When Sylvia said there would be a lot of free food, she wasn't exaggerating. There have been copious breaks for snacks - as well as a massive lunch - and by time dinner rolls around, I'm actually wondering how I'm going to possibly fit any further sustenance inside my body. I'm fit to burst.

On the upside, my hangover is long gone. Which is very handy because dinner is when the promised free booze finally starts making an appearance!

Gareth, to the left of me, proffers a bottle of chenin blanc in my direction. "Want some?" He asks, and I nod vigorously in response. Despite all of today's bonding activities, most of the people in the room still feel like virtual strangers to me. Which should be a good thing - this is what I wanted when I moved to Glasgow, after all - but it makes me nervous being around so many. I take a massive fortifying gulp of white grape, followed by a deep breath.

I am way out of my comfort zone. In a whole other galaxy, in fact. A galaxy that's not even adjacent to my comfort zone!

I'm also very aware of Ross Macallister's presence. Even though he's on the other side of Gareth, and I can't technically see him, it doesn't seem to matter. I'm like a visually impaired person whose other senses have been heightened when it comes to Ross. I'm aware of the low husky hum of his voice on the rare occasion he speaks; I feel like his scent is still lingering inside my brain from our close contact earlier; and the ghost of his hand on my face still remains.

Dinner is delicious, but it's way too much, and I find myself picking at it. I'm grateful I've restrained myself when dessert turns up, though, because it's sticky toffee pudding with custard, and you best believe I want to eat all of that! I polish it off with the same gusto I ate that first roll and sausage this morning.

After dinner and a generous amount of wine, everyone decamps to the bar, where we're handed three "drink vouchers" each. We're told we can swap each one for a small glass of wine, a beer, or a spirit and mixer.

"These don't exactly look very professional," I say, studying one of the vouchers.

"Hey, I made those!" Gareth protests, blushing. "Look, someone asked me to knock them up in a hurry  when they remembered they can't just use those regular bog-standard raffle tickets anymore. Not after last time."

"What happened last time?" Ross asks curiously. He's now sitting opposite me, and I'm desperately trying to avoid looking at him too much. Unfortunately, it's like trying to resist the pull of a magnet.

Hayley - the Robin Hood fox lover who I  found myself bonding with further over the course of the afternoon - starts laughing at the memory. "Last time we had an event with free drinks, someone went to WH Smiths, bought another book of raffle tickets that looked identical to the drinks tickets, and distributed those too. So everyone ended up even more moroculous than usual!"

"And the college ended up owing a shitload extra money to the venue," Gareth chimes in. "They were not happy."

"What happened to the culprit?" I wonder. I'm more impressed with their ingenuity than anything else, to be honest.

"He quit before he could be fired." Gareth shrugs. "But anyway, that's the reason why you're stuck with these eyesores I created. What do you want to drink?" He sticks his hand out so we can all pass him a voucher, and Hayley follows him to the bar to lend a hand.

And then I'm alone again with Ross. The first time since that brief moment on the beach this morning. Tension thrums a drumbeat between us - thick and heavy. It feels like every nerve in my body is on edge. It's terrifying, actually, because if he makes me feel this way in a crowded room, how could he make me feel if we were properly alone?

The very thought makes my cheeks heat up, and I hasten to mentally scrub my dirty mind. Note to self: I should probably pop it in the washing machine for a more thorough cleanse once I'm home!

 I'm struggling to keep up with the constant shifts in our dynamic. We'd only managed to finally slip back into an easy form of camaraderie just before The Moment and then that tumbled us haphazardly right into the middle of a whole new territory with no defining lines yet. . . Let's call it "lust with intent". Or maybe "playing emotional chicken". It's waiting for one of us to make the first move and propel us forward. Or for someone to back off so we are relegated to the slightly safer sort-of-friend-zone.

But who is going to roll the dice and make that call?

Ross clears his throat. "I feel like I should confess something," he says finally. His voice is careful, as if he's testing his words.

