Page 89 of Geordie

“We can go back to the hotel.” I nod to the driver and slide the plastic window closed between us. “Going back to the hotel is the best choice,” trying to lighten the mood.

She slumps into the corner of the seat, looking out the window. “I mean, I want to go home, back to San Pacitas.” There's a determination in her voice that says ‘I want what I want.’ As a chef, she's used to her wishes being obeyed.

“But, Lily. Mo Leannan. You have two more interviews tomorrow before we go home. You shouldn't worry. That interview was a one-off.”

She turns her attention back to me. “Once they find a juicy tidbit about my private life, the attention on the cookbook is gone and I'm fending off questions about Stephen and you.”

Her phone rings. She brings the wee instrument to her ear. “So you saw it?” she asks, twisting her gaze to the window. “We'd always been discreet about our relationship.”

Silence.

“I'd rather not do the last two interviews.”

Silence.

“No, I don't want to talk about answers I can give about Stephen's new girlfriend or Geordie.” She turns back to me to mouthI'm sorry. “I know it's news. I don't care. If they promise not to bring it up, then I'll agree. Let me know what they say.”

I shift in my seat, facing a pissed-off Lily. This is where my presence is an asset to reset her moods. “How are you feeling? You haven't been yourself for the last few days.”

She places a protective hand over her belly, sighing. “Morning sickness, and I'm tired as hell, that's all. My hormones are going wild; maybe that's why I'm touchy.”

“If you're feeling this way, we should try to see your doctor sooner.”

“What I'm experiencing is normal; besides, next week is the ultrasound. We'll have pictures and you can hear the baby's heartbeat.”

Chapter forty-three

Kilts and New Ghullies

Lily

I'mbumpingaroundthekitchen trying to prepare one of Geordie's favorite meals. We got in last night from New York and he was nothing but kind all the time he escorted me from one interview to the other. I want to thank him for being such an excellent guardian.

I've been on the phone with Harv talking about returning to the restaurant. Although the book tour is done, I want to go back to my apartment. I plan to tell him after our doctor's appointment tomorrow. A good meal might soften the announcement.

Geordie slipped out early this morning, eager to talk to the people at MacTavish Cellars and Catriona for updates. Not sure what else his staff could say that wasn't revealed during his two weeks of Zoom meetings with him. I slide the roast out to baste the meat, the air filling with aromatics, potatoes, carrots, and onions. I check the thermometer; it's ready. My gloved hands slide it out of the oven; placing it on the counter, I pour the brown drippings into a waiting pan, then set it on the cooktop.

“I'm home,” Geordie sings out. He does this every time he returns from work. It's a bit too domestic for me, so I try to remind him that our living situation is temporary, but he doesn't appear to accept it, especially when he gazes longingly at my belly.

“I'm in here,” I answer, pulling out the flour, although he must know I'm in the kitchen. The aroma of roast is enough of a telltale sign. He comes in and I allow him to kiss me on the forehead. “How was your day?” I ask.

“I've had some sad news about MacTavish Cellars and Catriona.” He leans against the counter while I work around his bulk. “They're thriving without me at the helm.” He shrugs. “I guess we could have done a world tour and they wouldn't have noticed.”

I point a fork at him, the one I'm about to use to make gravy. “That attests to your management skills. You trained your staff so well that they don't need your constant input.”

Geordie goes to the corner cabinet and pulls down a bottle of whiskey and a glass, then rummages in the refrigerator for a bottle of sparkling water, twists the cap, and pours it into a tumbler. He retrieves a wedge from a bowl of lime slices we keep in the fridge and drops it into the water. He hands me the drink that looks like a gin and tonic. Geordie tips his glass to me. “It's bad luck to toast with water.” He downs half of his glass.

I step up to him and touch his glass. “To your health,” I say, not using the Gaelic Slainte Mhath, “and to our baby, which we will meet tomorrow and have pictures to put on the refrigerator.”

Geordie nods, a small smile pulling at the corner of his lips. “So, this will be the tenth week. Will the morning sickness continue throughout the pregnancy?”

“It depends,” I say, watching the bubbles jump in my glass. “Some women are sick throughout their pregnancies, some stop after the first trimester, others never have a day of morning sickness. And by the way, you can be sick at any time. I don't know why people call it morning sickness.” I smile up at him. “Make a list of your questions for the doctor to answer at the appointment tomorrow. Now, are you ready for the best meal you've had in weeks?”

He grins. “Oh aye. I've been dreaming about this meal since I saw you put the groceries away.”

I motion him out of the kitchen. “Shower and change and by the time you return, everything will be on the table.”

Geordie returns twenty minutes later, hair still wet from the shower, leaving a faint trail of sandalwood as he walks by. I'm struck for the millionth time how easy it would be to live here with him during my pregnancy. Then I think about our agreement. Our situation is too weird to consider building a real relationship right now. Better to wait.

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