Fling with Her Hot-Shot Consultant

by Kate Hardy

  ‘Uh-huh,’ she said warily.

  ‘You’re not a dog person?’

  ‘I’d never hurt one,’ she said. ‘But, no, I’m not used to pets. And Clara didn’t tell me to expect a dog.’

  ‘I see.’ He paused. ‘Truffle’s a rescue dog, so she’s a wee bit shy with people she doesn’t know. Ignore her and she’ll come to say hello when she’s feeling brave enough. She won’t hurt you,’ he advised. ‘Though don’t leave shoes or cake lying around. They’ll be gone in three seconds. And please don’t leave chocolate anywhere, even if you think it’s out of her reach, because it won’t be and it’s poisonous to dogs.’

  ‘Noted,’ she said, slightly nettled by his tone. OK, so she wasn’t used to dogs, but it didn’t mean she was stupid. Plus it was raining and she was a little tired of being left on the doorstep by a man whose social skills seemed more than a bit on the skimpy side. So she couldn’t help the sarcastic edge to her voice when she asked, ‘So would it be possible to bring my stuff in, do you think?’

  ‘Let me dry off and put some clothes on,’ he said, ‘and I’ll help you bring your things in.’

  She was perfectly capable of bringing her own things into the cottage. She wasn’t a delicate little flower who needed a man to sort things out for her.

  Before she could make the point, he said, ‘The cottage is open-plan, so I’m afraid I can’t shut Truffle in another room. Two of us bringing your things in means it’ll be quicker and I won’t have to keep her on her lead for so long.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Free feel free to make yourself some coffee,’ he said. ‘The mugs and the coffee are in the cupboard above the kettle.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  He stepped aside to let her in, then closed the front door behind him. ‘Good girl, Truffle,’ he said to the chocolate Labrador, then disappeared up the spiral wrought-iron staircase in the centre of the room.

  So she was stuck in a cottage in the middle of nowhere with a complete stranger—one who didn’t seem to be that pleased to be sharing his living space—and a nervous dog. What else hadn’t Clara told her?

  To be fair, Clara had said that her friend might still be there; but she’d also said that her friend would most probably be gone before Georgie arrived. And she hadn’t even mentioned the dog.

  Plus Georgie had no idea what her new housemate’s name was. He hadn’t even introduced himself. Grumpy McGrumpface, perhaps? He might be gorgeous, but he seemed incredibly prickly. She really hoped there was a soft side to him, because sharing a place with someone difficult was going to be really wearing.

  ‘I’m going to make some coffee,’ she said to the dog, who was regarding her warily from the other side of the room.

  At least with Grumpy McGrumpface leaving the room she had a chance to look round. Hayloft Cottage was compact and open plan, and utterly gorgeous. The windows all seemed quite deep-set, so Georgie guessed that the stone walls were very thick. The floors were pale flagstone, and at one end of the ground floor there was a kitchen consisting of cupboards painted sky blue, an old-fashioned butler’s sink, a cream-coloured Aga and a plate rack on the wall. She assumed that the fridge, freezer and washing machine were hidden somewhere behind the cupboards. Opposite the cupboards was a scrubbed pine table and four matching chairs.

  The wrought-iron staircase was the feature in the middle of the room, and there seemed to be a baby’s safety gate fastened across it. On the far wall there was an old-fashioned wood burner and two comfortable sofas on either side of it with a thick rug and a coffee table set between them, plus a wicker basket with a soft blanket that clearly belonged to the dog. It was cosy and pretty, and Georgie tried not to think about the fact that it was in the middle of nowhere or how disconcerting it was not to hear any noise from passing traffic.

  She headed to the kitchen area and filled the kettle. Just as Truffle’s owner had said, the coffee was in a tin above the kettle, along with a shelf of mugs.

  Should she make some coffee for him, too?

  She was still dithering when he came downstairs. He was dry now—or at least drier, because his hair was still damp. And it wasn’t dark, as she’d first thought: it was a deep auburn. Utterly gorgeous: but she knew that being handsome and being nice didn’t necessarily go together. Charlie had been charming, but he had turned out to be far from the nice man she’d thought she’d married; and her new housemate wasn’t even charming, let alone nice.

  Cross with herself and knowing that she was possibly being unfair to him—for all she knew, he could’ve had the day from hell and the last thing he needed was a complete stranger turning up on the doorstep when he wasn’t expecting her—she asked, ‘Can I make you a coffee?’ Once she’d downed a mug of the stuff, her head might be back in the right place again and she’d be her usual practical self. And hopefully she’d also stop reacting to him like a hormonal and star-struck teenager. She wasn’t here to get swept off her feet by a handsome stranger; she was here to get her life back on some sort of track.

  ‘Thanks. No milk or sugar.’

  Did he mean he didn’t take milk or sugar, or that there wasn’t any? She’d organised a food delivery with a note telling Clara to use whatever she needed and to make herself at home. She’d left a bottle of decent Prosecco in the fridge and a box of her favourite truffles, with a sticky note saying ‘Welcome to London’. As this was Scotland, she’d kind of hoped that Clara might have left her some shortbread as a ‘welcome to the job swap’ sort of thing. That hope was starting to feel a bit forlorn. And this place suddenly felt every one of the four hundred and so miles away from London, away from nearly everyone she knew.

  ‘If you take it, sugar is in the cupboard next to the coffee and there’s milk in the fridge,’ he said, as if her thoughts were written all over her face.

  ‘Thanks.’ She made two mugs of coffee, then added milk and enough cold water to her own mug that she could drink it straight down, as she often did at work.

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s how my colleagues tend to drink their coffee.’

  His colleagues? ‘Are you a medic, too?’ she asked.

  He nodded.

  ‘Clara didn’t really say anything to me about you. I’m afraid I don’t even know your name.’ She’d been at the cottage for long enough for him to introduce himself. The fact he hadn’t bothered told her that he really wasn’t going to welcome her staying here.

  * * *

  ‘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 strug
gled 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 them the support they so desperately needed before it was too late.

  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 go and make a fuss of Truffle. Not a dog person, then. Her loss.

  He thought of his nightmare case earlier and wished he could’ve turned the clock back. To the point where someone had noticed what had been going on in that house and given them enough support to stop it happening, or removed the baby into temporary care before it was too late. OK, so his own experience of foster care had been less than great—but foster care was still better than living in a house where someone might hurt a child.