Chapter 22
TWENTY-TWO
Balls like they’d been boiled
Georgie
If you’d told me my first date in three years would involve a man whose balls I’d already seen before drink number three (not intentional—his kilt caught on the table leg, and voilà, impromptu Scottish peep show), a cocktail that tastes like vodka and seawater, and a floor show featuring hammered fishermen taking turns on a mechanical sheep while bagpipes murder Highway to Hell.
.. I’d have sworn on my precious laptop that you were winding me up.
Yet, here I sit, in what can only be described as a desperate but determined attempt to resuscitate my flatlining love life.
Opposite me sits Malcolm. Twenty-nine. Skye born and bred. Handsome, with strong forearms, and a smile that can’t decide if it wants to be sweet or wicked. The kilt works for him, though the overgrown pubic hair situation could use a trim, but fine, it gives him a sort of eco-warrior aesthetic.
An actual fisherman. Straight from my list.
Most importantly: not Patrick McLaren.
That man is a complete mindfuck, and I’ve decided I’m not getting mindfucked anymore. No, thank you.
My new strategy is Corporate Robot Georgie. I’m following every rule in his precious company handbook. Chain of command? Check. He wants boundaries? I’ve built the Great Wall of Georgie.
So far, the date with Malcolm has been lovely.
Okay, granted, The Crooked Kilt is a nightmare. I’ve got more alcohol on me than in me, thanks to strangers crashing into us every five seconds. Every man here is either in a kilt or an oilskin. Apparently, the ones who survive until sunrise are “blessed by the fish gods,” whatever that means.
But Malcolm is nice.
We’ve talked about him growing up on Skye, the sport they play here called shinty that sounds like organized violence with sticks, and how Tinder is basically useless because you run out of matches in fifteen minutes. After that, it’s just cousins.
“This festival is wild.” I laugh, as he sets down another green drink in front of me.
My stomach clenches. Three fish-based cocktails might be my limit.
“Going to drink this one like a fisherman?” he teases. “No pressure. I got you a smaller one.”
He settles back down, his bare knee pressing against mine through the wool of his kilt. My tartan skirt has ridden up slightly.
“I’ll try,” I giggle, the room tilting just enough to be concerning.
His eyes drop to my chest. The red top seemed like such a good idea earlier—fitted, pretty, the kind of thing confident women wear.
No bra because the fabric’s too delicate, and besides, I was feeling brave.
My hair’s loose, probably frizzing in the pub heat.
Lipstick miraculously still where it belongs instead of smeared across my face.
I look pretty, I think. Well, pretty-ish. Pretty-adjacent.
Granted, the whole effect is somewhat ruined by the fact I’m now damp with other people’s drinks, my top sticking to me in unfortunate places.
When Malcolm suggested abandoning the distillery for this mayhem, my first instinct was panic. But being away from McLaren territory feels safer somehow.
I attempt to down the green concoction and immediately choke.
He chuckles. “You’ll have to learn if you want to be a Herring girl.”
“A Herring girl?” I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. So ladylike.
“Aye. Women who followed the fleets back in the day. Wives of the fishermen.”
“Are you proposing already?” I giggle. “Bit forward for a first date.”
“A bonnie lass like you? I’d be lucky to catch you.” He winks. Fisherman pun: deployed.
My stomach feels fuzzy and warm. Who knew cod-chat could double as foreplay?
He knocks back the green horror like it’s water. His throat works, no grimace, nothing.
“Oh my God.” I stare. “You’re seriously going to sea tomorrow? After this?”
“Aye.” He shrugs. “I’ll be grand.”
“Grand? What if the sea’s rough?”
“Happens all the time.” He gives another shrug, but I catch the flicker of pride he’s trying to smother. “Waves taller than the boat, spray so thick you can’t see your own arse. It’s just part of the job.”
He leans back, smug as a man who’s singlehandedly rescued the Titanic. He knows he’s just dropped pure fisherman porn.
“That’s terrifying.” I hide my smile behind my glass. “Alright, new question. Weirdest thing you’ve ever caught?”
“Found a shop mannequin once. Still wearing a dress. Thought we’d pulled up a body. Nearly shat ourselves before we realized she was plastic.”
“Oh my God!” I squeal. The alcohol in my veins decides this is hysterical, and I’m laughing way harder than the joke deserves.
