I chuckle, but it dies quickly, tightening into something heavier. Because now she’s here, alive and talking, I feel how wound up I’d been. How fucking relieved I am that she opened that door. “Your phone was off. I just wanted to check that you were okay.”
Her eyes go wide. “Oh God… I’m sorry. I just… couldn’t look at it today. My brain wasn’t prepared. I didn’t mean to worry you.”
“That’s fine,” I say gruffly. What else am I meant to say? Order her to keep it charged and glued to her hand every hour of the day?
She bites her lip, staring up at me, cheeks flushed pink.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“I don’t know how to act around you now. After last night…”
“Just act normal.”
She laughs shakily. “I’ve never managed normal with you. And today’s even worse because I feel like death.” She hesitates, fingers fidgeting with the hem of her t-shirt. “And sometimes you’re hot and cold with me. I never know where I stand. Like after the boat trip.”
I grimace. “Fair point. I’ve been a bastard about it. I’ll try to do better.”
Her shoulder lifts in a small shrug, but the hurt flickers across her face before she can hide it. She doesn’t believe I’ll do better, and why would she?
She looks so miserable—hungover, confused, standing there in her pajamas with pillow creases still on her cheek—that something in my chest pulls tight.
I’ve got a stack of work waiting and already wasted half the morning pacing, wondering if she was alright. I should leave.
Instead, I hear myself say, “You know what helps a hangover? An ice bath.”
Her eyes widen. “Yourice bath? At your cottage?”
“Yeah. Come on, I’ll sort you out.”
“You don’t have to...” She shifts from foot to foot. “I’m sure you have better things to do than nurse my self-inflicted suffering.”
“I’ve got more years of this festival under my belt than you. Trust me.”
“Really, you don’t need to look after me.” She wraps her arms around herself. “I’ll be fully de-fished and functional for work tomorrow, I promise.”
I let out a slow breath. “Georgie, after last night, I think we’re past pretending I’m only checking whether you’re fit for the office tomorrow.”
She goes still, teeth catching that bottom lip. Her chin’s faintly pink, scraped raw from my stubble. “I suppose we are. I can’t believe I’m saying this… okay. I’ll just grab my bikini.”
She disappears inside, and I drag a hand down my face, muttering a curse under my breath. I came here to check she hadn’t choked on her own vomit. Now I’m inviting her over to my ice bath because I just can’t help myself.
When she reappears, she’s in leggings and an enormous jumper that keeps sliding off one shoulder. She’s attempted to tame her hair and put on bright red lipstick, probably trying to look less hungover.
When the hell did this happen?
Somewhere between the boat trip and her mortified face when she opened the door in Periodic Table shorts, she went from Jake’s sister to a woman I’ve been thinking about far too often.
We walk side by side to my cottage. The sea breeze whips her hair across her face. She hugs the jumper closer, looking small next to me. Every instinct howls to pull her in against me, but I shove my hands deeper into my pockets and keep walking.
“After you,” I say, pushing the door open.
She hovers in the hallway, scanning the space. Her nose wrinkles at the line of boots. “I’ve never seen a man with so many boots.”
I glance over, amused. Hiking boots, sailing boots, trainers, all lined up, caked with mud and salt. “Each has its use. My housekeeper’ll sort them tomorrow.”
“But why do you need five pairs of hiking boots? Are your feet very high-maintenance?”
I arch a brow. “I have big feet. They sweat.”
