getting hot. I shifted so the blanket slid off a shoulder slightly, allowing the cool air to calm me a bit.

But not nearly enough.

“I figured we can’t exactly go anywhere till our clothes are dry. Don’t want to spend the night in the clink for being indecent.” Footsteps sounded from behind me heading toward the bathroom.

“Man has a point.”

“Indeed.” He chuckled.

“Not what I meant,” I groaned, my face heating.

“I’m tossing your clothes in the dryer. You can say thank you now.”

“Thank you, Kirby,” I said in a nasal tone.

“You always had such a pretty voice,” he remarked dryly.

“I know. So, you never finished what you were saying. What did you bring up?”

The dryer knob clicked as he turned it, and soon the whirling of the heated air started up, drowning out the soothing crackle of the fire.

“Cards, whisky, water, and snacks.”

“Yay! That’s great—” I turned to glance at him, but rather than finish my sentence I almost swallowed my tongue.

Kirby was wearing nothing but a smile.

“Good Lord.”

“They all say that.” He shrugged and walked over to the closet with the quilts, as if walking around buck-naked was completely normal.

I couldn’t glance away, I couldn’t even blink. How did — I mean — whoa. His broad shoulders and trim waist formed a perfect ‘V’. His muscle-lined back flexed as he reached and grabbed a quilt from the top shelf. As he rose up on his toes, both his legs and his butt clenched and my mouth went dry.

“You know, I dinna stare like you are.”

“Sorry,” I whispered, trying to swallow as I tore my gaze away from him and back to the fire.

“I dinna mind, but you were kind of making this choking noise so I got concerned,” he said as he took a spot next to me by the fire, his own quilt wrapped around his body, but less tightly than mine.

“Was not.” I refused to make eye contact, concentrating instead on the orange flames.

When he didn’t reply, I glanced to him. “Whatever you say, Merry.” He grinned as if harboring some secret and turned to the fire. “What do you want to do first? Are you still hungry or do you want to lose at cards?”

“Neither. But I’ll kick your ass in gin rummy.”

“You never once kicked my ass in gin rummy.” Kirby rolled his eyes.

“And how long ago was that?”

“A while, but that means I have to give credence to the idea that you’ve improved. This I doubt.”

“Bring it.” I let go of the quilt with one hand and wiggled my fingers tauntingly.

“Your funeral.”

“Yours Kirby, yours.” I smiled sweetly then followed as he stood up and walked toward a small table with two chairs.

“At least there’s some furniture.”

“Better than nothing at all.” He grabbed a deck of cards from a basket and sat at the table across from me. “You want to shuffle?”

I debated. To say I was competitive was an understatement and my shuffling would give away how much I had improved at cards in general.

“You.” I shrugged slightly, trying to look like I didn’t care. Element of surprise, baby!

“Verra well.” Kirby cut the deck, spread out the cards and then picked them up again.

“That’s the best you can do?” I asked, watching in confusion as he spread out the cards once more on the table, mixed them up and then collected them.

“It works. Dinna shoot my methodology. You dinna want to shuffle, so shut it.”

I held a hand up in defense. “Yes, sir.”

He glared then started passing out the seven cards needed for the game. He flipped one card over from the stack and set it aside.

“Are you sure you remember how to play this?” He asked, studying his cards.

“I think I can remember.” I put my cards in order according to numerical value and suit, planning my attack.

I was an accountant. Numbers and I were tight.

“Ladies first.”

“Ah, and here I thought you were going to say age before beauty.” I smiled sweetly as I reached out and drew my first card. I slipped the four of hearts between the seven and five of hearts and discarded a nine of spades.

“Go.”

Kirby drew a card, discarded another, and nodded.

And so it went, for the first three rounds. The discard pile grew richer and richer and my fingers itched to take it and lay out some serious points, but I was one card off from going out, and doing so would leave Kirby with at least a hundred points in his hand.

One hundred points in the hole.

It was too sweet of a temptation.

Kirby discarded, it was a five of hearts.

I bit my lip to keep from smiling, and grabbed the card. In a smooth motion I laid out my points one set, by one set — watching as Kirby’s eyes narrowed. Finally, with one card left I set it on the pile and leaned back. “Boom, there it is.” I raised my hand like I was in the club and danced in my chair.

“Shit.” Kirby threw his cards on the table. He was one card away from doing the very same thing.

The one card he needed, I had just discarded.

Victory was sweet!

“That sucks.” I shook my head.

“Tell me about it. You know this means war.” He glared, counted his points and then pushed away from the table.

“Tucking your tail and running already?” I asked sweetly as I collected the cards and started to shuffle.

“No. Just making it a bit more interesting.”

“What are you up to?” I paused as I cut the deck, watching as he pulled out a bottle and two glasses from the basket.

“Winner takes two shots, loser takes one.”

I spread the cards out on the table and took one, tipping the deck back and forth in a cool little trick, grinning to myself when Kirby paused mid-step as he watched.

“So Vegas, when did you start working the strip?” He sat down and put a glass in front of me.

“Intimidated?” I spoke in my most pitying voice.