"Oh?" I ask shakily. "What is it?"

He sighs and drags a hand along his stubble. My eyes track the movement of his hand, wondering if he has any idea just how sexy he is. He must have at least an inkling, surely? "I looked you up. Online, I mean. That's why I already knew who you were when I met you this morning." He dips his head, looking slightly shame-faced. "And that's why I sent you that email last week. And ignored your reply."

"Ah." I nod. "I thought you'd maybe got pulled up for inappropriate emailing, and that's why you'd went so formal on me!"

He laughs slightly grimly. "I probably should have been - maybe both of us should have been, actually. But, as far as I'm aware, the college doesn't monitor that stuff too heavily . . . This is probably another reason why certain people still have jobs." Our eyes both flicker towards Marty then - he's currently trying to chat up the barmaid, who looks less than impressed with his antics.

"But it was all on me, in this case," he continues. "I recognised you when I looked you up, and I panicked. I couldn't believe you'd turned out to be the beautiful waitress who'd witnessed my humiliation like that."

"Witnessed? I caused at least half of it!" I wince. (I carefully tuck the "beautiful" comment away to consider in more detail later, of course.)

"I didn't really think of it that way," he shrugs, leaning forward in his chair so he's closer to me. I take the opportunity to get an extra hit of his scent. "I . . . I just didn't want you to know I was the same guy. It was embarrassing. I figured since you were a temp, it would be easier if I found a way to just not talk to you until your contract ran out, and you'd be none the wiser." He grimaces. "But then you turned up here today and kind of wrecked my . . . plan." He hesitates and stumbles slightly over that last word. "So I'm sorry - I was a prick in that email, and then I was a dick this morning. And my only excuse is male pride, and I realise that's a terrible defence!"

I find myself giggling, feeling lighter somehow. A lead balloon of unease and uncertainty had been sitting on my chest since Friday's email, and it has finally released itself and floated away with Ross' admission and apology. "It's okay," I brush it off. "I honestly can't blame you. I'm not sure how I would have reacted if the roles had been reversed and I'd been able to find you successfully . . ." Shit. Now he'll know I looked for him too! I trail off and briefly screw my eyes shut, a soft groan emerging from my mouth.

When I meet his gaze again, my face heats up further. He's smirking, his chin propped on his hand as he studies me, but it's the warmth in his eyes that roundhouse kicks me right in the gut. "Busted," I say weakly, and he laughs.

And finally, people . . . Finally, we have proper laughter. Not the bitter laugh of Cab Sav or the tentative chuckles of this morning. Ross Macallister's laugh now matches the one I was rewarded with over the phone. It's happy and carefree, and it makes my insides tighten with pleasure. Let's take a moment to commemorate this special occasion!

"So why did you search online for me in the first place?" I ask when I realise we've been watching each other way too long without saying anything.

He shrugs, dark green eyes still not leaving my face, colour flaring high on his cheekbones. "I'm pretty sure you can figure that out for yourself." His voice is low and gruff. "I imagine it's the same reason you tried to look me up."

"You felt the connection too?" I breathe, wondering when the cast of Riverdance took up residence in my belly. They must have swapped shifts with the exhausted conga-dancing butterflies from last week.

He nods. "Yeah," he murmurs. An embarrassed laugh escapes his lips. "I don't think I've ever looked forward to my phone ringing so much before."

Aw.

Shall we all take this opportunity to collectively melt?

We're interrupted then by Gareth and Hailey returning to the table with the drinks and moaning about how long it took to get served thanks to "El Creepo Martino" monopolising the barmaid.

But delighted anticipation floods my bloodstream as Ross flashes me one final - slightly shy - grin, and I strongly suspect we'll be continuing our private discussion very soon.

And I can't bloody wait . . .

Moroculous is a Scottish word for "drunk", in case you were curious. 😉

Hope you're enjoying the story! I still have no idea what I'm doing. 🤣