Page 5

GEORDIE

I’ve a strong urge to fight my way through the cluster of people crowded around Jenna and her dad, but hold back. There’s a ring of smiling faces now, but I swear during her little speech there was hardly a dry eye in the house.

Can’t blame them. It got to me too, listening to her thank everyone for coming, while acknowledging the gaping hole left by her mother’s death. I’ll admit it took all my willpower to not let the sad knot tightening around my own throat leak out in a tear. According to my father, I’m soft. Guess he’s right, but I try not to see it as the flaw he does.

Meanwhile, Jenna stayed cool and composed. I suppose it’s those skills honed in the glare of the media keeping her upright when most might have crumpled. She knows how to say the perfect thing in the moment, even tonight when it’s so intensely personal.

My sister has that skill too, but where Rachel projects a brash, uncompromising ‘don’t fuck with me’ attitude, with Jenna it’s the sort of composure you admire, seeing her keep it all together, while allowing enough of a glimpse of the devastation at losing a parent show through so she doesn’t come across as hard or unfeeling.

Touched by her words, the guests all want to gather around and reassure her; volunteer support while she adjusts to life without her mum; offer anything that might help ease the loss that dragged her back here to Cluanie.

Yes, I want to do that too—promise her she’s not on her own—but I also want to have Jenna all to myself, not with an audience of nosey locals hanging on my every word. For the first time in ages, there’s a woman I’d like to get to know better and I’m not having the small town gossips nix it with their chatter before I’ve even started. By the time dessert’s served, half the town will have me proposing and the other half planning the wedding reception.

It’s not just what Jenna says that pulls me in. Yeah, she’s also stunning, but this isn’t just a passing spark of attraction. There’s something beneath that polished, controlled exterior—something raw, like she’s holding back more than she lets on. She let something slip out on the terrace, just for a second, but it was enough. It hit me deep, stirring up this fierce protectiveness, like the roles had flipped and I was the older one now. Maybe that’s why I pulled her in without thinking—to hold her for a moment, let her feel it. She’s home. She’s safe. I’ve got her.

I always liked Jenna. Somehow, despite me being an irritating little shit, I’m pretty sure she liked me, too. I just hope that hasn’t changed, because I’d really like to steal a little time with her tonight, if I can pry her away from all these well-wishers.

It’s a dangerous move for sure. Can’t let her father notice me paying her too much attention, otherwise my rugby season will be fucked before it’s begun. For Coach to think I’m hitting on his daughter would be a disaster. Playing rugby for Cluanie R.F.C is the only thing I can truly say I love about this town. I totally believe his threat to bench anyone who goes near her—but if he doesn’t know, there’s no reason for him to follow through on it.

I grab another beer from one of the overstuffed tubs. The guys I was with earlier have drifted back to the same corner of the lounge, locked in a loud argument, their laughter cutting through the room. The whole group erupts at a smartarse comment from Brodie. It’s tempting to rejoin them, but Jenna won’t be heading that way—not with Kyle holding court over there. I caught the look she gave him before, and there’s no way she’s putting herself in his orbit. He’s got history with half the women in this town, and the rest know better.

So instead, I linger on the edge of the room, waiting, hoping the tide of people will eventually push her my way.

She moves through them like it’s second nature—a light touch on a shoulder, a dip of her head, a quick, easy laugh. I guess this has always been her world. Events, parties. Her work has only made her better at it, gliding between old friends and total strangers like there’s no difference. Not like me. I hang back, hover on the edge, waiting to be sure I belong.

She stops to chat with a sweetly smiling kid—Skylar, yeah, that’s her name. Tiny blonde thing who’s always trailing after Brandon Smith. She looks like any other teenager dressed up for a night out, sparkly dress, bare legs, but there’s got to be more to her. Rumour is Brandon turned down a pro contract just to stay another year for her. If that’s true...well, maybe love makes you do stupid things. Me, if I’d been good enough to play professionally, I’d have signed my name without a thought .

Jenna catches my eye while she talks, and I tell myself that look means she’s coming my way soon. I can be patient where she’s concerned. I’d wait all fucking night for a chance to talk with her some more.

Finally, she gives the girl a small smile, squeezes her shoulder, and then—just like that—she’s walking my way.

I want to get her alone. Out there, on the terrace, when it was just the two of us, something arced between us. And I want it back. But in here? No chance. Not when she’s the centre of attention, not with a dozen club committee wives waiting to interrupt. If I can get her out there, just for a few minutes, maybe I can find whatever that was between us.

