21. Rory
RORY
The whisky burns but it does nothing to clear my head.
I sit in the leather armchair by the fire, looking out at the rays of low sunlight reaching between the trees, lighting up the path down to the loch.
The reflection that looks back at me looks as knackered as I feel – jaw tense, tie abandoned, shirt unbuttoned at the neck.
The weight of New York clings to me, but it’s not the three weeks of meetings.
Not the jet lag. Not the pressure of holding it all together.
It’s her.
Edie. I put the glass down and press my palms into my eye sockets as if to obliterate the sight.
It does nothing. The image of her – the creamy skin slicked with water, the soft dip of her throat as she swallowed in surprise, the champagne glass dangling from her fingers.
And fucking Jamie sprawling like a playboy prince with his lazy charm turned up to eleven, telling me to strip off and join them.
I told myself that three weeks in the states would be enough to get my head back in the game. She might not have put a foot wrong so far, but that’s no reason to let my guard down.
I let out a sharp exhale and slam the glass down on the table.
It rattles but doesn’t break. I should be glad she’s settled in.
Relieved she’s not working too hard. But I’m not glad, I’m fucking furious.
I’ve spent the last three weeks trying not to think about her, and the second I walk in the door she’s the only thing I can see.