“All week.”
My chest deflates a little. It’s strange, picturing him there instead of here. In Skye, he’s this rugged outdoorsman—carrying me up mountains, conjuring lost necklaces from thin air, kissing me against shower tiles. In London, he’s probably... I don’t know. My brain unhelpfully supplies images of sleek women with glossy hair and legs up to their ears, slinking toward him in cocktail dresses.
Women throw themselves at him. And it’s not like he and I… well. We’re not anything. Not official. Not exclusive. Not even logical.
We’re just… Skye. A bubble. And bubbles burst. I don’t know if I’m strong enough to watch this one pop around me.
On Skye, I think he respects me enough not to rub salt in the wound. Not to hurt my feelings. But back in London? Back in his world? I’d be stupid to think he won’t…
“Georgie?”
Shit. He said something. “Sorry, what?”
“I said don’t spend every night working late. And remember to eat dinner every day.”
“I am working hard, obviously.” He’s still my boss—I need to suck up a little. “But Thursday night, Fee and I are going to your distillery. To finish my list.” I smile even though he can’t see it. “I’m getting down it, but I haven’t ticked everything off yet.”
“What’s left?”
I think of the work ones.
Make IRIS implementation a success.
Prove to Patrick that I’m a competent employee.
Have I managed either? I’m too scared to ask.
“Oh, you know. Item number one, the one about cute fishermen,” I tease.
“Ah.” His voice drops an octave. “That.”
The pause stretches so long I wonder if the line’s gone dead.
“I’m joking!” I blurt. “I’m not actually planning—”
“I should go,” he cuts in. “Night, Georgie.”
“Night,” I whisper, but he’s already gone.
I lie there clutching my returned necklace, staring at the ceiling.
Maybe London Patrick doesn’t want the mess of Skye Patrick following him home.
THIRTY-ONE
Hot rubber
Georgie
It’s Friday night, andFee and I are tucked into one of the squashy leather armchairs in the hotel’s lobby bar.
Out the tall windows we’ve got a perfect view of the lawns rolling down to Portree harbor. VeryVisit Scotlandbrochure chic.
I dig my fork into the bowl of mussels we’re sharing. “So, how long are you staying up here?”
Fee wipes butter off her chin, grinning. “Maybe a year? Then I’m thinking of applying to the McLaren hotel in Cornwall. Butwe have to stay in touch. London, Cornwall, wherever we end up. No excuses.”
“Definitely,” I say, though the thought of living alone again makes something twist uncomfortably in my chest. “I’d love that.”