He laughed. “No.”

I smiled as I collected the deck from the table, cut it with one hand and then shuffled it — all while holding out my glass toward him.

“Okay, change of rules. Winner takes three shots, loser takes none.”

“You’re a sore loser.”

He paused mid pour. “I — I am a poor loser? This… coming from the girl who was so bitter about losing to me at gin when she was twelve that she cut up the entire deck of cards and threw it out the window like confetti!”

“I was celebrating your victory.”

“I was washing my car. It was completely wet and the stupid card confetti stuck to it no matter what I did!”

“That was unfortunate.” I shook my head.

“For me!” Kirby shouted, then poured himself a shot as well. “I need this just to deal with you.”

“I’ll drink to that.” I lifted my glass.

“I bet you will. Deal.” He took a sip.

“Don’t get your panties in a bind.” I started to hand out the cards.

“Not wearing panties. Neither are you… mind you.”

“But I am swathed in a huge quilt so it counts.”

“Whatever. You go first. You won.” He sorted his cards, and I did the same, grinning when I saw that I was easily going to win again.

“Wipe that smirk off your face before I do it for you.”

I took my turn, then waited.

Kirby drew a card, set down three aces with a condescending grin, and discarded.

Damn. Aces were worth more points, and he’d just made bank.

“Drink your whisky, Merry.” Kirby lifted his glass, toasting his awesome hand, and drank.

“Bite me.”

“You say that a lot. I’m beginning to think yer serious.” He set the glass down, a teasing smile on his face.

Ignoring him, I drew a card, discarded and took a drink. The fire of the alcohol burned down my throat and warmed me from the inside out.

Kirby took his turn again, discarded, and nodded for me to go.

I picked up the card I was waiting for, took a deep breath of relief, and laid out my cards, this time ‘floating’ because my final card matched with his set of aces.

“Shit!” Kirby leaned back in his chair and raked his hand through his dark hair. “You’ve been practicing.”

“No shit, Sherlock.” I collected all the cards but the ones he needed to count and started to shuffle again.

“I’m still one hundred in the hole.” He tossed the cards he finished counting on the table and poured another shot in my glass.

“Getting me drunk won’t make it easier to win.” I took a sip.

“It won’t make it any harder for me to lose.” He shook his head. Lifting his glass he took the final sip of his single shot and poured one more.

“Please tell me we’re not playing to a thousand points.” I paused mid-shuffle.

“Five hundred.”

“Better.”

And so it went for the next hour. Kirby made a small comeback, but it was too late since my lead was so epic. As we played the final hand, I blinked, trying to keep the cards in focus. I’d lost track of how many shots Kirby had poured for me, but I damn well knew the score.

I needed seventy-five points to win.

Easy-peasy.

Kirby needed one hundred and sixty-five to win — nearly impossible. The game would have to carry on forever, and I planned on going out within the first five draws.

He drew, laid down a set of threes, then discarded.

I drew, laid down three queens, then discarded.

The line up on cards in the pile was growing, both in size and temptation as neither of us gave an inch.

Kirby paused after I discarded again. He bit his lip, drawing a bit of his beard between his teeth and then regarded me, as if trying to read my mind.

I held fast, holding his gaze.

Then he took the entire pile of discarded cards, and started to lay down set after set of matched cards on the table.

It was a risk, because if I went out in the next few hands he’d be stuck with more points that would only deduct from his score, making me the clear winner.

But if I didn’t go out…

Shit.

“Your turn.”

I counted his cards, he easily had over a hundred points and I was only at fifty. I drew a card, groaned inwardly and discarded it, holding my breath.

Sure enough, he picked up my discard and used it to make a run with a Jack and Queen.

He just added thirty points to his score.

After he discarded, I took a drink of my almost gone whisky and drew a card.

It was a seven of spades. I needed a seven of diamonds. I discarded and groaned out loud when he picked it up and used it in another run.

“How you holding up over there?” Kirby asked, his grin wide and showing off his white smile. Damn.

“Bite — Never mind.” I waited as he discarded and I went again. This time drawing my seven of diamonds. “Yes!” I threw down my cards, knowing I had at least eighty points — five points to spare — and danced in my chair.

“You’re floating.” Kirby grinned.

“Yeah…” I watched in horror as he met my gaze, and drew a card. He glanced to the card, then to me and I knew.

I had lost.

Damn, damn, damn!

“Read them and weep.” He laid out the last of his cards, stood up and roared.

“Shoot me.” I hung my head, knowing what was happening next. Thankfully, due to the whisky everything was blurry.

Sure enough, Kirby started doing his victory dance — which was the love child of a football touchdown dance and the Macarena.

Don’t ask.

“Stop, please. My eyes!” I groaned.

That only encouraged him, he turned around and shook his booty through the quilt and then dropped it like it was hot, thankfully still holding the quilt.

“Fine, you won. Happy?” I asked, sounding less than thrilled.

“Say it.” He walked over to me, towering like a Greek god and every bit as beautiful.

I swallowed hard. “You’re the champion.”

“Whose champion?” He leaned down slightly, just a breath away.

