“Ladies?”
We both look up.
Chef MacLeod looms over our table, hands clasped behind his back. This is bizarre. Usually he just barks from the kitchen and death-glares at anyone stupid enough to make eye contact. Now he’s hovering like a nervous waiter. “I trust everything is satisfactory this evening?”
“It’s lovely, thank you,” I say, puzzled why he’s checking in personally when Fee and I are staff, not paying guests. And it’s only mussels. Not exactly groundbreaking culinary innovation.
“Good,” Fee says. The little smirk playing at her mouth immediately puts me on high alert. “Reallyhit the spot.”
MacLeod’s cheeks go pink above his beard. “Good. That’s… very good.”
He gives a stiff nod and retreats to the kitchen, not before shooting Fee a look that could only be described as yearning.
The second he’s out of earshot, she leans in, stage-whispering. “Okay, don’t judge me. I did something bad.”
My wine glass freezes halfway to my mouth. “Define bad.”
“I shagged MacLeod.”
Wine. Wrong pipe. I cough so hard the entire table shakes. “You what?”
“Last night.” She shrugs. “We got chatting in the bar. He still had his chef whites on. I don’t know, it just… worked for me.”
“Oh my God, Fee.” I slap my napkin over my mouth to stifle the hysterics.
She grins. “Let’s just say he fucks exactly like he runs that kitchen. Efficient. Zero wasted movements.”
“That explains why he was acting so strange!” I wheeze. “I guess shagging a chef is advantageous. After the last guy gave you Irn-Bru, chips and gravy.”
“If you’re going to do it, might as well go top tier. Two Michelin stars, baby.” She clinks her glass against mine.
I slump in my chair, still giggling. “I think he’s got a crush. Where does he live?”
“One of the staff cottages. Sure, he’s a bit rough around the edges. But the man keeps his kitchen immaculate. Whole house, spotless actually. The contrast is kind of sexy.”
I flop against my chair, laughing. “This might be the highlight of my week. You realize I’m going to use this to my advantage, right? He’ll be forced to be nice to me if he knows we’re friends. Are you going to see him again?”
She shrugs. “Yeah, maybe.”
That’s when I hear it: the distinctive whir of helicopter blades chopping through the air.
My stomach drops like I’ve just swallowed one of the mussel shells whole, but I’m absolutely not going to leap up and press my face against the window.
I do the casual thing. Casual.So casual.
Just a quick, completely uninterested glance toward the window, as if I’m admiring the dusky pink of the sky and oh look, what a remarkable coincidence, a helicopter just happens to be descending onto the helipad. Fancy that.
It doesn’t mean it’s him. Could be one of the pilots ferrying rich people in for the weekend. Could be Beyoncé.
“When did you last hear from him?” Fee asks, because apparently my poker face is rubbish.
“Monday night.”
It’s been bloody killing me that I haven’t gotten to speak to him since. But I’m trying to act like a casual, cool girlfriend of abillionaire. Not overthinking. Not checking my phone every five seconds, even though I want to.
The thing is, I know he’s busy. He’s running hotels, attending board meetings, probably doing whatever it is billionaires do.
But there’s this humiliating little corner of my brain that keeps whispering,Maybe he’ll text.Just something small. “Thinking of you.” Or even just an emoji. I’d take an emoji at this point. A thumbs up. The aubergine. The poo emoji. Literally anything to prove he remembers I exist.
