Chapter 7: The Fancy Dinner
The dress was a reckless purchase she’d never had occasion to wear. Dark green silk, cut on the bias, it skimmed her curves and left her shoulders bare. Roz stood before her full-length mirror, twisting to see the drape of the fabric. It felt like a costume. A beautiful, luxurious costume for a role she wasn’t sure she knew how to play: the girlfriend of a professional athlete at a Michelin-starred restaurant.
Her phone buzzed on the bed. He’s here, the message from Alasdair read.Simple.Direct.
She took a final breath, grabbed her clutch, and headed downstairs.
He was leaning against his car, a modest but sleek estate model, not the flashy sports car she’d half-expected. He wore a charcoal suit tailored to his broad shoulders, no tie, the first button of his white shirt undone. The casual elegance of it, the way the fabric hinted at the power beneath, made her pause in the doorway. He was scanning the street, a slight frown of concentration on his face, a man used to being watched. Then he saw her.
The change was immediate. The focused intensity dissolved, replaced by a warmth so complete it felt like a physical force crossing the space between them. His blue eyes widened, then crinkled at the corners. A slow, devastating smile spread across his face. He pushed off the car.
“Roz,” he said, her name a soft exhalation of pure appreciation. He didn’t touch her, just stood there, drinking her in. “You look… Christ. You’re stunning.”
“You clean up alright yourself,” she managed, her voice slightly breathless. “No tie?”
“Chose not to fight with the knot. Consider it a quiet rebellion.” He finally stepped forward, his hand coming to rest lightly on the small of her back. He leaned in, his lips brushing her cheek. He smelled of clean cotton, cedar, and the faint, sharp scent of his cologne. “Ready?”
The restaurant was all hushed tones and ambient gold light. A discreet maître d' led them past the main dining room, a murmur of conversation and clinking crystal, to a smaller, private room. It was a sanctuary of polished oak and deep crimson velvet. A single table for two sat before a floor-to-ceiling window framing a twilight cityscape, Edinburgh Castle lit up against the dusky purple sky. Candles flickered in crystal holders, their light dancing over crisp white linen and an array of intimidatingly polished cutlery.
“This is…” Roz began, her words failing her.
“Too much?” He pulled out her chair, his voice low in her ear.“No. It’s perfect. It’s terrifying.” She sat, the velvet chair soft against her bare skin.
“Don’t be terrified. It’s just dinner.” He took his seat opposite her, his frame making the elegant chair seem slightly too small. “The menu’s in French. I’m planning to point at things and hope for the best.”
She laughed, the tension in her shoulders easing. This was still Alasdair. The man who made stew. “I trust your pointing abilities.”
A sommelier appeared, presenting a bottle with a quiet flourish. Alasdair nodded his approval without examining the label. The pop of the cork was a gentle punctuation in the quiet room. Golden champagne was poured, the bubbles a frantic celebration in the flutes.
He raised his glass. “To not being careful.”
She touched her glass to his, the clear ping resonating. “To not being careful.”
They sipped. The champagne was dry, crisp, tasting of green apples and cold stones. It was the best thing she’d ever tasted. Or perhaps that was the atmosphere, the look in his eyes across the table.
For a while, they simply existed in the quiet. He told her about the media day, rolling his eyes as he described the inane, circular questions. “They asked me about the outreach twice. The second time, I gave the same answer verbatim. I don’t think the reporter noticed.” He grinned. “And no one asked about you. Not directly. A few ‘any special someone in the crowd?’ type things. I said my focus was on the match and the community work. Which is true.”
She felt a surge of gratitude for his protectiveness. “And your focus now?”
“Is entirely on the woman in the green dress who is currently stealing all the oxygen in this room.”
A delicate amuse-bouche arrived, a tiny pastry shell filled with something creamy and smoky. They ate, their conversation meandering from the surreal perfection of the food to a funny story about Shannon from the centre teaching Ewan a brutally honest card game. The world outside the velvet-draped room faded.
