Page 8

JENNA

“White chocolate mocha?” I inhale the aromatic steam with an appraising sniff. This has become our daily game. Skylar arrives with coffee and I try to guess which decadent version of my compulsory morning caffeine hit she’s chosen to start my day.

“No way. You’re getting good, Jenna. Three out of four this week,” she giggles.

“You’re the best, Skylar.” I take an appreciative sip and let out a small hum of pleasure at the sweet warmth on my tongue. “What did I do before you?”

Her eyes dance in delight, and the rosebud pink of her cheeks blooms a little brighter at my praise. It’s not a hollow compliment. She’s earned it—and not just for her intuitive grasp of my need for coffee to kick start the day, and the creative way she fills it.

Every morning without fail, Skylar is here at my makeshift office in the summerhouse by nine, patient and uncomplaining no matter what menial task I throw at her. This young woman has every bit of the potential she recognises in herself and more. Today I’ve made a decision that will bind her immediate future to mine .

“So, before you start on drafting those Instagram posts for Quinn, take a look at this.”

I slide the papers across the desk towards her. Skylar arches one blonde brow, drops into the chair opposite me, and begins to read. Her eyes widen as she understands what I’ve placed in front of her.

“This is a contract.”

“It is. Skylar, you’re wasted waiting tables at The Railway. Though I’m fine if you want to keep doing that too,” I add quickly. I know she’s set some big financial goals for this year and I won’t be the one to put the brakes on them, even if it does involve nights in the local pub delivering plates of haddock and chips or pizza to slightly tipsy locals. “But, as you know, I’ve got a string of new clients coming on board, and much as I hate to admit it…” She grins at me, anticipating what I’m going to say, and how much the admission costs me. “I need help.”

She covers the ground around the desk in seconds and flings her arms around me. Her embrace sends a flood of unfamiliar, although rather pleasant, emotions through me and I hug her back, relishing the satisfaction that I’ve done a good thing here. Somehow I’ve become a hugger and I’m surprisingly OK with that.

“Right,” she says, finally loosening her arms from around my shoulders. When she pulls back, glistening pearls of happy tears dot her cheeks, and she brushes at them. Mirroring her action, I swipe a finger over my own cheek and confirm there’s also a warm bead of emotion sliding down my face. I’ve become a happy-crier too. I see her sympathetic smile. “I suppose I need to sign this before you change your mind.” Teasing dimples tug at her mouth.

“Zero chance of that,” I say, flicking away another tear. “But yes, sign it quickly, so I can relax. I can’t afford to let you get away.”

The smile doesn’t leave her face as she scrawls her name and slides the paper across to me.

“Thank you Jenna,” she says. “I won’t let you down.”

“I won’t let you down either,” I say. “You’re going places. This is only the start.”

“Did Wonder Woman have a sidekick?” she asks, pressing a candy-pink nail to her lips. She tilts her head towards the large picture I’ve given pride of place on the wall behind me. It’s a bright pop art piece by a New Zealand artist. The moment I saw it in the window of a gallery in London, I had to have it.

My childhood superhero obsession hasn’t gone away, rather narrowed its focus. My all-time number one now watches over me, reminding me of what I can be. It’s Linda Carter’s image I see in my mind when I need to dig deep, to find strength and face whatever villain crosses my path. Sorry Gal Gadot, you’re beautiful and gutsy, but it will always be Linda I picture when I have to go into battle against some scumbag journalist who wants to crucify an athlete, or when online trolls are slinging undeserved shit.

I’ve learned when life gets tough, if I put on my metaphorical Wonder Woman outfit, complete with ‘bracelets of submission’, I’m powerful. Not that I’d ever attempt to actually pour my body into a pair of Linda’s blue satin star-spangled pants. Or attempt to confine my middle with a wasp-waisted band of gold. Although I do think my boobs would look rather spectacular peeking out of the top of that red corset.

“No,” I say. “She always works solo.” I look at the bright face of potential in front of me. It’s like seeing a version of myself with a softer edge, and another set of talents that I lack. “She does have allies though,” I add. “People with superpowers that complement hers. Sometimes they’ll work alongside her. But as an equal, not a subordinate.”

She dips her head in a shy smile, pale eyelashes flickering and the faint flush that always lurks just beneath the surface pinking her cheeks. The subtext in my words isn’t lost on Skylar. She’s far more astute than anyone who looked at her cherubic face would assume. She holds her superpowers lightly, but they’re there. And underneath, she’s got a strength that may be her most powerful weapon because no one suspects it exists. I feel a twinge knowing I too was guilty of prejudging her.

“Thank you Jenna,” she whispers, and I feel another prickle of tears. Twice in one day and it’s not even ten o’clock.

She takes her place at the small desk I’ve added for her. The summerhouse isn’t really big enough for all the stuff I crammed in when converting it to my office. However, I was determined to make it work, craving the airiness of its tall windows, the soothing view of the pool and gardens, and the escape from the lonely cavern of the ridiculous house towering behind it.