“Don’t make me say it,” I whimpered.

“Say it, Merry…”

“Mine.”

“Thank you.” He grinned as he reached around and slapped my ass through the quilt and then walked to the basket once more. “Since you’re the loser, you pick up the cards and I’ll get us something to eat.”

“Yay. I need something to absorb all this alcohol — from winning so many hands…” I drew out the words.

Or maybe I slurred them.

I wasn’t exactly sure.

“You’re a lightweight.”

“Yup.” There was no denying it.

“Have a cracker.” Kirby walked over to me and shoved a cracker in my mouth.

I tried to bite his hand.

“Hey now… be nice.” He patted my head. “If you want a piece of this, all you have to do is ask,” he said and walked away.

“When freezes hell over.” I collected the cards then paused. “When hell freezes over,” I corrected.

“Yeah, you’re cut off.” He took my empty glass away and gave me water instead. “Drink it unless you want the mother of all migraines in the morning.”

I glared, but drank it all. I hated headaches.

“Good girl,” he said.

I opened my mouth to give some sort of reply, but honestly, I had nothing.

“I’m going to get you drunk more often. You’re quieter.”

“That would pre-suppose that you’re going to actually be around me for an extended period of time,” I said, sliding the cards back into their box.

“At least for the foreseeable future.” He shrugged.

I stared at the cards.

“Kirby?” I took a deep breath, knowing the alcohol was talking — but powerless to stop it.

“Yeah?” He turned and set a little basket of crackers and cheese on the table then sat.

“Never mind.” I picked up a piece of cheese and took a bite.

“He was an idiot. It was all him. None of it had to do with you.” Kirby patted my hand then swiped the cheese from me and popped it in his mouth.

“I know. I know that… but… rejection sucks.” I took a deep breath.

“Merry, be thankful your pride is what suffered the blow, not yer heart.” He held up a cracker like a peace offering. I bit back a grin and took it.

“You’re right.”

“You honestly can’t say that enough.”

I shook my head.

“Merry, everyone… we all want to be wanted. To be known—”

“Yes!” I smacked the table, rattling the water glasses. “That’s it! I just… I want someone to want to know me… I want someone to know me so well that they can read my eyes.” I nodded once and bit the cracker.

“Read… your eyes…” Kirby repeated, his expression confused.

“Yeah. Okay, so you know how in all the romantic movies there’s always this split up, some huge obstacle where someone pushes the other away for one reason or another, and when they ask, ‘do I stay?’ It’s in her eyes, she says yes in her eyes but her words say no. I want someone who will read my eyes… my heart.”

Kirby took a piece of cheese and chewed it slowly. “So you want a man who will read your mind?”

“Uh.” I hadn’t actually thought of it like that. I wasn’t exactly at my best. “Yeah?”

Kirby nodded sagely. “Because for centuries, men have prided themselves on understanding the inner working of the feminine mind.”

“Well, no but—”

“I get it though, Merry.” He shrugged. “As a guy, I willna ever be able to read your or any other woman’s mind. But I think what you’re saying, is that you want someone who will choose you, even when you don’t know how to choose them.” His blue eyes speared through me and never had I felt more exposed, like my soul was completely naked.

I swallowed. “Yeah.”

Kirby grabbed the pitcher of water and refilled my glass. “You’re going to hurt like hell if you don’t drink.”

“I know, I know… how did I let you talk me into drinking so much.” I drained the glass.

“You lose all logic when competition is involved.”

“It my kryptonite.”

“Amongst other things. Have I mentioned how awesome it is to be the champion? I mean… it must suck to have lost… after such a lead too. I mean… whew. It must hurt.”

“You have no idea.” The alcohol had relaxed me, combined with the warmth of the room from the fire and the cozy softness of the quilt, I was starting to fade.

“Are my clothes done yet?” I asked sleepily, slipping down my chair so that my head rested at the back.

“A while ago actually, but you’re in no condition to walk anywhere and as strong as I am, I’ll not be carrying you.”

“Hmm.” I sighed. I was so warm. Wait. My clothes were done?

“Why didn’t you tell me they were dry?” I asked, cracking one eye open. When had they even closed?

“Dinna worry, Merry. If I wanted to seduce you I’d have done it long ago.”

“As if you could.” I scoffed and closed my other eye.

“Merry… you’re already naked. Half the work is already done.” He took a deep breath and before I knew it, his arms reached around my shoulders and under my legs, lifting me from the chair.

My eyes shot open and I quickly grasped his neck for support. “What are you doing?”

“Taking you to bed. You can’t sleep in the chair.” He laid me on the bed, adjusted the quilt so that I was covered and left. The bed was soft and inviting, then a pillow slammed me in the face.

“Hey!” I pulled it off and sat up, glaring.

“Hey yourself.” Kirby nodded to my chest.

I pulled the quilt back up and glared, too sleepy to be embarrassed. Everything was so fuzzy, I decided I didn’t even care anymore.

“Night, Kirby.” I sighed, slipping into the inviting peace of sleep.

“Night, Merry.”

And I fell into a deep sleep.