Page 32 of My Fake Dating with the Grumpiest Highlander
No one smiles.
No one seems embarrassed to be participating in… what exactly?
A Scottish-style social lynching?
“You organized a meeting to discuss my housing situation? At seven in the morning?”
“The timing seemed appropriate,” Mrs. MacLeish replies. “We knew you’d be available before your consultations.”
I walk over to the table, pull out a chair, and sit down.
If I’m going to attend my own trial, I might as well be comfortable.
“All right,” I say. “I’m listening.”
Mrs. MacLeish exchanges a glance with the others, as though seeking silent confirmation, then clears her throat.
“Doctor McLeod, we—that is to say, the residents of Glenfield present here, as well as those unable to attend this morning—have a few concerns regarding your integration into our community.”
“Concerns?” I repeat.
“Yes.”
“You formed a committee to discuss my integration issues?”
“That is correct.”
I rub my eyes.
I haven’t even had coffee yet.
My tolerance for absurdity is dangerously low.
“And you couldn’t simply come speak to me individually?”
“We thought a collective approach would be more constructive,” Duncan Fraser explains.
The word sounds strange when six pairs of eyes are staring at you like you’re a problem that needs solving.
“All right,” I say, crossing my arms. “What exactly are these concerns?”
Mrs. MacLeish pulls a folded sheet of paper from the pocket of her apron.
She prepared a fucking list.
Jesus Christ.
I swallow hard.
Please let nobody try to sue me…
A chill runs down my spine, but I quickly pull myself together.
Considering I haven’t really been able to examine any patients since arriving—aside from Maggie McGregor—I’m not exactly at risk.
“If I may begin,” Moira MacTavish cuts in before Mrs. MacLeish even has time to unfold her paper.
“Please do, Moira,” the landlady encourages.
