A regular guy who snores when he’s flat on his back. Who leaves damp towels everywhere. Who has made me porridge every morning. Who was genuinely kind about my attempt at dinner last night, even though we both knew pasta wasn’t supposed to crunch like that.
But part of me is waiting for the moment he realizes I’m not the kind of woman who belongs in his world. That I’m the IT girl who apologized to a fish, playing dress-up in borrowed waders.
The low whir builds outside. I snap my book shut and hurry to the window. The helicopter touches down, and relief floods through me so intensely that I have to grip the windowsill. Nobody’s becoming a cautionary tale about aviation today.
Jake climbs out of the passenger seat, beard achieving new levels of mountain hermit, and I feel that familiar warmth of seeing my brother safe. The relief. The excitement to catch up after time apart.
Then Patrick climbs out.
Oh, fuck.
My eyes forget Jake exists. They zoom straight to Patrick like he’s the only thing worth looking at in Scotland, possibly theworld. I lean forward, my nose nearly touching the glass like a dog’s at a car window.
My chest tightens with this awful realization: if something had happened to him flying, I wouldn’t just grieve like a normal person. I wouldn’t just be heartbroken. I’d bedestroyed.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I haven’t seen Jake in ages. I saw Patrick literally an hour ago when he left to collect Jake, and yet my brother might as well be invisible.
Bloody buggering bollocking hell.
Ilovehim.
Wait. What?
I blink hard, trying to reset my brain back to something sensible likeThank God nobody died in a fiery helicopter crash.
But the feeling sits there in my chest, refusing to budge.
I love Patrick McLaren.
Shit, shit, shit.
When did this happen?
Was it gradual, or did it happen all at once when I wasn’t paying attention? Was it the mountain? The fishing?
Howdid I let this happen?
I was supposed to be having a breezy Highland fling with a local fisherman, not falling catastrophically, definitely-going-to-need-therapy-when-this-ends in love with my emotionally complicated boss who also happens to be my brother’s friend and could fire me if this goes badly.
The two men walk toward the hotel. Patrick says something that makes Jake laugh.
I love Patrick so much it physically hurts. This is a fucking disaster.
That’s exactly why I can’t tell Jake. Not until I figure out what to do with all these feelings.
Jake will take one look at this situation and see exactly what it looks like: his baby sister getting her knickers in a twist over his powerful, experienced friend who could eat her for breakfast.
Breathe,you muppet. You cannot have a panic attack the second your brother rocks up. That’s terrible timing, even for you.
Okay. So, I love him. Fine. People fall in love all the time. Statistically speaking, it’s practically mundane. I read somewhere that the average person falls in love 2.5 times in their life, which makes me wonder who the half-person was and what happened there.
I fling open the lobby door and run across the lawn, nearly tripping over my own feet in my enthusiasm. Jake scoops me up into one of his bear hugs, lifting me clean off the ground.
“You look like you’ve been living in a cave.” I laugh, tugging at his ridiculous beard.
“Don’t squeeze too tight,” he groans, setting me down. “I need a shower, twelve hours of sleep, and possibly a sheep shearer.”