As Jenna’s eyes meet mine, I jerk my head toward the terrace. She lifts her brows in acknowledgment, snags a glass of bubbly, and falls in step a few paces behind me. I try to play it cool, like I’m just slipping out for some air, but my feet move too damn fast. I flick a glance over my shoulder—no one’s noticed. Meanwhile, Jenna, a few steps behind, has perfected the art of looking unhurried. Perfection, that’s her.

Right now, the little guy on my shoulder—the one who’s been there all my life, keeping me on the straight and narrow, urging me to take the safe path—isn’t just whispering; he’s losing his mind. Telling me Jenna’s my sister’s friend. Coach’s daughter. Reminding me exactly what her father does to guys who lay a hand on his girl. I not only ignore his words, I swipe that fucker away and head on out to the terrace.

Besides, I’m not about to hit on Jenna—not tonight, not when the past six months must feel like a weight she can’t shake. I’m not saying I wouldn’t, not some other time—she’s gorgeous and whip-smart, and any guy with a pulse would be tempted—but not tonight.

The scent of Cluanie hits me the second I step through the door—wood smoke floating on the night air. That’s a summer evening in my hometown, where the chill taints the twilight the moment the sun disappears and fires crackle in hearths year-round.

Outside, I slouch into a wicker chair by the pool, one of those seats that promises comfort but delivers regret. It’s definitely not made for a guy my size, so I’m forced to stretch out my legs in front of me, ankles crossed.

Jenna takes a seat next to me, the chair hugging her shapely denim-clad arse as if it was made for her. Her eyes flick to my feet, the corner of her mouth quirking up in amusement.

“What?” I say, and her smile widens.

“The cowboy boots,” she says, shaking her head with a giggle. “Not what I expected.”

I glance down to where my jeans have ridden up, showing off the tan leather of my favourite boots.

“Comfortable. All those cowboys sure aren’t wrong.”

“I thought you were on an oil rig, not a ranch.”

“Yeah, I was. These aren’t my work boots.”

“Your going out ones?” She raises a brow.

“Yeah, special.” The tooled leather is damned nice. Cost me a fortune, too. “My roommate on one of the rigs invited me home to Fort Worth for Christmas. Took me boot shopping. So damn good I bought a few pairs.” Her eyes sparkle like she’s about to take the mick about my footwear choices. “You don’t like them? ”

“No, they’re nice.” She stifles a laugh. “I just never pictured myself sitting on my terrace in Cluanie with a guy in cowboy boots. And definitely not Geordie MacDonald in cowboy boots.”

“Well, I’m damned glad I wore them tonight. Saved my ankles from your father’s bloody dog. Little bugger had a go at me.”

“Yeah, I heard. Sorry.” She casts me an apologetic look. “And Kyle too.” She shrugs. “Not sorry.” We both burst out laughing.

“Yeah, Kyle brings it on himself,” I agree.

“Actually, he was Mum’s dog.” Her face softens, laughter fading as her eyes mist over. Despite the brave front she put on earlier, the pain is still raw, just beneath the surface. “Poor Andy. He’s not coping too well with the change.” A single tear slips onto her cheek, and she scrubs it away with the back of her hand.

“And you?” I keep my voice soft. I don’t want to push, but I want her to know I care. “How are you doing?”

“Not great either, to be honest.” The confidence from earlier is gone. Her voice, thinner now, cracked at the edges.

“At least you’re not going round biting people.”

Her mouth twitches, then she shakes her head. “No, not yet.”

She could sink her teeth into me any day—not that I’d say it out loud.

Jenna drops her gaze, twisting a ring on her finger, her teeth catching at her lip. I watch her hesitate, weighing something in her mind. On impulse, I reach out, laying my hand over hers, offering a gentle squeeze.

I can’t imagine what she’s been through. One minute, she’s running PR for a pro rugby team—jetting across the UK, a big office at Highlanders HQ in Glasgow, probably a slick city apartment too. Working alongside her dad, who she’s always adored. Then, in the blink of an eye, it’s all gone.

Suddenly she’s back in Cluanie, living a nightmare—her mum sick, then gone in just a few months. And now she’s in this house, big enough to fit a rugby pitch inside, rattling around with only Razor and that evil bloody dog for company.

How the hell did Fiona Sharpe cope? With her husband always away, her daughter too. Alone in this mansion—surely she was lonely? Maybe that’s why she got the dog. Probably why he resents all these strangers invading his space, the little fucker nipping at people to make his point.