In the past, I always liked my own space, preferring solitude and silence as an antidote to the barrage of people and noise that assaulted me whenever I stepped outside. Media management is a frantic world. But somehow here, things have changed and so have my needs. The cosy elbow-to-elbow feel seems to work with Skylar. Already, I’m finding it hard to imagine the day without her companionable presence.

“Oh, and I’ve sorted this,” she says, pointing at the blackened electrical socket by her desk. The shadow marring the white painted wall behind it remains as evidence of the puff of smoke and crackle of sparks that leapt from it when Skylar plugged in the paper shredder yesterday. “Sparky said he’ll send someone over first thing.”

“Great, thanks for that,” I say, impressed with her initiative. “As your new employer, electrocuting you would definitely not be the best start.”

In more ways than one. I’ve made many hiring decisions before, but this is the first time I’ve chosen someone just for me, and who I’ll be paying. She’s worth every penny. And despite our new employer-employee status, I feel like Skylar and I have something more growing here. Teacher and student? Mentor and protégé? Or even friendship. Whatever it is, I don’t want to lose her, especially not fried by faulty electrics.

I settle back to tackling my first challenge of the day: a campaign to lift the image of a rather testy young golfer whose game is falling in direct correlation to a series of newspaper articles filled with nasty half-truths about the state of his marriage. It saddens me, as he’s basically a nice guy, but socially inept and definitely not media savvy. It would be a much easier world if sporting prowess came with the ability to schmooze preloaded. But then I wouldn’t have a job.

An hour later, I’m startled from my work when Andy leaps to his feet, going from snoring loudly, deep in sleep, to raging beast in seconds. I look to the door and see Geordie MacDonald standing outside and I’m suddenly not quite so sure about the wisdom of letting Skylar take initiative.

He pushes open the door with a cheerful “Morning, ladies,” but catching sight of Andy, slams it shut before the dog can get to him. Andy bounces off the glass, stunned for a moment, before leaping to his feet, barking wildly .

Skylar, in her usual no-nonsense style, whisks him into her arms. Andy immediately abandons his seek and destroy mission and begins licking her face. If I’ve become a little obsessed with Geordie MacDonald this week, it’s nothing compared to the insta-love that Andy has for Skylar. Although I have to confess, licking Geordie has come to mind a few times… I shake my head, trying to release the image before I have to face him.

“Andy, Andy, Andy,” Skylar croons. “How about I take you for a little walkie, walkie, walkie?”

She lets herself out of the small side door and heads towards the house, still murmuring Andy’s favourite word like an endearment and leaving me to face Geordie alone.

“All clear?” He steps into the room and it immediately feels crowded. “What is it with that dog?”

“Blonde men,” I explain. “He’s managed to combine canine sexism and racism in one scruffy black package with a nasty set of teeth.”

There’s been a parade of strangers through the house since Mum went. We’ve spent months trying to figure out some trend in poor misguided Andy’s attacks. An analysis of his hits shows a clear pattern. But while blonde men might not be Andy’s cup of tea, I can’t help but think they might be mine. Well, one in particular.

“OK,” he says. “Next time I’ll be sure to pull on a beanie. Easier than a sex change. So tell me, what’s the problem?”

I show him the black marks around the power socket. “There were actual sparks,” I explain. “Gave us a huge fright.”

“Well, you were right to call me,” he says. “I’d say that underneath all the window dressing in this house, you might find this isn’t the only shonky piece of wiring. I’ve seen it before. Big flash house, no expense spared. But behind the owner’s back, the project manager cuts corners. Only on things that can’t be seen. Makes a bit more coin on the deal by doing things like employing cheap tradesmen. By the time the problems come to light, they’re all long gone.”

“You think so? The whole house might have faulty wiring?” I imagine Dad, Andy, and I perishing in an electrical fire, shuddering at the thought of choking smoke and fast-moving flames.

Even five years on, the Grenfell Tower tragedy is etched in my mind. They say it started from a small electrical fault in a refrigerator—probably no bigger spark than the one that leapt out at Skylar yesterday—and ended with so many deaths and injuries. I was in London for a meeting and vividly remember wondering at the source of the plume spiralling up into the pale sky while out on my early morning run in Kensington Park. Already at six a.m. the faint smell of smoke hung in the air. When I got back to the hotel, every television channel was covering it; the horror brought into my room. I still shudder at the thought.

“Could be,” he says. “Hard to tell without taking a proper look.” He softens, noticing my distress. “Look, how about I fix this first? Then, over the next few weeks, I’ll go through the house and check everything.”

Relief washes over me. “That sounds like a great idea. How soon could you start? I don’t think I’ll sleep knowing the place might go up in flames.”

“You’ve got working smoke alarms?”

“I think so,” I say, though I’m not at all sure. My face must give me away because he doesn’t look convinced either.

“I’ll sort this out first, then do a quick check on the alarms before I go.”

“Thanks, Geordie. I really appreciate it. You know how people have that one way they absolutely don’t want to die? For me, it’s fire.”

“Not a problem,” he says. “I’ll just shut off the power at the mains before I touch this.” He nods at the faulty socket. “Don’t fancy lighting myself up. Think I saw the box on the wall by the pool?”