My chest isn’t doing that dangerous, cardiac-arrest hammering it does around certain men I am not thinking about, but it’s warm here. Like a drunk cuddle.
I try to ignore the irritating little voice in my head doing a side-by-side comparison with a certain CEO.
Before I can drown that thought in cocktails, the fiddles screech to life. Bagpipes wail. The entire pub erupts.
Malcolm grabs my hand. “Come on!”
“No!” I squeak, my heels digging into the sticky floorboards. “Absolutely not. I can’t dance.”
Bodies are already stomping and spinning in what looks like Riverdance’s feral cousin after too much Buckfast.
“You can!” he yells, dragging me into the carnage.
I cannot. I try to mimic the stomps and hops. I’m as good at this as I was at surfing, which is to say: I’m currently endangering myself and everyone within a five-foot radius.
My dress strap slides down my shoulder. Hair whips across my face, sticking to my lipstick. I’m laughing so hard I can barely breathe.
Mid-song, every single man on the floor flings up his kilt.
“What’s happening?” I gasp, clutching Malcolm’s arm.
“It’s tradition,” he says, grinning.
“Tradition?” I shriek. “Where in Scotland’s proud cultural history did mooning become tradition?”
He just grins and spins me back into the madness.
One particularly zealous man twirls toward me, locks eyes with me, and presents his backside. “Slap it!” he bellows.
My mouth falls open. “I’m sorry, what?”
“You have to.” Malcolm laughs. “It’s part of the dance. Otherwise, he won’t get the fish.”
“The fish?”
What sort of mythical haddock only appears if I whack this stranger’s rear end?
But the man is wiggling expectantly, and Malcolm’s looking at me like this is my sacred Highland rite of passage.
So I do it. I pat—very gingerly—this stranger’s exposed bottom.
His skin is disturbingly moist.
“Good lass!” he roars in approval before spinning away to traumatize someone else.
Malcolm looks proud. Like I’ve just passed an ancient test of Scottish womanhood.
“I’ve had a brilliant time tonight,” he shouts over the bagpipes, face glowing with sweat. “You’re dead easy to talk to.”
“You too,” I beam. This is nice. Uncomplicated.
Maybe I’m closer to ticking off item number one than I thought.
Malcolm is kissable. He’s got a perfectly serviceable penis, judging from the kilt incident earlier.
Nothing terrifying. Just solid, proportionate, reliable equipment.
The IKEA of penises. Comes flat-packed, does the job.
It might not be a monster like Patrick’s, but frankly, I couldn’t handle a monster—especially not one with a man like Patrick attached.
Ideally, Malcolm isn’t overly invested in blowjobs, considering his overgrown pubic ecosystem. I want to be adventurous, yes, but not in the dental hygiene sense.
One thing I am sure of: we won’t be going past first base tonight.
Kilts are misleading. Outlander on the outside—“throw me against the heather” vibes—but in reality, they’re forty pounds of tartan wool functioning as a groin sauna.
When his kilt betrayed him earlier, I swear to God, his balls looked like they’d been boiled.
Just sitting there, quietly poaching in their tartan steam room.
“Would it be okay if I kissed you, Georgie?”
Oh God. He asked permission. Which is sweet, except now I’ve got performance anxiety.
Are my lips too dry? Should I lick them? No. Don’t lick them.
“Sure,” I squeak. Do I tilt my head left or right? What if we both pick left and knock skulls like two coconuts? What if I close my eyes too soon and he changes his mind, and I end up kissing air?
He cups my face gently. We’re really doing this, right next to someone violently playing the spoons.
His lips touch mine.
It’s… nice. Soft.
Except—dear God—the cocktails. There’s a lingering aftertaste of haddock martini. It feels less like romance and more like I’m locked in a passionate embrace with the Tesco seafood counter.
And the hard bulge pressing against me? Not masculine fervor. Just his sporran.
Technically, it’s a decent kiss. But emotionally? Nothing. I’m not feeling butterflies. Not even moths.
Instead, I’m thinking how different this feels from that other kiss.
My eyes accidentally open mid-kiss—terrible etiquette, Georgie—and that’s when I see him.
Leaning against the bar. Taller than everyone. Baseball cap pulled low, but I’d know those shoulders anywhere. Talking to the barman, water in hand like he’s the designated driver for the entire pub.
