Page 17 of Blindsided By You

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, noexpense 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 beforeI 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 fingersmight 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 wouldneverleave 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.

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