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GEORDIE

“Do you have to go?” I have to ask, even though I know the answer.

The more I have of Jenna Sharpe, the more I want. A week ago, this would have been a dream come true—her lying in my bed, her curvy body soft and warm against mine, and the air thick with the scent of us, mingled with her already familiar expensive perfume.

Nuzzling into her hair, I drink in the fragrance of spring, probably some equally expensive shampoo. I want more of it, more of her. I should be grateful for these early autumn nights, making love to Jenna in slow, languid strokes—learning her body, savouring the details of what brings her pleasure. But I want more.

I should be relieved we no longer have to tiptoe around the undetonated bomb of her father coming home early—or risk that fucking psycho dog launching a teeth-fuelled missile attack on my ankles. Or my arse. I’m sure he’s not fussy about where he maims his victims.

What eats at me is how business-like this feels—like a transaction, with secrecy as the price I pay to keep her in my life. All I’m offered is this small part of her, while if I had the chance, I’d take it all .

“Stay,” I plead gently. “Phone him and tell him you’re staying over with a friend.”

“Well, it wouldn’t be a lie.”

In the dark, I wince at her words. It’s not a lie. We are friends. While I’ve been told friendship is a sound basis for a relationship, from the moment we reconnected out on the terrace at that damn party—only two weeks ago—part of me has wanted Jenna as more than a friend. And not just the sex, although that’s pretty fucking amazing.

“I can’t Geordie. Not yet.”

I feel a stupid leap of hope at that one little word—yet. Her staying over in my new flat isn’t off the cards—yet.

It’s probably wise to take it carefully. However, I’m sure we’ll be sprung, eventually.

Even my parents questioned my urgent need to move out of my childhood bedroom and in here with Nathan. Dad isn’t sorry to see me gone, but Mum’s plea for me to at least come over for dinner once a week tugs at my conscience. She’s not yet cleared to go back to work, even with the reduced hours Dad insisted on. I’m sure running around after me and cooking dinner for more than the pair of them helped to fill her days.

But that’s not the main reason for her invitation. I know, even after all this time, she holds out a tiny hope that he and I could sit at a table together and have a normal conversation. She’s an optimist. It’ll never happen.

I still feel the old guilt at leaving her there, inhabiting the same house as the bastard. It’s misplaced, as I know she’s the one person in the world who he genuinely likes, and any small dissatisfaction with her is only surface level and fleeting. Still packing up my things in the space of an hour and leaving town, even if it is only seven miles, felt like a betrayal.

Jenna’s old man is bound to get suspicious if she stops coming home at night. Someone is going to see her driving this way every evening, or ducking up the road to MacFarlane’s on random afternoons. Anyone who does is guaranteed to tell tales. Cluanie, like all small towns, loves to gossip, and who’s sleeping with who is a topic that always grabs their attention.

“I can wait,” I lie. “If anyone can come up with a good cover story, it’s you. After all, that’s how you make your living, right?”

She levers herself upright, sitting with those beautiful legs arched. My eyes rove across them. The ankles that minutes ago I had resting on my shoulders while I drove into her. The shapely calf muscles, taut and toned like an athlete. The curve of her thigh. I can still feel the smooth skin under my palm.

She hesitates for a moment—just long enough for hope to flicker—before she shreds it.

“Geordie, I don’t think it’s a good idea. To stay over. Sure, we’re sleeping together. It’s fun. But waking up together…” She pauses, her face a mask, her smile not tipping up at the corners like usual. “Somehow it suggests this…” She waves a hand between us. “...is more than it is.”

“And what do you think ‘this’ is?” I add air quotes, a stupid gesture matching my stupid question. I know the answer and I know it’s only going to slam my heart like going down in one of Fraser Sinclair’s bruising tackles to be dumped on unforgiving early-season ground .

“A bit of casual fun. Friends with benefits if you want to put a label on it. Isn’t that what we agreed? Unless you’ve changed your mind? And believe me, if you have, that’s fine. No damage done.”

Of course I’ve fucking changed my mind. The damage is already done. The first time I’ve fallen for a woman, not only is she my sister’s friend, and my coach’s daughter, she wants to keep me out in the fucking friend zone. Even if it is definitely the fucking kind.

I dip my chin in reluctant agreement, trying to keep my features neutral. I want to take Jenna by the shoulders and shake her, yell at her, make her look me in the eye and tell me that she doesn’t feel it too, that there’s more between us when we come together than two bodies desperate for some mutual pleasure. There are two people for whom this could be so much more—and for one, it already is.

But if I can’t even get Jenna to stay the night, what chance have I got of making her stay in Cluanie? In November, she will walk away from the town—and me—heading back to her glamourous job with the Highlanders, back to the excitement of the Glasgow nightlife, back to her old friends. How can ordinary old Geordie MacDonald compete with that?