steadily working his way through yet another towering pile of pastries. He had the definite feeling that he’d need to double down on his workouts for the next month to make up for this calorie-bomb of a day.
He sipped his fifth cup of coffee and watched Mirrie and Spider behind the counter. They were talking quietly but he didn’t think it was about him. In fact, he was sure that Mirrie hadn’t breathed a word about him since she’d come out of the back room. God knows, she hadn’t breathed a word to him.
To Mac’s utter shock, she wasn’t shooting daggers at him with her gorgeous eyes. She wasn’t muttering under her breath or huffing every time he went up to the counter and asked her for something. She hadn’t dragged him in to the staff room for a knock-down argument, hadn’t ordered his ass out of her place of work, hadn’t shown one flash of ire.
No, she was very polite but distant, as if he were a total stranger instead of the man who’d seen her through a severe trauma, the man who’d made love to her until she’d screamed his name. There wasn’t so much as a flicker of recognition in her expression and she’d kept this up all morning. It was like he was invisible.
This all stumped him, if he were being honest. Truly, he’d expected fire and brimstone; shouting and maybe even a thrown dish or two. He’d thought that if he could just get her to interact with him, even if she was angry, they could get a conversation going. He’d counted on her at least acknowledging him – even if it was to smack him upside the head.
But this woman? This reserved, controlled Mirrie? She was a total stranger to him and on some level, it actually frightened him. He didn’t know her when she was like this… and he had no clue how to reach her. Just like he'd never had any clue how to reach his father.
Mac's gut twisted as he thought about that bastard. Mac's mother had died giving birth to Mac and his father Royce had never, ever forgiven him for it. More than once, Royce had told Mac that he had, in effect, killed his own mother and taken away the only thing that Royce ever could or would love. God knows that he didn't love Mac and never even attempted to for one instant.
Mac had had a privileged upbringing: nannies, cooks, maids. Toys, clothes, trips with his nannies. But when he and his father were alone in the evenings and Royce dove in to the bottle, Mac's life became a living hell. Royce beat him often and brutally, shouting the whole time that Mac had ruined his life, that Mac was a despicable little murderer. On those long, bloody nights, Mac learned that to love someone was the most dangerous thing in the world to do. Love made you vulnerable and it made you weak and it made you insane.
He was raised by the help in a massive and isolated country estate house until he was eight years old. That was when Royce shipped him off to boarding school without even a pretence that he was sorry about seeing the back of his only child. To his surprise and despite his cold and violent childhood, Mac had excelled at school. In fact, he'd loved it. He loved being around kids his own age for once; he liked the team sports; he cherished not being afraid of punches and blows; he discovered that being funny and uncaring was a form of protection. He worked his ass off and showed a definite aptitude for science and anatomy, and he knew as early as the age of ten that he was going to be a doctor. He set his mind to it and never questioned it, never second-guessed it. It was his destiny.
College and medical school were paid for by Royce, with no murmurs of protests. Mac never fooled himself that Royce did so because he wanted Mac to succeed, or because he supported his son's chosen profession. No, it was all about maintaining appearances, about playing the Good Father. Mac went along with the charade in order to get his MD and then to specialize in neurology. He never worried about money, not for one second, and that gave
He sipped his fifth cup of coffee and watched Mirrie and Spider behind the counter. They were talking quietly but he didn’t think it was about him. In fact, he was sure that Mirrie hadn’t breathed a word about him since she’d come out of the back room. God knows, she hadn’t breathed a word to him.
To Mac’s utter shock, she wasn’t shooting daggers at him with her gorgeous eyes. She wasn’t muttering under her breath or huffing every time he went up to the counter and asked her for something. She hadn’t dragged him in to the staff room for a knock-down argument, hadn’t ordered his ass out of her place of work, hadn’t shown one flash of ire.
No, she was very polite but distant, as if he were a total stranger instead of the man who’d seen her through a severe trauma, the man who’d made love to her until she’d screamed his name. There wasn’t so much as a flicker of recognition in her expression and she’d kept this up all morning. It was like he was invisible.
This all stumped him, if he were being honest. Truly, he’d expected fire and brimstone; shouting and maybe even a thrown dish or two. He’d thought that if he could just get her to interact with him, even if she was angry, they could get a conversation going. He’d counted on her at least acknowledging him – even if it was to smack him upside the head.
But this woman? This reserved, controlled Mirrie? She was a total stranger to him and on some level, it actually frightened him. He didn’t know her when she was like this… and he had no clue how to reach her. Just like he'd never had any clue how to reach his father.
Mac's gut twisted as he thought about that bastard. Mac's mother had died giving birth to Mac and his father Royce had never, ever forgiven him for it. More than once, Royce had told Mac that he had, in effect, killed his own mother and taken away the only thing that Royce ever could or would love. God knows that he didn't love Mac and never even attempted to for one instant.
Mac had had a privileged upbringing: nannies, cooks, maids. Toys, clothes, trips with his nannies. But when he and his father were alone in the evenings and Royce dove in to the bottle, Mac's life became a living hell. Royce beat him often and brutally, shouting the whole time that Mac had ruined his life, that Mac was a despicable little murderer. On those long, bloody nights, Mac learned that to love someone was the most dangerous thing in the world to do. Love made you vulnerable and it made you weak and it made you insane.
He was raised by the help in a massive and isolated country estate house until he was eight years old. That was when Royce shipped him off to boarding school without even a pretence that he was sorry about seeing the back of his only child. To his surprise and despite his cold and violent childhood, Mac had excelled at school. In fact, he'd loved it. He loved being around kids his own age for once; he liked the team sports; he cherished not being afraid of punches and blows; he discovered that being funny and uncaring was a form of protection. He worked his ass off and showed a definite aptitude for science and anatomy, and he knew as early as the age of ten that he was going to be a doctor. He set his mind to it and never questioned it, never second-guessed it. It was his destiny.
College and medical school were paid for by Royce, with no murmurs of protests. Mac never fooled himself that Royce did so because he wanted Mac to succeed, or because he supported his son's chosen profession. No, it was all about maintaining appearances, about playing the Good Father. Mac went along with the charade in order to get his MD and then to specialize in neurology. He never worried about money, not for one second, and that gave
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