“Yeah, that’s the one.”

I watch him walk the length of the terrace, tool belt slung low on those slim hips, drawing my eyes to places I shouldn’t be looking, but I can’t help myself. When he heads back my way, I drop into my chair, eyes fixed on my computer. I try to concentrate, but my laptop is dying—I forgot to charge it overnight. I could go across to the house for the charger, but there’s a reason I don’t want to leave.

Geordie returns, sets a plastic toolbox on Skylar’s desk, and rummages inside. In the tight space of the office, he seems to fill the room—not just with the solid presence of his body, but with the fresh citrus scent of his shower gel and the low hum of his voice. (Is that Pearl Jam?) His nearness is both exciting and unnerving. He lowers himself to the floor, long fingers deftly working to pry the plate from the rogue socket. No wonder he had a talent for the piano.

Another one that got away.

Mum had high hopes for so many of her students, but often the best and brightest didn’t see it through. The boys, in particular, gave up early, convincing their parents the piano wasn’t suitably masculine. They either abandoned music altogether or traded it in for something sexier—a guitar, a drum kit.

Watching Geordie now, deftly pulling at wires, twirling a screwdriver like a baton, I muse on other possible talents those lithe fingers might possess. There’s something very wrong with this, but I don’t try to fight it. I can’t help but wonder what else those hands are capable of. I shouldn’t, but I do. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. I have no intention of making a fool of myself.

Still, those hands.

They felt so damn good on my waist—gentle, yet commanding. An intoxicating combination in a man.

“I had a good time on Saturday night,” he says. “Your Dad knows how to throw a party.”

“Years of practice. We used to have a lot of parties in our old house. When I was a kid.”

The house I still think of as home. Not this one, yet. And maybe it never will be. Still, leaving it won’t be easy; not leaving Dad all alone. I may have only a few months before I need to face that prospect, if I go back to Glasgow in November, as planned. Or I could turn my back on my job, stay here and grow my own client numbers into a fulltime business, then it gives me more time to make sure he really is managing. But then what? How long do I stay? If I meet someone—if I want to move in with them—what happens then? Would I move a boyfriend in here instead? Just as well there’s no one in my life right now—no one at all, not even casually, for almost a year. I bring my mind back to the document on my screen, shoving all these dilemmas aside. I’ll have to deal with them sometime, but not today.

Geordie leans back, peering at the wires in his hand, practically under my desk. My laptop dies, so I shuffle papers, pretending to be busy while acutely aware of his back brushing against my legs.

“And the trip to the big smoke this weekend, too. You organised it all I hear? ”

“Not much choice in the matter—Dad insisted. And told Grant the club could pay for it. Essential team bonding. It was a little last minute, but it’s all come together.”

“The guys are looking forward to it. Scotland versus the All Blacks at Murrayfield. No matter which way it goes, it’ll be a good match.”

“It will be.”

“You’re coming too? A rose amongst the thorns?”

“Unavoidable. I would never leave Dad in charge of twenty guys. Not off the field. On it, he’s your man, but off—you’d be lucky to make it to the match. But yeah, it’ll be fun. I’m used to being an honorary guy. With the Highlanders, it was pretty much just Dad and me. A few female physios. I can hold my own.”

“I bet you can.” He chuckles, the sound vibrating through me where his back still brushes my calf.

I like the proximity—but how much I like it is disturbing. I push up from my chair, thinking to put some distance between us—well, as much as is possible in this tiny space. It seems like a good idea, until, sensing my movement, he swivels his head. As I edge past him to place a folder in the filing cabinet, I’m hyper-aware of his eyes level with my legs.

The skirt I chose this morning suddenly feels too short. I feel naked. Exposed.

And I don’t mind at all.

Instead, vanity flares—knowing he’s getting an eyeful of legs sculpted by relentless leg presses and hours on the stair climber. I’m enjoying his heated gaze, wanting it to be more, maybe a hand sliding along my skin, maybe even venturing higher.

But my flush turns from faint warm pink to a surge of ruby-red heat when his gaze travels downward, landing on my feet .

My slippers.

Fluorescent, fuzzy, utterly ridiculous.

It’s a holdover from my early days at Imagine PR, when I first discovered the joy of slipping off my power heels under the desk in favour of something more comfortable. Back then, I knew how to make a discreet swap, maintaining the illusion of professionalism.

Too late now. No salvaging this. Geordie’s gaze flicks back up, long lashes shadowing eyes bright with amusement, dimples pressing into his cheeks.

“Getting to know you all over again definitely has some surprises,” he says, grinning. “Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.”

He taps one slipper affectionately, and the simple gesture—casual, familiar, but also intimate—fills me with warmth. Despite knowing so little about each other now, despite our history being mostly fragments of past versions of ourselves, there’s an ease between us. A glow. I can’t deny the happiness that spins off of it.

As Geordie declares the power socket safe, packs up his tools, and heads into the house to check the smoke alarms, it’s all I can do not to follow.

Just to soak up a little more of him.

This is already getting out of hand. And we’ve only just begun.