‘Very nice’ didn’t even begin to describe how Ryan McGregor looked in a kilt.
Georgie had only ever seen men wearing kilts on TV or in the movies. She wasn’t prepared for just how good the outfit looked in real life. She had no idea what the black and grey tartan was—she planned to look it up surreptitiously online, rather than embarrass herself by asking him—but it suited him, particularly as it was teamed with a Prince Charlie jacket with ornate buttons, a waistcoat, a sporran, a wing-collar shirt and a black bow tie. His shoes were highly polished, his socks showed off very well-formed knees, and she went hot all over when she remembered all the suggestions about exactly what a Scot wore under his kilt.
Oh, help.
The last thing he needed was her behaving like a schoolgirl with a huge crush.
Even though she did have a huge crush on him.
More than a crush. She was more than halfway to falling in love with this dour, difficult man—a man who had a huge heart and had so much to give, but kept himself closed off.
He didn’t say much on the way into the city, and she walked beside him to the club where they were meeting the rest of the team, not having a clue where they were going.
Parminder and the others were waiting outside; and, as Parm had decreed, every single one of the men was wearing a kilt. Some were wearing a casual ghillie shirt, and others had chosen the more formal option of wing collar and Prince Charlie jacket, but not a single one could hold a candle to Ryan in the gorgeousness stakes.
‘I have to say I’m very impressed,’ she said with a smile. ‘Excellent organisation on your part, Parm, and what a handsome team we have. You all scrub up rather nicely.’
Alistair grinned at her and did a pirouette. ‘Some of us more so than others.’
‘You look very pretty in your skirt, Al,’ she teased.
‘Skirt,’ he huffed, laughing. ‘I’ll have you know that’s my clan tartan and an eight-yard kilt you’re talking about.’ He gave her a lascivious wink. ‘If you’re very good, I’ll tell you what I keep in my sporran.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ she retorted, laughing back because she knew Alistair was completely harmless and just teasing her.
‘Now we’re all here, let’s go in,’ Parminder said. ‘The first half of the night’s a proper ceilidh, and then it’s general dancing.’
The hall was wonderful; the overhead lights were turned down low and fairy lights draped the walls and the columns, making the place seem magical. A band was playing on a stage at one end, and there was a caller to organise everything.
Their team joined the dance floor for the next set of reels, and Georgie enjoyed herself hugely. Then, while the band had a break, the caller acted as a DJ and streamed music through the sound system.
Alistair turned out to be as terrible a dancer as he’d told her he was, but Georgie and Parminder helped him as much as they could. And at least dancing with Alistair stopped her making a fool of herself by falling at Ryan’s feet, she thought. She danced with all the men from their ward; she danced with what felt like everyone in the whole room for the next few sets of reels; and the only person she hadn’t danced with properly was Ryan.
Was he avoiding her?
But then the band left the stage and the caller went back to playing recorded music, this time slowing things down. Couples took to the floor, dancing cheek to cheek, and loneliness flowed over Georgie like a wave.
She’d loved dancing with Charlie.
But Charlie wasn’t here any more. Even if he hadn’t been killed by the landslide, he probably wouldn’t have been with her. He would’ve been with his new family—the family he hadn’t wanted to have with her.
She was lost in thought when Ryan walked over to her.
‘May I?’
Her head was suddenly too jumbled to find words, so she nodded.
He drew her into his arms and held her close, dancing cheek to cheek with her. Just as they’d been that night under the stars, watching the Northern Lights. Georgie thought of the way he’d kissed her then and it felt as if all the air had hissed out of her lungs.
This was just a dance. Just a dance. If she told herself that often enough, she’d believe it.
Yet he seemed to be drawing her closer still, and her arms were tightly wrapped round him.
Everything around them vanished; all she was aware of was Ryan, the warmth and tautness of his body and his clean masculine scent.
She wasn’t sure which of them moved first, but then his lips were brushing against hers, light as a butterfly’s wing and sensitising every nerve-ending. And she was kissing him back, tiny nibbles that segued into something deeper, more sensual.
When he broke the kiss, his grey eyes were almost black in the low light. ‘Let’s get out of here.’ His voice was husky, almost rusty, with desire.
They were by the door. Nobody would notice them leave; nobody would gossip. Their colleagues would assume they’d gone back early to check on Truffle. ‘Yes,’ she said.
To her relief, they didn’t bump into anyone from the department when they collected their coats. And Ryan didn’t chat to her as they headed back to his car; though he held her hand all the way, and every so often he stopped to kiss her beneath a lamp-post. And he held her hand all the way back to the cottage, only breaking contact when he needed to change gear.
By the time they were back at the cottage, Georgie was almost quivering in anticipation.
Maybe this was an insane thing to do. Or maybe this was what both of them needed, to help them move on. Maybe actually giving in to the way they reacted to each other physically would sort both their heads out
