‘I’m afraid I don’t even know your name.’
It was a rebuke, and Ryan knew it was deserved; though at the same time it rankled that his new housemate was judging him. He’d been thrown enough by the interruption to his shower not to think about introducing himself to her. He’d already had a really horrible shift; losing a patient always sat badly with him, and losing a patient in today’s circumstances was as bad as it could get. Being polite to some posh city girl was at the bottom of the list of things he wanted to do.
‘Ryan McGregor,’ he said.
‘Pleased to meet you, Ryan,’ she said, not sounding pleased in the slightest—that made two of them, he thought—and held out her hand to shake his.
Though she was at least trying to be polite. It wasn’t her fault that he’d had such a horrendous day. He ought to make the effort, too. He shook her hand, and immediately wished he hadn’t when heat zinged through him.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d reacted to anyone like that, even Zoe. And he definitely couldn’t afford to react like that to Georgina Jones. Especially as they were going to be sharing a house for the foreseeable future, until he could find an alternative.
The problem was, she was just his type. Petite and curvy, with green eyes and fair hair pulled back in a scrunchie, and the sweetest, sweetest smile. Gorgeous.
Dangerous.
The surge of attraction felt as if it had knocked him sideways, and he struggled to deal with it. What the hell was wrong with him? Was he going down with the flu or something? That must be why he was hot all over; clearly he had a temperature. ‘Pleased to meet you, too,’ he mumbled, feeling totally off balance.
‘So do you work at St Christopher’s?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
She looked at him, her eyebrows slightly raised.
What was this, twenty questions? He stifled his annoyance. Again, it wasn’t her fault that Clara had been a bit sketchy on detail. ‘With Clara, on the children’s ward,’ he said. ‘I’m acting consultant.’
Though he really wasn’t in the mood for making polite conversation with a stranger. Especially one who was giving his dog wary looks. Was it the potential mud and hair she objected to? Because, in that case, she really wasn’t going to enjoy a Scottish winter. Waking up to deep snow might look pretty and romantic in photographs, but the reality meant cold, wet, long journeys. Being fastidious didn’t cut it, out here in the country. Designer clothing like the stuff she was wearing right now was no match for the wind and driving rain. You needed waterproofs and layers and strong boots. Had she even brought warm outdoor clothes with her? he wondered.
‘I—um—wondered if you might be able to recommend a takeaway service,’ she said.
‘A takeaway?’ Here? She had to be kidding. Did she really have no idea where she was?
‘I don’t mind whether it’s pizza, Indian, Chinese or fish and chips. Anything,’ she added, clearly trying to be helpful. Not quite snooty, then, but a bit posh and clueless. Sharing a house with her was going to be a trial, and he couldn’t even let himself think about what it would be like at work. He was used to Clara, and he couldn’t imagine anyone in her place.
Why was Georgina Jones even here? Did she think it would be romantic to swap her big-city lifestyle for a six-month sojourn in the romantic, pretty countryside? Maybe it’d be kindest to be a bit cruel now and burst that particular bubble. ‘We’re in the Pentland Hills, a good fifteen minutes’ drive from the nearest big town. Even if you could talk someone into delivering it, the food would probably be cold before it got here,’ he said.
‘Oh.’
He knew he really ought to be nice and offer to cook something for her. But, after the day he’d had, he felt too miserable to eat. All he’d wanted to do tonight was curl up in front of the fire with his dog and maybe a small glass of single malt, and listen to the kind of bluesy rock that always soothed his soul.
Not that that was going to happen now. If he stayed down here with his new housemate, he’d have to make small talk. And Ryan wasn’t particularly interested in small talk. Especially with someone he barely knew and who didn’t seem to have anything in common with him.
‘I’ll bring your things in,’ he said, a little more abruptly than he’d intended.
‘I’m perfectly capable of bringing my own stuff in,’ she said, lifting her chin.
‘I’m sure you are, but Truffle is a bit of an absconder and I’d rather not risk giving her the chance to disappear into the hills or find the nearest bit of fox poo to roll in,’ he said. He went over to the cupboard where he kept the dog’s things, took out her leash, and then coaxed the dog over to him. ‘It’s OK, girl,’ he crooned, kneeling down by the wrought-iron staircase, and scratched behind her ears with one hand while he slipped the end of the leash through its handle, securing it to the stairs. Then he clipped the leash onto her collar. ‘It’s just until we get everything indoors,’ he said.
The dog’s ears drooped.
‘I’ll take you out for a walk after, I promise,’ he said. He hated seeing the disappointment in the dog’s eyes, the way she suddenly looked cowed and scared. Yet again, he hoped someone would find her previous owners and make sure they never, ever, ever owned another dog again. Just as he hoped that the parents of the four-month-old baby he’d failed to save that afternoon would never have another child, or that if they did then social services would swoop in and give
