Page 53 of Blindsided By You

“I think Mum would agree,” I say. “She couldn’t stop smiling the whole time we were there.”

It’s as if I’ve flicked a switch.

“You think she knows?” Jenna’s eyes widen in alarm. The outside world comes crashing in, popping our perfect little bubble. I was the idiot who invited it in.

“No, no,” I assure, “I’m sure she’s just pleased to have us home.”

“Sure,” she says, as if happy our secret’s safe. But when she immediately pushes up off the sofa and starts to clamber across me, eyessearching the room for her clothes, I know I’ve failed to convince her. She’s spooked.

Five minutes later, I’m standing at the window, still cursing my stupidity. The bright red car disappears around the curve of the driveway, the roar of the engine emphasising the speed of her getaway.

Chapter 27

JENNA

“I’vegottorun.”That’s what I told him, and now I’m in my car, speeding home like the cops are on my tail. Running.

Running from something that feels too good to be true. In my weak moments, I let myself believe there is something happening between Geordie and me. Something more than sex, something bigger, deeper, scarier. And I’m running from it.

The thought of Aileen MacDonald—hopeful, ready to welcome me as more than her daughter’s friend—sent me plummeting from the high of lying in Geordie’s arms, feeling wanted for all of me, not just my body. I’m left slumped in a depressing low.

This is exactly why he and I can’t be in a relationship. When it’s just sex, no one gets hurt. If it were to become more—if I was to give in to my selfish wanting, to allow Geordie to have the thing hethinkshe wants—well, when the inevitable happens, it will be like a bomb going off. It wouldn’t only obliterate everything between Geordie and me, including our friendship. The rippling wave of fallout will take others down with us. The risk is too great.

I blast down the road, heading for my office, a sanctuary where I can immerse myself in work.

I toss my handbag on the desk and sink into my chair, facing the laptop where I curate perfect lives for my clients—and for myself.

It’s here I construct the version of myself the world sees: the professional, the career woman, my life in order, bravely throwing myself into my new business after losing Mum; but like it is for my clients, it’s a facade. Behind that, I struggle to believe I’m the sort of woman a man could truly love. The last time I fell for someone—let him in, shared the parts of me I rarely show—he rejected me. Now, I’m falling for Geordie MacDonald, but I’m afraid…afraid he’ll see the real me and walk away too.

I go a whole day without seeing or talking to Geordie and I hate it. He texts me all through Friday.

My first glance at my phone on the bedside table:

Geordie:Good morning beautiful

While he’s on a job at the restaurant at Buchanan House:

Geordie:The smell in this kitchen is killing me. Who’d have guessed Brodie could cook so fucking well? Bringing you here for dinner sometime

Parked outside busybody Fran MacMillan’s place:

Geordie:Preparing for interrogation at the hands of Mrs MacM. How fast can I wire inan oven? Wish me luck

Each time I leap at the chirp of the text. Each time my finger lingers over my phone, longing to reply. Each time I tell myself no, not wanting to fall further under the spell of Geordie. Sure, friends text each other. That’s normal. But I’m having a hard time focusing on my work as it is, my mind straying to possibilities of things I can’t have. Conversation with Geordie, even by text, will take us further down a path that can only lead to heartache. I need to keep this thing with him in a nice neat box, namely the four walls of his house.

Finally, at five o’clock, when another text arrives, I succumb.

Geordie:Long day. Off to the pub. Guess you’ve been busy. Time for a drink?

Jenna:Sure I’d love to.

I type the words, then erase them. Too keen?

I type a thumbs up emoji, and then erase that too. It feels blokey.

Jenna:Great. See you in thirty.Smiley emoji.

I stare at the single line, weighing up if I’ve hit it right. I can’t believe a woman with my PR experience, who always knows the exact words, the perfect tone for any written communication, is struggling to compose a simple text. That’s the Geordie effect, right there.

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