“Okay,” she says quietly. “But just so I’m prepared, unlike the helicopter situation… you’re not planning any dramatic maneuvers, are you? No jumping waves or racing other boats? This is a normal, boring, safe boat with lifejackets and flares and a way to call the coastguard?”
“Christ, Georgie. Yes, it’s seaworthy and Coast Guard approved. You’re safe with me. We’ll watch the puffins, maybe stop in a bay if you fancy a swim.”
Her head jerks up. “A swim? So I should bring… swimming trunks?”
Not a costume, not a bikini.Trunks.
For a second, I picture her showing up in one of those striped Victorian bathing costumes, maybe a rubber cap with flowers on it.
At least I don’t have to worry about her showing up in something skimpy. I don’t want her getting any wrong ideas about this trip.
“Just pack whatever you’re comfortable wearing,” I tell her.
She nods with the seriousness of someone receiving military orders. Then her voice softens. “You know, you could have asked me directly for those data reports instead of going through Craig.”
“Craig’s the lead. I go through him for everything.”
“Right.” Her eyes drop back to the keyboard. “Of course. Chain of command.”
It’s the way she says it. A tiny note of hurt, but sharp enough to lodge somewhere uncomfortable in my chest. I don’t like the way it sits there.
And I don’t like that I want to say something to fix it.
Georgie
A day at sea with Patrick McLaren.
My heart hasn’t stopped somersaulting since he told me. Fifteen minutes until he picks me up. Fifteen minutes to mentally and physically prepare… and there is no way in hell I’m squeezing in an emergency leg wax.
The smell of something eggy hits me as I step inside. Fee’s at the stove, poking scrambled eggs.
“Morning,” I call, dumping my bag.
“Morning, love,” she says without looking up. “Please tell me you’re not working on a Saturday.”
My cheeks betray me instantly. “Actually… I bumped into Patrick and he’s taking me out on his boat. Out of obligation, obviously,” I add quickly. “Jake guilt-tripped him.”
I’d had to admit to Fee last night that I knew Patrick—kind of hard to hide when he’d shown up at our door on Thursday.
Fee freezes mid-stir, then spins around, spatula in hand. “Guilt trip or not, that’s pretty intimate. Just you and him? On a boat?”
I shrug, nerves knotting tighter. “I think so? He didn’t mention anyone else.”
A fresh wave of panic hits. What if it’s not just us? What if I’m gate-crashing some work thing? Or worse, what if the blonde woman from the ice bath is there?
“He said we’re going to see puffins. And maybe go swimming?” I chew my lip. “Is it safe to swim here?”
Fee’s grin is wicked. “If you’re going to die anywhere, please let it be in McLaren’s arms. God, this is exciting.”
I bite my lip, heart thudding. “Honestly, for him it’s nothing. Anyway, I need to dig out my swimming costume.”
I flee to my room and dig out my trusty navy one-piece—the reliable friend that’s seen me through holidays where I mostly sat by the pool reading.
I can’t be half-naked in front of Patrick. I don’t have a body like that blonde woman I saw at his cottage. The less skin I show, the better for everyone involved.
I trudge back to the kitchen with my supplies: factor fifty sun lotion, oversized sunglasses, the one-piece, a floppy hat, and my guidebooks.
“Let me see the swimsuit,” Fee demands.
