Chapter 9
NINE
A guide to Scottish liberation
Georgie
I drag my suitcase into the staff cottage they’ve assigned me. The silence settles around me as I shoulder the door closed.
And… huh. It’s lovely.
Soft greys and warm creams, the kind of decor that whispers “retreat” instead of “staff housing.” There’s a plush sofa angled toward an enormous window, clearly positioned for serious contemplation.
Judging by the lacy red thong draped over the radiator, someone’s living here. Someone who has the confidence to leave their underwear on display.
I collapse onto the sofa with a soft whump, not bothering to take my coat off. Just for a second. Just to breathe.
Then I look up.
Oh.
The view through the window is spectacular. Cliffs spilling into wild, endless sea. Portree curled up below with its pastel houses. The hotel sitting on its own private throne of land. Other staff cottages scattered across the hillside.
I just stare. Completely transfixed.
Then my eyes start stinging.
Shit.
I’m crying.
The kind where you can’t even identify what the hell you’re crying about because it’s everything and nothing all at once.
Maybe it’s the view. Maybe it’s the kind of beauty that punches a hole in you when you’ve spent too long in offices with people who dismiss everything you say.
Maybe it’s the fact that Riri isn’t here to hear me ramble about Patrick’s helicopter or the thong.
Maybe it’s Patrick, with the way he looks at me like I’m a liability before I even have the chance to prove otherwise.
Maybe Riri’s right.
Because in that helicopter—while I was convinced my obituary was being written in real time—I didn’t think about Craig’s bullshit or whether I’d screw up the project. I was just… alive. Heart hammering, completely present in my own skin.
Maybe she knew that sometimes you need to be shaken up, thrown in a helicopter with a brooding Yorkshireman, just to remember you’re more than the tiny, careful box you’ve been hiding in.
I pull my knees to my chest, still in my coat, still crying, and watch the sea crash against the cliffs.
“You’ve been crying for my entire session.”
The voice comes from nowhere and I nearly shit myself.
I twist toward the window, expecting Riri’s ghost.
Instead, there’s a girl on the grass outside flowing through yoga poses. She looks to be around my age, wearing leggings and a vest top, with her hair in a messy bun. She straightens, bends into a sideways arch, and waves casually.
My mouth drops open. “You heard all that? I’m mortified.”
“Don’t apologize for having feelings,” she says, still twisted. “Tears are just emotions leaving the body. Like emotional piss. You clearly needed a good emotional piss.”
I burst out laughing despite myself. “That’s the most disturbing description of crying I’ve ever heard.”
“I’m Fee.” She unfolds herself, barely out of breath, and offers a hand through the open window. “I’m guessing you’re my new roommate?”
“Georgie,” I say, shaking it. “And this is probably the worst first impression in the history of cohabitation.”
“You just got here?”
“Yeah. Via helicopter, believe it or not.”
“Shut. Up. Only the VIPs get the chopper. The rest of us suffer four hours of winding roads.”
“Oh no, I’m definitely not a VIP. