Green velvet. Long-sleeved, above the knee, hugs every curve. The kind of dress that makes me feel like I’m calling the shots.
The Glen Garve Resort is a fancy place. I need to look like I belong there.
A flash of hesitation. Christ, am I really doing this?
But then I lay the dress on my bed—the bed Struan built, with his own hands, because I couldn’t manage the bloody flat pack—and sit down at my make-up table.
I study my reflection. The woman looking back is scared. But also determined.
If I’m going to walk into that restaurant and potentially make a complete fool of myself, I’m damn well going to look incredible while doing it.
I reach for my make-up bag.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
AINSLEY
The Glen Garve Resort rises out of the darkness like something from a fairy tale, all honey-coloured stone and turrets and windows glowing warm against the October night. It’s the kind of place that whispersold moneyandyou don’t belong herein equal measure.
I park the car and sit for a moment, hands still gripping the steering wheel.
What am I doing?
This is insane. A terrible, terrible idea. I’m about to walk into a fancy restaurant, uninvited, and interrupt a man’s dinner. A man who is almost certainly on a date with someone else. A man I told, in no uncertain terms, that I wanted nothing further to do with romantically.
My reflection stares back at me from the rear-view mirror. Green velvet dress. Make-up done to perfection. Hair styled within an inch of its life.
I look like a woman who knows what she wants. It’s a shame my insides feel like jelly.
Just get out of the car, Ainsley. You’ve come this far.
The night air wraps around me as I step out—crisp, carrying the faint scent of wood smoke from somewhere. My heels clickagainst the paving slabs as I walk towards the entrance, and with every step, a little voice in my head whispers,Turn back, turn back, this is a terrible idea.
I ignore it. I’ve spent too long listening to that voice.
Inside, the lobby is all polished hardwood and crystal chandeliers, the kind of elegance that makes you stand up straighter. A fire crackles in a grand stone hearth, and from somewhere deeper in the building come the soft notes of a piano.
At the doorway to the restaurant stands the maître d’. Immaculate suit, practised smile.
“Good evening, madam. Welcome to the Glen Garve Resort. Do you have a booking with us tonight?”
“I’m meeting someone,” I say, with far more confidence than I feel. “They should already be here.”
“Of course, madam. And may I take the name of?—”
But I’m already walking past him, heels tapping purposefully as I head into the restaurant.
Act like you belong. That’s the trick, right?
“Madam?” he calls after me, a note of polite alarm in his voice.
I don’t stop. Don’t look back. This is a posh establishment and I look the part—he’s not about to chase me down and cause a scene. That would be terribly undignified.
The restaurant opens up before me: white tablecloths, gleaming cutlery, the soft flicker of candlelight. Couples lean towards each other over expensive wine. A pianist plays something gentle in the corner. Through tall windows, the glen stretches into darkness, the hills just visible against the night sky.
I scan the room, heart hammering against my ribs.
Where is he? Where?—