He lifts his head.
His eyes meet mine.
Across the bagpipes. The sweaty kilts. The mechanical sheep. The spoon violence.
Oh. Fuck.
Fuck.
FUCK.
I am making direct, prolonged, excruciating eye contact with Patrick McLaren while my mouth is occupied with a kilted fisherman’s haddock-flavored face.
And I keep kissing. Because what else am I supposed to do? Yank away and give a cheery wave?
For a second, I convince myself he’s not real. My vindictive brain has conjured him from pure spite, just to ruin this moment.
But no. He’s real. Baseball cap, broad shoulders, pint of water. Horrifyingly present and watching me kiss someone else.
In panic, my teeth catch Malcolm’s lip.
“Mmph—” Malcolm grunts, jerking back half an inch.
I blink hard, my gaze darting between Malcolm’s confused face and the man leaning against the bar. Patrick is mid-conversation with the barman, yet his eyes never leave me.
“What’s wrong?” Malcolm asks. “You’re not going to puke on me, are you?”
I can barely hear him over my heartbeat.
The room slows to a crawl. Bagpipes wail somewhere distant. A kilt flaps past my peripheral vision.
Patrick’s still watching me, expression unreadable. No jealousy twisting his features. No anger tightening his jaw. Nothing to suggest he gives a single shiny shite that I’ve just tongued another man.
He gives me a nod. The kind you’d offer any employee you happened to spot during their personal time.
Then he looks away. Says something to the bartender. The man laughs. Patrick checks his watch like he has somewhere better to be.
“Georgie?” Malcolm says again, his big fisherman hands falling away. “Did I do something wrong?”
His worried face swims into focus, and guilt hits hard. “No! God, no. You’re lovely. It’s just...”
I trail off because what can I possibly say that doesn’t make me sound unhinged?
“It’s not nothing,” Malcolm says, huffy now. He does a discreet breath-check against his palm, like maybe his haddock martini fumes have just assassinated the moment.
“Sorry,” I blurt, trying to reel it back in. “It’s just… my boss is over there.”
Malcolm glances over. “McLaren? Aye, I know him. Well, know of him. You scared of him?”
“Of course not!” I blurt.
Only… sometimes.
“Wouldn’t blame you. I wouldn’t cross him. Man’s got serious influence around here. Pisses off some of the locals, though.”
“Why?”
“He’s not Scottish, is he? Another rich Englishman buying up our land.” Malcolm shrugs. “Then they get bored and move on to the next shiny thing.”
He’s probably right. One day, Patrick will get tired of Skye, pack up his empire, and find another picturesque corner of Britain to conquer. That’s what he has been doing for a decade.
“Still,” Malcolm says warmly, “it’s your night off. You’re allowed to have fun, aren’t you?”
“Yes! Totally. Just me being… silly.”
My traitorous eyes drift back to Patrick. He’s turned away now. Completely unbothered that he just saw me kiss another man.
It’s stupid of me to care. We shared one reckless kiss that he’s clearly embarrassed about and wants to pretend never happened. Why would he care who else I kiss?
Except wasn’t he all protective about me not shagging my way through Skye? Apparently, he’s decided my vagina can have free-range grazing rights after all.
I’m not the kind of person who tries to manufacture jealousy, and it’s not like I knew he’d be here tonight.
Either way, he saw me kiss someone else and couldn’t care less.
Which is fine. Absolutely fine.
Except my throat feels tight, and some petty, hormonal part of me has this childish urge to cry.
“Well, that was lovely,” Malcolm says, oblivious to my spiral. “But you seem a wee bit distracted now.”
“I’m fine,” I lie, brightly.
“Want to head somewhere else? The Dirty Scot has a ceilidh on as well.”
“Sure,” I say. Best to be in literally any other pub than the one containing Patrick and his stupid baseball cap, which makes him look like a grumpy, handsome lumberjack.
Malcolm beams. I remind myself sternly: this is exactly what I wrote on that list. A rugged Highland fisherman. Not Patrick. Never Patrick.
He takes my sweaty hand in his equally sweaty one, and with the other, rummages in his sporran.
This is what moving on looks like, Georgie. You’re doing it. Gold star.
I lift my chin and march out of that pub with my fisherman prize.
I do not, under any circumstances, look toward Patrick.