“Oh, she canceled last minute.”
I pause. “Did she sound alright?”
“Better than alright. From the racket in the background—bagpipes and shouting—she’s atThe Crooked Kilt. Like half the island. It’s dead quiet here.”
I grimace.
I should let it go. She’s not my problem. She’s not my anything.
But every muscle in my back goes rigid.
The Crooked Kilt.During theNight of the Herringfestival.
One night a year, the island collectively loses its mind. Most of the young ones use it as an excuse to get shitfaced.
The distillery stays out of it, but the pubs on the island brew their own “Herring Brine”—a lethal cocktail that must contain at least one ingredient tied to the sea. Seaweed gin, smoked salt vodka, or something worse. Always cloudy. Always rank. Always guaranteed to destroy you.
You can’t sip it either. You down it “as a fisherman would,” in one long pull, then slam the glass on the bar.
It gets raucous. Too much drink, too many fists flying, half of both police stations on the island filled by morning. Every young man on the island will be crammed into those pubs tonight, drunk out of their skulls.
Georgie’s there. In the middle of it.
Perfect place to tick off the first thing on her bloody list. She’ll have eager volunteers lined up.
Fuck.
I know I give Jake grief about being overprotective. She’s twenty-five, capable of making her own decisions. It’s not my responsibility to police her social life.
Still, the thought of her there, some drunk in tartan breathing whisky fumes down her neck… no.
I’ll call Seamus MacManus atThe Crooked Kilt. Tell him to keep an eye out for her. Make sure she gets a car back to the cottage and doesn’t end up in the back of some tractor.
This isn’t about me. It’s about Jake wanting me to look out for her.
What I want has nothing to do with it.
TWENTY-TWO
Balls like they’d been boiled
Georgie
If you’d told memy first date in three years would involve a man whose balls I’d already seen before drink number three (not intentional—his kilt caught on the table leg, and voilà, impromptu Scottish peep show), a cocktail that tastes like vodka and seawater, and a floor show featuring hammered fishermen taking turns on a mechanical sheep while bagpipes murderHighway to Hell... I’d have sworn on my precious laptop that you were winding me up.
Yet, here I sit, in what can only be described as a desperate but determined attempt to resuscitate my flatlining love life.
Opposite me sits Malcolm. Twenty-nine. Skye born and bred. Handsome, with strong forearms, and a smile that can’t decide if it wants to be sweet or wicked. The kilt works for him, though the overgrown pubic hair situation could use a trim, but fine, it gives him a sort of eco-warrior aesthetic.
An actual fisherman. Straight from my list.
Most importantly: not Patrick McLaren.
Thatman is a complete mindfuck, and I’ve decided I’m not getting mindfucked anymore. No, thank you.
My new strategy is Corporate Robot Georgie. I’m following every rule in his precious company handbook. Chain of command? Check. He wants boundaries? I’ve built the Great Wall of Georgie.
So far, the date with Malcolm has been lovely.