When the waiter had cleared their starter plates and left them with the promise of the main course, Alasdair stood. “Come look at the view with me.”
She rose, taking his offered hand. They stood side-by-side before the vast window, the city a glittering tapestry below. His reflection was a dark, solid shape beside hers in the glass.
Then his hands settled on her waist from behind, his touch firm and warm through the thin silk. She felt him, solid and real, against her back. He bent his head, his lips brushing the sensitive spot just below her ear. His voice was a low vibration she felt in her bones.
“Every man who saw you walk through that restaurant,” he murmured, his breath warm against her skin, “is jealous that I’m the one who gets to take this dress off you later.”
A shiver, hot and liquid, raced down her spine. She leaned back into him, letting her head rest against his shoulder. His words weren’t a crude boast; they were a confident, intimate claim, and they ignited something deep within her. She turned her head, seeking his mouth. The kiss was slow, deep, tasting of champagne and promise.
The discreet cough from the doorway was a soft intrusion. They broke apart, but he didn’t move his hands from her waist. The waiter stood with their main courses, his face a mask of professional neutrality. “The venison, sir. And the halibut for the lady.”
They returned to the table, a new, charged energy humming between them. The food was exquisite, but it became secondary to the game of footsie under the table, to the long, loaded looks over the rim of a wine glass, to the way his finger traced the stem of his glass exactly where he’d touched the line of her spine.
Over a dessert of dark chocolate and blood orange—a tangy, bitter-sweet concoction—he grew quiet.
“What is it?” she asked, setting her spoon down.
He looked at her, the candlelight flickering in his blue eyes. “I have to leave tomorrow. For a week. Away match, then a training camp.”
The statement landed like a stone in the serene pond of the evening. She’d known his life was one of travel, but the reality of it suddenly felt concrete and cold. “A week.”
“Aye. I hate the timing.” He reached across the table, his hand covering hers. His fingers were warm, slightly rough. “This… thing between us. It’s new. And I want to be here, in it. Not in a hotel room in England watching film.”
She laced her fingers with his. “We’ll video call. You can give me a tour of your minibar.”
He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “It’s not the same.” He paused, choosing his words with an engineer’s care. “I’m… I’m not good at this part.The leaving part. I’ve always just… left. It wasn’t complicated.”
“And now it’s complicated?”
“Now,” he said, his thumb stroking her knuckles, “the thought of leaving for seven days feels like a geological age. That’s complicated.”
His honesty undid her. It was so far from the smooth, charming persona he showed the press. This was raw, unfiltered. It mirrored the tightness she felt in her own chest.
“Come back to mine tonight,” he said, his voice leaving no room for doubt. “Don’t go home.Just… stay. Until I have to go.”
The bill was settled with a quiet word. He helped her into her coat, his hands lingering on her shoulders. The walk through the main restaurant was a blur of muted noise and curious glances. She felt the eyes on them, on him, the whispered recognition. But his hand was on the small of her back, a steady, guiding pressure, and she kept her gaze fixed ahead, inside the small, private world they were leaving together.
The night air was a cool shock. He bundled her into the passenger seat, his hand briefly cupping her cheek before he closed the door.
Inside the car, the interior warm and dark, he didn’t start the engine immediately. He turned to her.
“That was the most distracted I’ve ever been during a tasting menu,” he confessed, a faint smile playing on his lips. “All I could think about was this.”
He leaned across the center console and kissed her. It was different from the kiss in the restaurant. Hungrier, more urgent, a preview of the night to come. It tasted of goodbye and welcome home all at once.
When he pulled away, both of them were breathing heavily. He rested his forehead against hers. “Let’s go home.”
The drive to his flat was quiet, the city lights streaming past the windows. His hand rested on her thigh, a point of searing heat. Upstairs, in the familiar, warm silence of his hallway, the last of the restaurant’s formality fell away. He shrugged out of his suit jacket, tossing it over a chair. He toed off his shoes.
