I glance at the bikini. It’s completely outside my comfort zone. Exactly the sort of thing Riri would have snuck into my suitcase without telling me.
Maybe the nun-suit stays home today.
I swallow hard.
Maybe I’m done with him seeing me as a nerdy little mouse.
Maybe it’s time he sees me as a woman.
SIXTEEN
The grass is greener on the dangerous side
Georgie
Patrick beeps the horna few minutes later. My stomach flips nervously as I grab my bag and hurry outside.
He’s parked in a Land Rover that looks like it’s endured multiple Highland winters. One muscled arm rests lazily over the steering wheel.
The second he spots me, he kills the engine and strides around to my side.
God help me. He looks exactly like the rugged fisherman I’d pictured when I wrote The List. His navy T-shirt stretches acrossbroad shoulders, his hair is wind-mussed, and his rough stubble suggests he forgot to bother with a razor.
“You really don’t have to,” I say, cheeks already burning as he reaches for the door handle.
He huffs, as if my protest is irrelevant. “My mum would box my ears if I didn’t.”
I smile. Somehow, I don’t think anyone in the world could box Patrick McLaren’s ears. But I like that he believes it.
I clamber into the passenger seat, and the cab fills my senses: salt air, warm leather, and that mix of masculine soap andhim.
My thighs squeak against the seat, and I tug self-consciously at my shorts. My legs look like uncooked chicken.
“We’re heading to the other side of the island,” he says, settling back behind the wheel. “Departing from the village of Stein. Ever been?”
“It’s supposed to be really pretty,” I say, clutching my guidebooks. “It’s got a Michelin-star restaurant there, right?”
“It does.” He shifts gears, and the Land Rover lurches forward.
“Why does Skye have so many Michelin-star places? I counted three, including the hotel.”
He shrugs, steering with one arm draped casually. “We’ve got the sea in our backyard. Best fish you can get, pulled from the water that morning. People who know what they’ve got and treat it like gold.” His mouth tips into a smirk. “Better than a fast-food chicken shop on every corner, like in London, right?”
I giggle, mostly from nerves. “I guess so.”
I glance around the cab’s no-frills interior. “I pictured you in a Porsche, not this.”
He lifts a brow. “Bit of a waste on single-track roads. You’re lucky if you hit forty most days. Plus, try hauling diving gear or climbing equipment in a sports car.”
I nod, watching him handle a tight bend like he’s done it a thousand times.
I like that he’s not a knobhead with a flashy sports car compensating for whatever men usually compensate for. Tiny willy energy, I guess.
Not that Patrick needs to worry about tiny willy anything.
“Which area are we heading to from Stein?” I ask.
“North. Deeper water past the Lochbay Islands. We’ll pass a few nesting colonies—gulls, ducks, geese. Then out to the Ardmore Arches where the puffins nest. If we’re lucky, we might see minke whales.”
