What happens when you're magically stuck to the person that you hate the most? ****
Livvy grew up helping in her parents' coffee shop. Harry grew up attending polo tournaments and drinking champagne.
But when the pair tumble into the water of Leith...
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"Well?" Anna wiggles her eyebrows. "He's cute, right?"
We're sitting at a juice bar in Grass Market, which is more of a smattering of chairs and tables on a cobblestone street than a proper café. For once, Scotland is sunny, and Anna is squinting through her glasses. She's working her way through an aubergine sandwich, licking onion hummus from her fingertips, and my stomach rumbles.
I've already polished off my veggie chili but ordering a second lunch is starting to sound like a reasonable idea. I take a sip of my green juice, wrinkling my nose as the ginger hits me.
"Who?" I ask. "Noah?"
"No," Anna says. "Harry." I choke on the juice, and she smiles. "Oh, come on. He looks like a model for cashmere jumpers."
"Yeah," I say. "A model that eats children for fun."
"So, he's moody." Anna shrugs. "I can get on board."
I have to drain my juice to keep from retorting. I've seen what happens when girls try to get on board with Harry Bates, and it never ends well. Poppy doesn't even bother to learn their names anymore; she just refers to Harry's girlfriends by the handbag that they carry. Last week was 'Monogrammed Tote' and this week is 'Quilted Leather Purse'.
Theo chastises her for it, but I think he secretly enjoys it, too.
Anna blows out a breath, recapturing my attention. "Shit. I'm late for my next class." She throws a ten-pound note on the table, leaning over to kiss my cheek. "And I'm in heels."
I smile fondly. "Idiot."
"I know."
"Run!" I call, and Anna makes a rude gesture over her shoulder, her red ponytail swinging.
I gather my stuff more leisurely, glancing at my phone. It's only two o'clock, so I head to the library, checking out every book that I can find on kelpies or Scottish water spirits. Then I Google images of the creatures, dragging them on to a PowerPoint.
I might hate presenting, but I know how to put on a good show; if I can distract them with visuals of pencil-drawn water horses with fangs, then I will.
By six o'clock, I can feel my attention beginning to slip. I pack up my stuff and go to the gym next, taking as long as I possibly can on the cross-trainer. Technically, Fridays are supposed to be my rest days, but I'm not risking going back to the flat until I'm sure that Emma has left. Otherwise I'll be forced into heels and glittery eyeliner, and I'd much rather stay in and watch a film with Poppy. Possibly over pizza.
My stomach rumbles.
Oh, yes. Definitely pizza.
After two hours, I drive back to the flat, pausing to listen outside of the door. Silence. When I push open the door, the flat is empty. I dump my keys into the bowl by the front door, padding towards the kitchen. A half-eaten pot of pasta and basil is still on the stove.