She did the same, her heels clicking softly on the wooden floor.
He didn’t lead her to the bedroom. Instead, he walked into the living room, lit only by the orange glow of the streetlamp outside. He stopped in the center of the room and looked at her.
“Come here,” he said, his voice soft.
She went to him. He wrapped his arms around her, simply holding her, his chin resting on the top of her head. They swayed slightly, a slow, silent dance in the semi-darkness. There was no music, only the sound of their breathing and the distant hum of the city.
“I don’t want to waste a minute,” he whispered into her hair.
He didn’t wait for a reply. His hands came up to cradle her face, and he kissed her with a profound, aching tenderness that slowly burned into a deep, consuming need. The silk dress whispered as it pooled at her feet. His shirt buttons proved a minor, frustrating obstacle. Laughter bubbled up, a soft, breathless sound in the dark, as a stubborn button refused to yield.
“Ripped it last time,” he muttered against her neck. “Trying to be civilized.”
“Don’t be civilized on my account,” she breathed, and the last button gave way.
He lifted her then, her legs wrapping around his waist, and carried her to the bedroom. This time, there was no slow unveiling. It was a coming together born of impending separation, a fierce, wordless dialogue of skin and heat and wanting. It was less about technique and more about connection, a frantic mapping of each other as if to commit every sigh, every curve, every taste to memory. It was possessive and generous, desperate and reverent all at once.
After, tangled in the sheets, slick with sweat, he held her so tightly she could barely breathe. She didn’t mind. She held him just as tightly.
“I’ll call you,” he said into the dark, his voice rough. “Every night. It’ll be boring. Talk about set-pieces and protein shakes.”
“I want to hear about the protein shakes,” she said, her face pressed against his chest. “I want all of it.”
He shifted, pulling back just enough to look at her. In the faint light, his eyes were serious. “This isn’t just because I’m leaving.”
“I know.”
“It’s because you’re here.” He kissed her, softly. “And I don’t want you to not be.”
He fell asleep not long after, his breathing deepening into a steady rhythm, his arm a heavy, comforting weight across her ribs. Roz lay awake, listening to the sound, watching the slow drift of shadows across the ceiling. The scent of him, of them, clung to the sheets. The week ahead stretched, lonely and flat.
But for now, he was here. His heart beat under her ear, a steady, living promise against the quiet dark. She closed her eyes, committing the rhythm to memory, and followed him into sleep.
She closed her eyes, committing the rhythm to memory, and followed him into sleep.
In the morning, she woke with him stroking her hair. A slow, gentle pass of his fingers from her temple to the ends where it fanned across his pillow. She kept her eyes shut, luxuriating in the warmth of the sheets and the solid heat of him beside her.
“Mmm, morning, sexy,” he murmured, his voice gravel-rough with sleep.
He shifted, sitting up against the headboard. Before she could fully open her eyes, his hands were on her, guiding her. He pulled her onto his lap so she was straddling him, the cotton sheet falling away. Her breasts pressed against the broad, solid wall of his chest. She could feel every defined plane, the crisp hair, the steady, strong beat of his heart. His arms wrapped around her, holding her there in the quiet, sunlit room.
“Don’t go today,” she whispered into his skin, the words leaving her before she could filter them.
His hands stroked down her back, a long, soothing motion. “I wish I didn’t have to.” He didn’t offer false platitudes. He just held her tighter. The reality of his packed bag by the door, the pre-arranged taxi, hung in the air between them.
They stayed like that until the sunlight crept across the rumpled duvet and found them. Finally, with a sigh that came from his bones, he kissed her shoulder.“Coffee. Or I’ll never make it to the train.”
He made the coffee shirtless, in just a pair of grey sweatpants slung low on his hips. Roz watched from the kitchen doorway, wrapped in his discarded dress shirt. She studied the landscape of his back—the play of muscle, the pale seam of an old scar curving near his shoulder blade, the dark tattoo of a Gaelic knotwork band around his bicep. He moved with an economical grace, filling the grinder, tamping the grounds. It was a ritual. She wanted to memorize this version of him, too: the domestic, sleep-softened athlete making breakfast.
