Chapter 8
EIGHT
Golf Charlie Mike, please don’t die
Georgie
We fly over a stone castle perched on a tiny island, connected to the mainland by an ancient-looking bridge.
A gasp escapes me. “That castle…”
“You’ll see plenty of those,” Patrick says. “That one’s Eilean Donan.”
Down below, tourists swarm. Tiny dots of people living out their Outlander fantasies.
“I never knew Scotland was this magical,” I say, half to myself. “I get it now. Why you’d spend so much time here instead of London.”
He glances over, clearly amused at my wide-eyed tone. “Aye, it’s got its charms. We’ll be offering helicopter transfers from Inverness to the hotel for guests who want this on arrival.”
“You’re not flying all of them yourself, are you?”
“Only the special ones.”
Brilliant. Now I’m blushing again.
I try to cover it by babbling. “We’ve been airborne for roughly fifteen minutes, traveling at about a hundred and ten knots... that’s approximately thirty-five nautical miles. So we’re already halfway to Skye.”
“That’s a damn impressive guess.”
“It’s not a guess. It’s about eighty miles to Skye by road, which converts to around seventy nautical. At our current speed and time elapsed… thirty-five nautical miles. Basic math.”
He pauses.
“I’m impressed you worked that out in your head,” he finally says.
I grit my teeth. I work in tech. Calculations and logic are literally my day job.
But in his mind, I’m still the disaster who broadcasts recordings about nervous burps.
A few minutes later, he nods toward the horizon. “That’s Skye.”
My jaw drops. It looks like God was showing off when he designed this place. Jagged mountains rise from the sea, and the coastline twists and curves like something from a fairy tale.
“The water’s so blue!” I say. “Like, Maldives blue. It actually looks warm.”
“It’s not. But we get in anyway.”
“You swim here?”
“Swim. Kayak. Surf when I have time. Clears the head.” He pauses. “What about you? What are you planning to do while you’re here?”
“I’ll be busy with work,” I mumble, immediately realizing how pathetic that sounds compared to the CEO who just casually listed three outdoor hobbies.
“You’ll have weekends off.”
“Definitely,” I say too fast. “I’ll, uh, explore. Do some… mountain things.”
Mountain things? What are you, a goat?
He doesn’t call me on it, just tips his chin toward the view. “That’s Portree.”
The town looks like it’s been lifted straight from a postcard. Rows of cheerful houses curve around the harbor, each one painted in soft pastels—sunshine yellow next to seafoam green, coral pink rubbing shoulders with sky blue.
“The hotel!” I gasp at the majestic building up in the mountains overlooking Portree.
Clachmòr House—Gaelic for “big stone,” which feels like underselling it the way calling the Sistine Chapel “a decent ceiling” would. Built in the seventeenth century and acquired by McLaren Hotels a few years ago for major restoration.
It rises from the trees, towers capped with conical roofs like it’s auditioning for a moody Scottish version of Disneyland.
Looking down at this magical place where I’m going to be living and working for the next few weeks, something unexpected flutters in my chest.
Not anxiety.
Excitement. Actual, heart-racing excitement.
“She’s quite something, isn’t she?” Patrick says, pride written across his face. “Still takes my breath away.”
I can’t help smiling. “She?”
“The best things in life are always female. The land, the sea, things that can bring a man to his knees.” His eyes flick to me for the briefest second. “Scotland herself. She’s dangerous that way.”
I make a noise in my throat. That’s… unexpectedly poetic.
“Jake mentioned your grandad was from Skye?” I ask casually. I know Patrick used to spend summers here as a kid. I am, after all, a woman of research.
“That’s right. He would’ve loved seeing it restored like this. It was crumbling in his day. Shame he didn’t live long enough to see it brought back to life.”
“Wow. He would’ve been so proud.”
He shrugs, but I catch the flicker of boyish pride breaking through his billionaire CEO exterior. He loves this hotel. It’s written all over his face.
Minutes later, the nose of the helicopter tips. The rotors change pitch, that deep thrum turning sharper as the helicopter starts to descend. My stomach drops with it. At least going up maintains the illusion of moving away from things that could impale us.
“Golf Charlie Mike, Portree traffic,” Patrick says into the radio, calm as ever, “inbound to private site Clachmòr House, landing to the west.”
I squint through the window and immediately regret having eyes.
All I can see below are murderous-looking trees.
“That clearing’s tiny,” I say. “Like, there’s no margin for error. Are we certain this is where we want to land? Have we considered… not?”
