“Please don’t,” I beg, already imagining having to apologize to multiple Highland men for my friend’s wandering hands.
“Fine. I’ll behave. For now.”
I tug at my strap again self-consciously.
“You look beautiful,” Fee says, softer now, squeezing my arm gently. “Stop second-guessing yourself.”
I squeeze back, grateful for her ability to read my spiral before it fully forms. “Thank you. You look gorgeous too. That silver is perfect on you.”
That shopping trip was three hours of me panic-sweating while Fee held up dresses that screamedbend me over a table. We’d finally compromised on this green one with enough cleavage that Fee declared my tits “absolutely criminal”, but with enough fabric that I wouldn’t get arrested for public indecency.
I scan the room, my chest tightening like it does when I’m overwhelmed by too many people and not enough exits.
Across the ballroom, Mary and the housekeeping crew wave enthusiastically, clearly several drinks past giving a shit about anything. The newer hires are stuck working the event; the veterans get to party.
I wave back like I, too, am carefree and fun.
Then I spot Patrick.
He’s impossible to miss, considering he’s a head taller than most of the room.
My breath stutters. He’s always handsome, but tonight he’s in full Scottish formal dress. Kilt. Jacket. Sporran. Those sock things with the wee flashes of color at the calf that shouldn’t be sexy but absolutely are.
Fuck me gently with bagpipes.
He’s standing with Jake and the others I recognize from my Google deep-dive while investigating Patrick’s social circle. His brother Liam and friend Edward, also in kilts, look like they’ve stepped out of a Highland romance novel but the scary kind where the heroes might murder you.
Patrick laughs at something Liam said. His whole face transforms when he does that.
My chest physically aches.
Liam has his arm around Gemma, who looks effortlessly elegant. I know from my stalking—I mean, professional research—that she was Head of HR at Liam’s company. Very important. Very accomplished.
Even HR terrifies me, and they’re supposedly the friendly department with the posters about inclusivity. But they’re the ones who know exactly how many times you’ve Googled “is it normal to cry in the server room” from your work computer, so really, they’re the most dangerous of all.
I fidget with the strap of my tartan clutch, fingers twitchy with nerves.
We’ve barely made it three steps into the ballroom when Chef MacLeod materializes, decked head-to-toe in aggressive tartan.
“Evenin’, lassies,” he booms. “Ye look—” he says something that could be “bonny” or “horny” or maybe “thorny”? His accent’s so thick I need subtitles. His eyes are glued to Fee’s cleavage, so whatever he’s saying, it’s not about the canapés and it’s not directed at me.
Fee preens like she’s just been crowned Miss Scotland.
Jake spots me from across the room and waves, beckoning me over.
My stomach lurches. I don’t want to go over to Patrick’s sophisticated London circle.
“Fee,” I say quietly. “I need to go say hi to Jake.”
“I’ll come. Just give me five minutes.” She’s already turning back to MacLeod.
I sigh. I can’t be the pathetic friend who waits because she’s too scared to walk across a room alone.
“Just catch me up,” I say.
I walk over to Jake and Patrick’s circle. Patrick spots me and gives me a once-over and a smile that makes my nerves go from bad to worse. I so badly want him to see me the way he sees them. As an equal. As someone who belongs.
“Hey, sis.” Jake grins. “You look amazing.”