“You’re staring,” he said without turning around, a smile in his voice.
“I’m observing. There’s a difference.”
“And what’s your observation, Doctor Douglas?”
She walked over and pressed herself against his back, wrapping her arms around his waist. She felt him still. “My observation is that you make coffee like you engineer a scrum. Total focus. Possibly overkill.”
He laughed, a rich, warm sound that vibrated through both of them. “It’s the only way. Chaos is not an option.” He passed her a full mug, his fingers brushing hers. “Drink up. My taxi’s in forty.”
The next half-hour had a strange, accelerated quality. The quiet intimacy of the kitchen sharpened into the practical hurry of departure. He showered quickly, the sound of the water a frantic drumbeat. She dressed in yesterday’s clothes, the silk dress feeling absurdly out of place in the morning light. He emerged from the bedroom in jeans and a simple black jumper, his hair damp, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder.The transformation was complete. He was Alasdair MacLeod, the professional, leaving.
He stood by the door, bag at his feet, and looked at her. The charming ease was gone, replaced by a raw, unguarded tension. “A week,” he said, as if convincing himself.
“Seven days.” She tried to sound light. “I’ll be busy. The centre, sessions. I’ll barely notice.”
“Liar.” He closed the distance, his hands framing her face. His thumbs swept over her cheekbones. “You’ll notice. So will I.”
The kiss was hard, desperate, a final anchor. It tasted of toothpaste and regret. When he pulled away, his breathing was uneven. “Video call tonight. Eight o’clock.”
“I’ll be here.”
He grabbed his bag, shoulders squaring into that familiar, public posture. He gave her one last look, a flash of the private man beneath the persona—a man who didn’t want to leave. Then he opened the door.
“Alasdair.” The word jumped from her.
He turned, hope flickering in his eyes.
She had nothing profound. Nothing worthy of the Michelin-starred confession or the night spent mapping each other’s skin. She just gestured weakly at his feet. “Your boots are untied. You’ll trip.”
He glanced down, then back at her. A slow, real smile broke through. He dropped his bag with a thud. “So they are.”
He didn’t bend to tie them. He strode back to her, cupped the back of her neck, and kissed her one more time. It was softer now, a promise. “Thank you,” he murmured against her lips.
“For noticing your laces?”
“For being here.” He released her, bent down, and swiftly knotted his boots. This time, when he picked up his bag and walked out, he didn’t look back.
The door clicked shut.
The silence in the sunlit apartment was immediate and immense. It pressed in on her ears. She stood there, listening to the absence of him—the lack of his footsteps, his breathing, the low hum of him just existing in a space. She walked to the kitchen and finished her coffee, which was now lukewarm. She washed his mug, then hers, drying them and placing them neatly in the cupboard. The bed was a tangled monument. She couldn’t bring herself to strip it.
Her phone, discarded on the bedside table, buzzed. A text. Her heart did a foolish, hopeful leap.
It was Shannon.Hey! Did the fancy dinner turn into a fancy breakfast? 😉 Ewan keeps asking if ‘the big rugby man’ is coming back this week.
Roz sat on the edge of the unmade bed. She could still smell him on the sheets. She typed a reply, her fingers clumsy.No fancy breakfast. He’s gone for a week. Tell Ewan yes, he’ll be back.She hit send. The message was a tiny, insignificant signal flung into the void of her suddenly empty day. She looked around the room, at the vintage maps of places he’d probably walked, at the engineering sketches on his desk. This was his world, and for a night, she’d been let inside. Now she was alone in it, and the week ahead felt vast and hollow.
She knew she should leave, go back to her own flat, her own life. But she didn’t move. She just sat, listening to the old building settle, waiting for the day to properly begin without him in it. The clock on his bedside table read 8:07 AM. Thirteen hours and fifty-three minutes until the phone would ring. She started counting.