But that feeling? It’s a slippery bastard. And it’s been four days. She hasn’t brought it up. Maybe she’s changed her mind and regrets it. Or she kissed me like that because she was sorry for me.
Naw.
Except…maybe.
I keep telling myself it’s nothing and I’m reading too much into it. But my brain’s got a sick sense of humour and a long memory. And this woman – this perfect, sharp-edged, soft-curved miracle – she could break me with one look if she wanted to.
So I’m playing it cool. Sitting here in this monkey suit, fiddling with my cufflink like I’m not seconds from losing my grip.
Then I hear the soft pat of her bare feet on the floor. My head snaps up.
It’s not a dress. It’s a fucking trap.
Pale green, almost silver in the light, the silk flows over her like it’s got somewhere to be. Every inch clings. Hips, waist, tits… There’s nothing hidden and nothing asking for permission. It doesn’t hug her curves, it celebrates them. One side of her dark hair is clipped back with an antique silver hair comb, showing the line of her neck. The rest spills over her shoulder in shiny dark waves. When she turns, the silk pulls across her arse like it’s holding on for dear life. Every step sends it stroking her thighs, smooth as poured cream, tempting as fuck.
Holy hell.
I think my heart just came in my shirt.
I blink, trying to focus on anything but her dress, her.
As if.
She fumbles with her earring. ‘You clean up nicely. Very Bond.’ Her voice wavers on the last syllable.
Christ, she’s nervous – and it floors me like a tackle I didn’t see coming.
I get up, the tux suddenly feeling too tight, too formal. ‘Wow. You are…’ I trail off, shaking my head. My vocabulary shrinks to caveman grunts when faced with her looking like that. ‘That dress should be illegal.’
I follow her into the hallway.
‘I’m gonna say only one thing, Theo.’ I let my breath skate over her ear as I help her into her coat. ‘I’ll have to fake fuck all tonight.’
* * *
Stirling castle is a fairy tale come to life. Purple and gold lights on the stone walls and timber beams of the Great Hall. The SRU’s Burns Night Fundraiser is apparently a full medieval fever dream, hosted by some bigwig from the Scottish Rugby Union I’ve already forgotten the name of. Judging by the line-up of sponsors, donors, and the number of kilts paired with Rolexes, this isn’t exactly your local pub ceilidh.
Long banquet tables stretch down the middle of the hall, all deep green fabric, silver cutlery polished enough to check your teeth in, and flower arrangements bigger than grown men’s torsos. Pink roses, purple thistles, dark green ferns.
The whole thing kicked off earlier with a piper and the Selkirk Grace, followed by the Address to a Haggis delivered by a bloke who went full theatrics with the knife. He practically stabbed the poor thing into submission.
Now we’re between courses and halfway through the speeches. Someone just quoted A Man’s a Man for A’ That with full chest.
Charlie and Brodie are across the way, eyes following everything with a hint of wariness. Can’t fault them for it. Her dickhead of an ex-fiancé is here, beaming with his shiny new wife-to-be. A TV presenter or something. Brodie’s always a bit murdery in a crowd, but tonight he’s dialled to Maximum Menace. Charlie matches him glare for glare in a red velvet number that could start fights on its own. They look ready to sack a city.
Scottie hasn’t said a word. Just looms, brooding into his whisky like the glass insulted his maw. That’s atypical. He probably misses living with me. James keeps twitching his phone on and off, barely glancing up. If he gets one more text, I might hurl it into the Forth myself.
And then there’s Theo, sitting next to me, close enough to smell her perfume. She hasn’t said much since we arrived, but I can sense her. Every breath. Every time her fingers tense against her napkin. Back straight, shoulders tight, eyes scanning the room.
So I lean in, enough for our shoulders to brush. ‘Relax, List Girl. The worst is almost over.’
I rest my hand on the top rail of her chair as if I’ve done it a hundred times. No one’s watching us right now, but it doesn’t matter. I do it anyway, in case they are. Or in case she needs it.
Her hand loosens in her lap. ‘I swear, one more speech and I’ll stab the cake fork into my ear.’
I laugh. And because I’m a wee rascal, I also kiss her temple.
‘Finn!’
