That’s not the kind of place you go alone. It’s fancy. Romantic. The kind of place you take someone you’re trying to impress.
A date. He’s on a date.
My hands shake slightly as I try calling him. It rings and rings, then goes to voicemail.
I try again. Same result.
Fuck.
I’m pacing now, properly pacing, wearing a track in the carpet.
I remember what Mum said about Struan being a catch. I remember Lindsey McVey, the blonde jogger, and the bathroom quote she turned into a proposition. I remember the crowd of women around Struan after his gig at the Ferryman’s Rest, all twirling hair and flirty smiles.
Has he already moved on? Has he gone on a date with someone else?
And if he has... do I have any right to feel upset about that?
I told him—insisted, in fact—that I wanted us to be neighbours and nothing more. I shut him down. Multiple times. I practically slammed the door in his face.
So why does my chest feel like someone’s reached inside and squeezed?
Jealousy. That’s what this is. Hot and ugly and completely irrational.
I have no claim on him. None at all.
But God, this is just my luck, isn’t it? I finally decide that maybe Struan and Icouldwork, and I’ve left it too late.
Fine. I’ll talk to him in the morning. What else can I do?
But then a worse thought surfaces, cold and unwelcome.
Is Struan the kind of guy who’d sleep with a woman on a first date?
Of course he is. Hell,wedidn’t even make it to our first date because we were too busy fucking in his bedroom.
Which means tomorrow morning might be too late.
By then, he might have already?—
No.No.
I stop pacing. Stand very still in the middle of my living room.
There’s only one thing for it. If I can’t get through to him on the phone, I’ll have to go speak to him in person. At the Glen Garve Resort. Tonight.
The thought is absolutely terrifying.
But I’ve let fear control me for too long. Fear of being hurt. Fear of being humiliated. Fear of trusting someone again only to have it blow up in my face.
And where has that fear got me? Alone in my house on a Monday night, pacing holes in the carpet while the man I might actually have feelings for is out with someone else.
No. Now is the time for action.
I head upstairs to my bedroom and throw open the wardrobe. My fingers move past comfortable jumpers and practical work clothes until they land on something else entirely.
This one.
I pull it out. The dress I picked for our first date.
