GEORGIE’S SKYE TO-DO LIST
Have athletic sex with rugged Highland men
The glass overflows, water spilling across my hand.
A low growl escapes my throat as I quickly shut off the tap.
I stare at the chalkboard.
Subcategories for thorough consideration:
Farmer (pros: strong hands; cons: 4 a.m. wake-up calls for milking)
Fisherman (pros: excellent with rope work; cons: smells like haddock)
Mysterious lighthouse keeper (pros: romantic isolation and brooding potential; cons: possible serial killer)
She’s written herself a comprehensive fucking manual for getting laid on the island.
I scan down to the items at the bottom—IRIS implementation sitting pretty at number seven—and my jaw clenches. The entire reason she’s here ranks below planning her Highland sex tour.
She’s got subcategories. Like she’s conducting a goddamn feasibility study on who she wants to fuck.
“Lighthouse keeper?” I mutter to the empty kitchen.
The only lighthouse keeper on Skye is Duncan MacPhee—seventy years old, missing half his teeth, and smells like he bathes in fish oil. Good luck with that romantic fantasy, sweetheart.
I’m… what the hell am I? Furious that she’s planning to screw her way through the local population while half-assing my IT implementation?
“Athletic sex,” I growl.