As if she’s read my mind, Jenna waves a hand at the house. “And then Dad does this. Rips Andy out of the only home he’s ever known, sets us up here. It’s so big, I even get lost sometimes.”

“It’s impressive,” I say, although I’m not sure it’s a compliment.

“When Mum was in hospice, Dad got it in his head to buy her a new house. Thought we’d all move in, start fresh once she got better. He couldn’t face the truth. Guess he was trying to make up for always being away.”

I don’t speak. What the hell can you say to that? Razor comes over as a tough old bugger, but man, he’s been through some tough shit. No surprise it had him making crazy decisions.

Jenna exhales a deep sigh. “Do you ever look back and wish you could make different choices?” She doesn’t wait for my answer. She already knows hers. “God, I do. I could have come home more. What would it have hurt? To skip a weekend clubbing in Glasgow and come home instead? Two hours in the car. But before she got sick, I came home what—maybe two or three times a year ?

“And I could have called her every day, instead of once a week. It was always Thursdays at two—before her piano students. Like she was just another task on my to-do list.”

She presses her lips together, closing her eyes for a moment. A deep furrow between her brows. The weight of regret sitting heavy on her shoulders.

Her words hit close to home. Sure, I’ve been thousands of miles away. Ducking home for a weekend was never an option, but I know, even if it had been—like Jenna—I wouldn’t have made the effort. Not with my father waiting to pounce on me the moment I walked in the door. At least this time, with Mum sick, he’s been less ferocious, his mind on her, not on how useless his son is.

Jenna’s guilt triggers my own. My mother deserves better. It’s not her fault Dad hates everyone but her. Jenna’s weekly phone calls home seem a pretty damn good track record; something she should be proud of. Me, I might have phoned Mum no more than a couple of times a year, outside of her birthday, Mother’s Day, and Christmas.

A trickle of hot shame creeps through me. I’ve been a slack bastard and I have no excuse for lumping my mother in with the bad feelings that even mention of Cluanie always stirred in me; feelings that stem mostly from my father. Unlike me, Jenna has no reason to be ashamed.

“But you did call her, Jenna. I bet she looked forward to Thursdays.”

Her smile is sad. “She did. I swear most weeks she’d made a list of things to tell me—who’d just had a baby, who’d moved away or moved back—the latest gossip, even if I didn’t know who the hell she was talking about half the time. Someone’s mother, brother or great aunt. She knew them all.” We both shake with laughter, knowing how the jungle drums never stop in this small town. “Sometimes we’d spend an hour. Might have been longer if she didn’t have some kid knocking on the music room door.”

“There you go,” I say. “Your Mum knew how much you loved her. I don’t doubt it. You shouldn’t either, not even for a second. I think it’s human nature to look back and wonder if we should have done something different. We all have regrets about the things we’ve done or haven’t done, but you can’t change the past, Jenna. Just remember the good bits and keep moving forward.”

The words are as much for myself, as her.

“Listen to you, Geordie MacDonald,” she says, her voice soft. “All grown-up and wise, too.”

“Well, I don’t know about wise,” I laugh. “No one’s ever called me that before. But you know, if you need someone to talk to, someone who knew her—and if it’s too hard to talk to your Dad—I’m here, for what it’s worth.”

“It’s worth a lot, Geordie,” she says. “Thank you.” She pauses a moment, looking at me, one dark brow softly arched. “Maybe we can get a drink sometime?”

“I’d like that,” I say. The offer of a listening ear was genuine, with no expectation of anything in return, but there’s a selfish part of me whooping in pleasure, knowing I’ve opened up a way to spend more time with Jenna. It urges me to make damn sure by getting her number. “I’ll text you. Or you can text me when you’re free. Here, give me your number.” I pull my phone from my back pocket and pass it to her.

There’s something totally captivating about Jenna that urges me to shove aside all the reasons she should be off-limits. I’m trying hard to keep a smug grin off my face as she takes my phone and taps in her number with shiny red pointed nails.

I shiver at the sight of those nails, imagining how they might feel raking down my back. My mind descends into another bout of filthy thoughts. I shouldn’t be having those thoughts about my sister’s friend, worse still my Coach’s daughter, because from thoughts come actions. Acting on those thoughts could well see her father tossing me out of the team, taking away my rugby—the best thing that’s happened to me lately—and I can’t imagine how I’ll survive Cluanie without it.

Still, the moment my phone’s back in my hand, I fire off a text to her number straight away. If she sees a message from me there, perhaps she’ll actually make good on the suggestion. I’ll be waiting, even if meeting up with Jenna is probably the worst idea I’ve had in a long time.