Also, I know too much. In the beginning, Fee told me, in graphic detail that I didn’t ask for but received anyway, exactly how their relationship works. How he likes her to shout at him in the kitchen, and tell him he’s a useless chef who can’t even boil water properly, that his soufflés are a disgrace, and that he’s a shame to Scotland’s culinary tradition. Then they have violent, passionate, countertop-destroying sex right there among the pots and pans.
I can’t look the man in the eye.
“Come in. Please,” I say. “Let me take your coats. I’ll get you champagne. Or whisky? We have good whisky.”
I smile. I like hosting. Not huge parties—the thought of twenty-plus people in my space makes me want to hide under my bed and never emerge. But this I can do. Quality over quantity.
I lead them into the living room where a few of my university friends are scattered about, along with Roy and Alya. Some of Patrick’s friends are here too—Liam and Gemma, and Daisy with Edward. Plus Jake who’s already helped himself to the expensive whisky Patrick was saving for “special occasions.”
I’ve gotten to know Daisy properly over the last few months. She had all these worries about fitting into Edward’s world—the man’s family has an estate with staff and peacocks—and we bonded immediately over shared imposter syndrome.
Now she texts me at random hours asking if things are “appropriate” and I have to remind her that I’m the woman who once apologized profusely to a mannequin at Zara after walking into it.
The living room looks gorgeous, if I’m allowed to say that about my own house without sounding smug.
Patrick is practical and good with his hands which is both useful for home renovation and deeply sexy. He made the built-in bookshelves in the living room himself while I watched and tried not to visibly swoon. My IT books are strategically hidden behind more aesthetically pleasing spines because books about network security and firewalls are ugly. Right at eye level is Steven Bartlett’sThe Diary of a CEO, which I bought purely because no self-respecting CEO would be caught without it.
Riri’s ashes sit on the mantelpiece in a beautiful ceramic urn. Sometimes I still talk to her, tell her about my day, about the business, about how Patrick leaves his socks on the bathroomfloor, and it drives me insane but also makes me stupidly happy because it means he lives here.
At least his socks don’t smell as bad as Jake’s. Though that might just be my pheromones doing some heavy lifting. Love is blind, and apparently it’s also lost its sense of smell.
Patrick catches my eye and smiles. That slow, warm smile that’s just for me, the one that makes my stomach flip even after all these months.
There’re the flutters. Right on schedule. They never go away.
He raises his glass to me from across the room where he’s talking to Roy.
This is my life now.
Just like Riri always wanted for me.
“Did you enjoy the party, sweetheart?”
His voice comes from behind me, low and rough, and his arms wrap around my waist. He bends down to press his lips to my neck—has to bend because he’s ridiculously tall and I’m not—and the heat of his mouth against my skin makes my knees go weak.
A full-body shiver runs through me. Every. Single. Time. I cannot play it cool with this man, not even slightly. Five years from now, I’ll still be turning into a puddle every time he does that thing with his lips on my throat.
“It was amazing.” I let myself melt back against him, feeling the solid wall of his chest. My head tips to the side, giving him better access. “But now I’m glad it’s just us.”
I sigh, eyes closing for a moment. Then reality crashes back in, and I straighten. “I should do the dishes, though. I won’t be able to sleep knowing they’re sitting there getting crusty.”
“Hmm.” He kisses my neck again, slower this time. I feel his smile curve against my throat. “Yeah, you should.”
Cheeky bastard. He could offer to help. He has two perfectly functional hands.
I pull away from him with what I hope is dignified disappointment. I stroll into the kitchen, except it’s less of a stroll and more of a shuffle because I’m absolutely knackered and my feet hurt from hosting in heels.
Empty beer bottles and wine bottles cover every surface like evidence of a very successful party.
I start gathering them, glass clinking as I deposit them in the recycling bin.
I reach for my rubber gloves when something stops me cold.
The whiteboard. The board Patrick and I put up on the wall, the one where we leave each other notes and reminders. Like the one I had in Skye that started this whole thing.
There’s new handwriting on it. His handwriting, bold and confident in black marker.
Patrick’s To-Do List:
