Page 22 of Blindsided By You

Rachel:Truth

And that’s it. She goes silent, and it’s just as well. Her words wound me more than she could ever know—because I’ve spent a week wrapped up in the possibility of Jenna.

I never wanted to come back to Cluanie. Even now, it was never intended to be permanent. But the sight of her on the stairs last Saturday night, the brief conversations, the chance to just be near her, like this—all have unlocked something inside me. I have no name for it, no clue why.

What I do know is, I’d endure a thousand lifetimes in my shithole hometown if I could spend just one of them with her. But, as my sister has so bluntly reminded me, women like Jenna don’t waste their lives on guys like me. Even if she stays.

Chapter 10

JENNA

Astheunofficial,unpaidtour guide, I lead the trail of guys into our agreed lunch stop, a little pub on the outskirts of Stirling. Heads turn as we weave through the crowded dining room, curious diners lifting their gazes at the sight of one small woman leading a trail of large, brawny men. I ignore their stares out of long practice.

What I wouldn’t give to read their minds. Do they see me as some odd female Pied Piper, charming men instead of rats or children? Or maybe a reverse harem story come to life? Both are so far from the truth. I can’t even captivate one man, let alone a whole pack.

Out of habit, I choose a booth near the back for me and Dad. I’ve always tried to find him a quiet spot when we venture out in public. Not that he was anything other than generous with the fans, who waylaid him everywhere we went, but I made it my job to diminish that where possible, by carving out a rare moment of peace. He slides into the seat opposite me with a grunt. The set of his face tells me he’s got something to say. From the frown and the glances across the room at Geordie, I can guess what it is.

“Don’t start,” I warn before he can open his mouth.

To be honest, I’m fed up with Dad’s overprotective behaviour. Maybe because he was never there to chase off boys when I was a teen, from the moment my world and his overlapped once more, he’s made up for lost time. Iknowit was an unwritten rule at the Highlanders: hands off coach’s daughter. When a player chose to ignore it, all of us suffered. But this is different. Things have changed and damned if I’m going to put up with that shit. I’m drawing a line in the sand. I will sit with whoever I bloody well want to.

“Of all of them, though…” he begins weakly.

I cut him off, disappointed at his preconceived notion that Geordie isn’t worthy of my company. Cluanie is a small place. He’ll have heard talk. Kenneth MacDonald, the town’s lone solicitor, has never held back on sharing his low opinion of his son.

“Dad, I’m only sitting with him. Besides, thought you’d have a soft spot for the man who wears number six?” I quip, keeping it light, even though I really want to lose my shit with him.

Geordie plays in Dad’s old position, blindside flanker. The best Scotland had ever seen, some said, when my father burst onto the international scene. Not that he got the chance to prove the point.

“But the man’s dressed like a cowboy for chrissakes.”

Once I got past my initial surprise at seeing Geordie in what he jokingly called his ‘Texan tuxedo’, I’ve decided it’s kind of appealing. Give me a man in a nicely-cut plaid shirt with sleeves rolled up—my body has declared his strong forearms unquestionably sexy. Then there’s the boots that give him an air of command, like he knows what he’s about—also an undeniable turn-on for me—and I’m not complaining.

“Would you rather I cosied up to Kyle Stewart?”

From Dad’s look of horror, he’s just decided Geordie MacDonald isn’t the worst option. Cocky Kyle would be any father’s nightmare. That shuts him up. He studies the menu with forced intensity, and I do the same.

The truth is, Dad’s hit a little too close to home. He doesn’t know that since Geordie stormed back into my life a week ago, I can’t get him off my mind. These past three hours in his company have zipped by in a blissful haze.

It’s not just the intoxicating nearness of a nicely honed, fresh-smelling male body, or the shock of golden curls and blue eyes that dance when he talks to me. I like him. He’s kind, funny, modest—all the things that pull me in like a starving bee to a great big sweet pot of honey. Guys like him are my crack. He’s exactly the sort of man I’d be married to right now if things hadn’t gone to shit six years ago with Adam.

Or maybe not. The things about me Adam couldn’t live with—the non-negotiables that prevented him from taking those steps down the aisle; the awareness of my shortcomings he’d let simmer away beneath the surface; the qualities he saw in someone else but not me—they haven’t changed…I’m still the same. Jilted bride or abandoned wife? Maybe the latter would have been worse.

At least there was no messy separation of shared assets and parasitic divorce lawyers leaching every last penny from me in my misery. When Adam bailed on me a week before our wedding, Dad took care of everything. He settled up the deposits on venues left unused; cancelled a string quartet for the ceremony, paying him their fee in full. Same with the band for the reception, who pocketed an eye-watering amount for music never played. When we forgot to cancel the flowers, he collected them himself and dropped them intothe women’s’ refuge. He never complained about a single thing, just quietly made my humiliation go away.

He’d have been brilliant in PR, with his skilful handling of such a delicate situation with the least public damage. Thankfully, back then, although of interest as Razor’s daughter, I wasn’t so much in the media eye. It was like I woke up one morning and a whole part of my life had been erased. The nasty stain scrubbed away, leaving me good as new. Huh. As if.

Of course, some good came from the whole bruising debacle. Three months later the thought of facing a future with happily-married-to-her Adam in it, a wide gold band glaring at me from his left hand every day of my working life, spurred me to set my sights on the Highlanders job. It was for the best in the end. That’s what I tell myself. Most of the time, I believe it.

I’m ambushed by images of what could have been sometimes. I shove them away, not letting all the ‘if onlys’ eat away at me. If only I had realised in time. If only he had given me a chance to change. Maybe I could have. I know it’s unhealthy to dwell on these types of thoughts, so I only wallow in them when I’m really low.

If my friends ever found out, they’d tell me my inability to part with the exquisite three thousand pound wedding dress is definitely not healthy. They’d be wrong. I open my wardrobe and look at it often. It’s crazy. It hurts, but there’s a reason I keep it.

Every time my fingers glide over the lustrous satin skirt, and trace the lines of tiny pearls hand-stitched on the bodice, my heart breaks all over again. But that pain reminds me Ifeel. Deeply. It’s a way of reassuring myself I’m not the cold, emotionless person Adam accused me of being. If I were, I wouldn’t stand in my vast walk-in wardrobe and cry.

This week, I’ve revelled in Geordie’s company because the other side of myself is all he sees. Not the ruthlessly efficient, single-minded, driven, and totally fearless business woman, but the softer, kinder side that Adam once loved and then made me doubt even existed.

Geordie sees other things too. The teenager who was kind to an annoying younger brother. The daughter who dropped everything to be with her dying mother. The woman who put her high-powered career on hold to support her father. The motherless child still grieving. The loyal friend to his sister. The older mentor prepared to give a young girl a hand up.

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