“You’re not a burden.”
When’s the last time anyone worried about being a burden to me? Most people see me as either a resource, a connection, or a wallet.
“I think Skye’s made me realize I need to change my lifestyle in London,” she says quietly.
“You gonna start fishing in Hyde Park pond?”
She laughs. “Not quite. But I’ll do more outdoor stuff. And I think I’ll get some flat mates for Riri’s place. Living with Fee made me realize I don’t want to live alone. Sometimes I talk to Riri’s urn. Is that weird?”
I chuckle, but under the dark humor, something else sits there.
She’s lonely.
The thought lands heavy in my chest. A woman like Georgie shouldn’t be lonely. Shouldn’t be worrying about having conversations with an urn because there’s no one else to talk to. Someone should be coming home to her.
I don’t know what scares me more: the thought of her ending up alone or the fact that I’m standing here giving a damn about it in the first place.
But I can’t fix that for her. I’m good at running companies, good at the brutal decisions that affect hundreds of staff without blinking. Good for a fuck, for adventure, for making a woman forget her own name for a few hours. But the deeper stuff? Being someone’s husband, the person they count on when life goes to shit?
That’s not me.
She turns. Water laps high against her thighs while it barely grazes my knees. She shifts on the stones, unsteady, then pushes onto her tiptoes, stretching until her palm finds my jaw, as ifshe’s trying to anchor me in place despite the fact I tower over her.
“You’re such a kind, considerate man,” she whispers. “Underneath everything.”
“Everything?”
She nods, her thumb brushing my stubble. “The everything you put between yourself and the world. The part of you that looks like you’d rather wrestle a storm than say how you feel. You’re kind, Patrick.”
I grunt, jaw ticking under her touch. “I have my moments.”
Her palm lingers against my cheek. Her hands feel so small against me.
“I like you,” she blurts suddenly, then immediately looks mortified. “God, that sounded so teenage. I mean, I really like you. And it terrifies me.”
My chest tightens. “Why?”
“Because you could hurt me.”
I frown, holding her gaze. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
She laughs quietly, but there’s no humor in it. “Most people don’t.”
It’s only ten, but we’re already in bed. An early night, and not one that feels wasted after the day we’ve had. Fishing in the morning, Neist Point Lighthouse after that, and lunch at the café by the beach. I’d put that place up against any Michelin-star restaurant. It’s just a family joint with peeling paint on the shutters and sand on the floorboards, but it serves the best seafood on the island, piled onto paper plates.
Then we went back to my cottage for what can only be described as very satisfying sex. Georgie gives herself over completely when I touch her. No pretense. No performance. Every gasp, every arch of her body is honest, unfiltered, and vulnerable. She doesn’t know how to fake anything; she doesn’t even try. She makes me feel like I own the world when I’m inside her.
I listen to her breathing, wondering if she’s finally dozed off. She’s sprawled half on top of me, her dark hair spread across my chest. It’s been a good day. Better than good. There’s something right about having her here like this.
Just when I think she’s asleep, she lifts the covers and peers down, letting out a soft giggle.
“What are you laughing at?”
“Sorry,” she says, still grinning. “I’m conducting important research.”
“Christ, Georgie. No man wants a woman lifting the covers, peering down, then giggling.”
“I’m not giggling at that! That’s very impressive, actually. I’m looking at your missing toe. I wanted to see it properly. I’m relieved you have at least one physical flaw.”
