“Sure,” I squeak.Do I tilt my head left or right? What if we both pick left and knock skulls like two coconuts? What if I close my eyes too soon and he changes his mind, and I end up kissing air?
He cups my face gently. We’re really doing this, right next to someone violently playing the spoons.
His lips touch mine.
It’s… nice. Soft.
Except—dear God—the cocktails. There’s a lingering aftertaste of haddock martini. It feels less like romance and more like I’m locked in a passionate embrace with the Tesco seafood counter.
And the hard bulge pressing against me? Not masculine fervor. Just his sporran.
Technically, it’s a decent kiss. But emotionally? Nothing. I’m not feeling butterflies. Not even moths.
Instead, I’m thinking how different this feels from thatotherkiss.
My eyes accidentally open mid-kiss—terrible etiquette, Georgie—and that’s when I see him.
Leaning against the bar. Taller than everyone. Baseball cap pulled low, but I’d know those shoulders anywhere. Talking to the barman, water in hand like he’s the designated driver for the entire pub.
He lifts his head.
His eyes meet mine.
Across the bagpipes. The sweaty kilts. The mechanical sheep. The spoon violence.
Oh. Fuck.
Fuck.
FUCK.
I am making direct, prolonged, excruciating eye contact with Patrick McLaren while my mouth is occupied with a kilted fisherman’s haddock-flavored face.
And I keep kissing. Because what else am I supposed to do? Yank away and give a cheery wave?
For a second, I convince myself he’s not real. My vindictive brain has conjured him from pure spite, just to ruin this moment.
But no. He’s real. Baseball cap, broad shoulders, pint of water. Horrifyingly present and watching me kiss someone else.
In panic, my teeth catch Malcolm’s lip.
“Mmph—” Malcolm grunts, jerking back half an inch.
I blink hard, my gaze darting between Malcolm’s confused face and the man leaning against the bar. Patrick is mid-conversation with the barman, yet his eyes never leave me.
“What’s wrong?” Malcolm asks. “You’re not going to puke on me, are you?”
I can barely hear him over my heartbeat.
The room slows to a crawl. Bagpipes wail somewhere distant. A kilt flaps past my peripheral vision.
Patrick’s still watching me, expression unreadable. No jealousy twisting his features. No anger tightening his jaw. Nothing to suggest he gives a single shiny shite that I’ve just tongued another man.
He gives me a nod. The kind you’d offer any employee you happened to spot during their personal time.
Then he looks away. Says something to the bartender. The man laughs. Patrick checks his watch like he has somewhere better to be.
“Georgie?” Malcolm says again, his big fisherman hands falling away. “Did I do something wrong?”