The bastard chuckles. “I don’t think anyone’s questioned my flying competence this thoroughly in a single day. I’m reasonably confident I can land this helicopter.”
The whole cabin shakes as we drop. I brace for the bounce off a pine tree.
Then... the softest touchdown. No fiery explosion.
The engine winds down, rotors slowing. My breath comes flooding back. “Oh my God. I’m alive.”
“There was never any doubt,” Patrick says dryly, releasing his harness.
Of course there bloody wasn’t for him. For him, this was the aviation equivalent of parallel parking.
He’s out of his seat and at my door before I’ve even figured out which way the seatbelt clip goes.
The door swings open and Scotland rushes in—pine and rain and air that smells like it contains oxygen instead of exhaust fumes.
He leans across me, and with one hand releases all five points of my harness in a single motion.
I don’t know why that’s so ridiculously sexy. Something about a man being dangerous and competent with his hands, I suppose.
“Out you come,” he murmurs, offering his warm hand, rough with calluses.
For one brain-melting second, all I can think is: I’m holding Patrick’s hand.
And then I’m not. He’s already grabbed my suitcase from the back.
“I can take that,” I say, reaching for it.
“It’s fine.”
His stride eats up the gravel path toward reception while I scurry after him, still dizzy from either the altitude or the lingering effects of hand-holding.
“Mary at reception will sort you out,” he says. “You’ll be sharing with someone—another woman. Everyone does here.”
“Even you?” slips out before I can shove it back down my throat.
One brow lifts. “No.”
Obviously not. Bet he’s got a private chalet with a personal chef.
“I doubt any of the groundskeepers or seasonal staff fancy sharing quarters with the boss,” he adds dryly.
Untrue.
I’d bet both ovaries all the female staff, and a nontrivial percentage of the male staff, have cinematic fantasies about “sharing quarters” with Patrick.
“Thanks for the info,” I say, awkwardly adjusting my bag. “I’ll go find Mary.”
Something tightens around his eyes. “Georgie… I must admit I was surprised that Craig sent you to oversee this project on your own. Skye’s important to me; we’re pushing for Forbes recognition here.
If you find yourself out of your depth, I can have another team member here within hours.
I’d rather you ask for help before anything goes sideways. You only need to say the word.”
Boom. Boom. Boom. Each word lands like a slap.
It’s the casual assumption baked into every word that I’m going to fail. That I won’t last a week without some middle-aged man hovering to “translate” the big scary technical bits for me.
I want to snarl, Do you know how many months I’ve eaten, slept, and breathed this project, you helicopter-flying, beautiful bastard?
I should’ve taken the bloody bus.
“It’s fine. Don’t worry about me.”
He rubs the back of his neck. “If you need anything while you’re here… just let me know.”
I stare at the gravel because if I look at him, he might see how small he’s just made me feel.
“Jake asked you to keep an eye on me, didn’t he?”
The pause is short, but it’s enough.
“He just wants to make sure you’re settling in alright.
You’re his baby sister, and I know I maintain professional distance as your boss, but I also remember you at sixteen.
I understand you’re not a child anymore, but this corporate environment can be brutal, especially for someone your age with limited industry experience.
I’m going to make sure you’re looked after. ”
Baby sister.
There it is.
He doesn’t see me as an adult, a colleague, or an equal. I’m just Jake’s awkward kid sister. I don’t even think he means to be patronizing. It’s simply how he sees me.
I nod, trying to keep my face neutral. “I bet Liam doesn’t offer the same protective services for you.”
Liam McLaren—Patrick’s older brother—is a finance shark who makes Patrick look warm and fuzzy.
Patrick huffs a laugh. “Perhaps brothers are more protective when it comes to sisters. Jake just wants what’s best for you.”
I force a tight smile. “Of course.”
“I should get going. Enjoy your first evening in Scotland.”
He’s already several steps away when something reckless makes me call out: “Patrick?”
He stops. Looks back.
“I’ll try not to let you down.”
His gaze holds mine for half a beat. Then he gives me one of those clipped nods, the kind that says he’s already bracing for my inevitable failure.
By the time he turns away, his phone’s already at his ear, like our exchange was just another checkbox on his to-do list.
The little glow I’d been nursing—surviving the helicopter, calculating our distance mid-flight, maybe impressing him for all of three seconds—flickers out completely.
Apparently, the only thing I accomplished today was proving just how easy I am to underestimate.
And how much that hurts.