“You smell like a brewery,” he says flatly.
Well, that’s romantic. Nothing gets a girl going quite like being told she smells like fermented yeast.
“Excuse me, Mr. Minty-Fresh,” I mutter.
I push open the door, feeling an odd pang of loss as the charged space between us breaks, but before I can step out, his hand clamps around my arm.
“Wait. Your front door’s open.”
I follow his gaze to where my cottage door is indeed wide open. Oh shit.
“It’s fine,” I say, though my pulse picks up. “Fee must not have closed it properly on her way out. The wind probably just blew it open.”
I climb out of the Land Rover, but he’s already out his side and striding toward my cottage.
“What are you doing?”
“Checking the cottage. I’m not letting you walk into a place that’s been sitting open.”
“I’m fairly certain no one’s lurking in there waiting to murder me. What’s the crime rate on Skye? One sheep stolen per decade?”
He doesn’t dignify that with an answer. Just strides ahead.
“Wait there,” he says, disappearing down the hallway to check the rooms.
I ignore him and head straight for the kitchen. I’m not standing outside my own cottage like some damsel.
When he reappears, I’m rummaging through cupboards.
“All clear. No axe murderers in your wardrobe.”
“Thank you for the security sweep. Don’t think this means I approve of you dragging me from my date,” I say, pulling down glasses and trying to tug my skirt down simultaneously. “But since you’re here... do you want a beer?”
“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?”
“I meant for you,” I say primly. “I’m having water.”
There’s a loaded pause, like he’s weighing up whether staying is a spectacularly bad idea.
“All right.”
I have to blink twice to make sure I heard correctly. I was certain he’d grunt out some excuse and leave.
The fact that he’s staying, that we’re about to be alone in this small space with all this unresolved tension crackling between us, makes my hands shake as I reach for the fridge.
Patrick McLaren is in my kitchen after dragging me away from another man.
I hand him a bottle from the fridge and pour myself water. The cottage falls into such quiet that I can hear the appliances humming their mechanical lullaby and the wall clock ticking like it’s counting down to something.
He drops into a chair, legs spread wide, elbows braced on his thighs.
I rummage through the cupboard for paracetamol, shake two into my palm, and swallow them with a gulp of water. Then I turn toward him with a flourish, arms wide.
“See? Following the boss’s post-intoxication protocol to the letter: hydration achieved, anti-inflammatories ingested, blood alcohol content now undergoing systematic metabolic breakdown. Your supervisory duties are complete, Mr. McLaren.”
His gaze meets mine. “Good girl. You’ll thank me in the morning.”
Heat floods my face. My glass nearly slips. Those two words in his voice shouldn’t affect me like this.
