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“What are you on about?” I run a hand over my beard, turning and pacing back toward Freya.
She’s changed into a flowy black dress for dinner. The gold bangles on her wrists jangle as she gestures at me. “You! This! You're pacing this hall like a caged tiger. What’s wrong with you?”
“It’s five fifteen,” I grumble, glancing at the clock on the wall for what feels like the hundredth time.
“So?” Freya throws a hand on her hip.
“She’s late.”
“Late for what?”
“Tea. I told her five sharp.”
Freya rolls her eyes at me, a knowing smile tugging at her lips. “You’ve got it bad, haven’t you? Fifteen minutes without her and our dainty little island flower has brought the mighty Callum Burnes to his knees.”
I scowl at her. “Dinnae be ridiculous. You know how I feel about my tea.”
“How you feel about your tea?” She tries to cover her giggle with her black fingernails. “Or your wee Fi?”
My voice thunders through the hall. “Freya?—”
Never put off by my anger, she moves in, teasingly tapping a finger against my chest. “Are you sure it’s the hungriness that has you storming about and not the sexual frustration?”
I huff out a frustrated breath.
She laughs.
“That was NOT from sexual frustration.” I continue pacing, brushing past her as I go.
“Get back here,” she demands. “This will make you happy.”
“What?” I turn to watch her roll back the top of the antique desk she’s bought for the hall. Gilded frames of black-and-white portraits of the island hang on the wall above the piece.
“I’ve got something for you to sign.” She holds a stack of papers between her fingers, a devious smile on her face.
“Good.” I go over to her. She sets the papers on the desktop and hands me a pen.
She points to a few lines. “Sign here. And here.”
As I swirl my signature across the page, I breathe easier. This document gives me some semblance of control. Since Fiona arrived at my doorstep, I’ve been out of sorts. This feeling is unlike anything I have felt before, and I find it unnerving.
It's like having a tumbler of fine whisky right before you, yet being unable to take a sip.
“Feel better?” she asks.
“A bit.”
She tucks the papers safely into the desk, rolling the top back down. “Why don’t you go talk to her? Maybe she’ll arrive faster if she knows someone eagerly awaits her. More bees with honey and all that.”
“I don’t need your advice,” I snap.
I know she is right even as the words leave my mouth.
She says, “When did that ever stop me from giving it to you? How about this for advice: be nice.”
“I’m—nice.”
“And a little patience would go a long way,” she says. “You’ve only just sprung this idea on her this morning. Give it some time.”
