Christ. I’ve absolutely lost it.
Only then do I realize I’ve backed her up against the table, crowding her space like a territorial caveman marking his domain. She cranes her neck to hold my gaze, and the height difference makes her look small and vulnerable.
What the hell am I doing? Looming over a junior employee, trying to control her sex life like she belongs to me? I’m obliterating every professional boundary that exists and inventing new ones to violate.
“Get your coat,” I say, forcing myself to take a deliberate step back.
“What?”
“We’re going to dinner.”
“I can’t go to dinner with you now. Not after this whole catastrophe.”
“We’re going. We’ll tick something off your precious list.”
Her eyes go wide with alarm.
“Notthat,”I growl, and an obscene image of me taking Georgie against her kitchen table forces its filthy way into my mind before I can stop it. “Thehaggis. You’re going to try the best haggis in Scotland.”
“I don’t think I can stomach anything right now, let alone haggis. No pun intended.”
“You need to eat. The haggis will be a side dish in case you hate it.”
“Okay,” she says in a small voice, like she doesn’t have the energy to fight anymore.
I nod curtly, not trusting myself to say anything else that might make this situation even more fucked up than it already is.
I put my hand on her back to indicate for her to go first.
At the door, I stop. “The one about making Riri proud—she was your aunt, right?”
“My great-aunt. She left me this video message telling me to stop being so afraid of everything and try to enjoy life for once.” Her voice gets quieter. “Try new things. I guess I’m trying to honor her wishes.” She lets out a nervous laugh. “She’d have found this whole situation hilarious. She’d have said it was the most Georgie thing imaginable.”
I almost smile but I’m too wound up.
As we walk toward the hotel in tense silence, I try to make sense of what the hell just happened. And more importantly, why I’m trying to stop my friend’s sister from having consensual sex with random men when it’s none of my business.
Next thing I know, I’ll be demanding they bring me the severed heads of any lighthouse keepers who dare look in her direction.
The fact that I’m not entirely sure I regret any of it probably says something alarming about my current state of mind.
FOURTEEN
Someone else eats your haggis
Georgie
I have transcended ordinaryembarrassment and entered some sort of advanced mortification dimension. One where Patrick McLaren has seen my sex to-do list written in pink chalk.
By the time I’m ninety and shuffling around my care home, I’ll have a scrapbook of humiliations. Sandra, the nurse, will be spooning lukewarm custard into my mouth when I’ll go misty-eyed and whisper, “He knew about the lighthouse keeper, Sandra.”
And she’ll pat my hand sympathetically, assuming dementia has kicked in.
Patrick’s hand settles at the small of my back as he guides me through the hotel’s main restaurant. The warmth sends little sparks racing over my skin in ways that are deeply unhelpful to my current mental state.
For one delusional moment, it almost feels like we’re on a date, not that I have extensive experience with dates, especially not with men like him.
The staff practically bow as we pass. “Good evening, Mr. McLaren, your usual table?”
