With an effort, he pulled himself together. ‘Let’s get your stuff in.’
Georgina’s car was completely unsuitable, all style and no substance. It would cope with the track for now, but when not when the surface had turned to liquid mud. To handle the narrow track to the cottage over the winter, she’d need a four-wheel-drive, not some pretty little convertible.
And just how many suitcases did you need to stay somewhere for six months? Had she brought the entire contents of London’s shoe shops with her?
Not that it was any of his business.
It was still raining, and they were both wet by the time they finished bringing in her luggage.
And Ryan was feeling really guilty. She’d asked about a takeaway service. Just because he was too miserable to eat, it didn’t mean everyone else was. Clearly she was hungry.
While Georgina was unpacking, he released Truffle from her temporary confinement, then rummaged in the freezer. Clara was going to kill him. She’d left him a list of the things she wanted him to get in to give a proper Scottish welcome to her job swap partner, but he hadn’t had time to do it. He’d planned to do it in the morning, before the woman arrived. It hadn’t even occurred to him that she might arrive early. There was half a loaf of bread in the freezer, some peas, a bag of chips, and an orange lump in a plastic box that might be home-made soup, except it didn’t have a label and it was probably way past its use-by date.
The fridge was just as empty. It held milk and half a lump of cheese, and that was about it.
Grimly, he promised himself he’d go shopping for food tomorrow.
Georgina Jones had been on the road since nine this morning—and this wasn’t the proper Scottish welcome his best friend had planned. He’d let Clara down.
Just as Clara had let him down.
He shoved the thought away. Clara had done what was right for her, and he wasn’t going to stand in his best friend’s way. OK, so she felt like the only stable thing in his life right now apart from Truffle, but that wasn’t her problem. And after all these years he should be used to being on his own. Used to the fact that people in his life tended to leave him—and that was his fault, too, because he couldn’t let people close. He couldn’t trust them not to leave him; his mother had died when he was six, her family hadn’t wanted him and a string of foster parents had given up on him. He’d thought at one point that Zoe might be the one to change things; but he’d ended up pushing her away, too, and she’d left him—which pretty much proved he’d been right in the first place. Relationships weren’t for him.
Though now wasn’t the time for a pity party. He was absolutely fine on his own. He had his job, he had his dog—who was pretty much his whole family—and he had friends. He shook himself mentally. What did he call this woman, anyway? Georgina? Georgie? Dr Jones? Hey, you, was definitely wrong.
And why the hell was he worrying so much about this? Nothing fazed Dr Ryan McGregor. Well, almost nothing. Social niceties hadn’t bothered him for years. Why should a woman he hadn’t met until a few minutes ago put him in such a spin? How utterly, utterly ridiculous.
‘Dr Jones?’ he called. ‘I can make some cheese on toast.’
She appeared halfway down the stairs. ‘Seriously?’
He understood why she sounded so snooty. Cheese on toast wasn’t exactly a proper meal. But then, if she’d wanted a proper meal she should’ve turned up on the day she’d agreed, not the day before. ‘I was expecting you tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I haven’t had time to go shopping. Cheese on toast—or just toast, if you don’t eat cheese—is all I can offer.’ He resisted the temptation to add, ‘And you’re lucky I’m offering that.’
For a moment, she looked shocked, even dismayed. But then she recovered and gave him a very professional-looking smile. ‘That’d be good. Thank you.’
This really, really wasn’t what he’d promised Clara he’d do, and guilt prickled through him. ‘I might have some soup to go with it.’ He crossed his fingers, hoping the orange gloop from the freezer really was home-made carrot soup. He couldn’t think what else it would be.
‘Can I do anything to help?’
He wasn’t sure whether she was being polite, or assuming that he was as useless at preparing meals as he was at organising them. In either case, he didn’t want her under his feet. He didn’t really want her here at all, if he was honest; he just wanted to be on his own so he could decompress. ‘No. You’ve just driven up here from London. A day early,’ he couldn’t help pointing out.
‘It’s the day I agreed with Clara.’
No, it wasn’t. He suppressed a sigh. ‘You’re meant to be here on Sunday the sixth.’
‘Saturday the fifth,’ she corrected.
‘Clara wrote it on the kitchen calendar. The one where we write our shifts so we know when each other’s working.’ He walked over to the pinboard next to the cabinets, the dog trotting at his heels. ‘See? Sunday the—Oh, crap.’
‘What’s wrong?’ she asked.
‘I assumed the calendar was like the one on my phone and started on a Monday, not a Sunday. So at a glance it told me you were arriving on Sunday, not Saturday.’ He groaned and raked a hand through his hair. What the hell was wrong with him? He paid scrupulous attention at work. Nothing got past him. So why, when it came to his home life, was everything such a mess? ‘I apologise.’
‘It’s OK.’ Though the look she gave him could’ve curdled milk.
The next six months were going to feel very, very long indeed.
Thankfully she left him alone to make the food, though he also noticed that she didn’t
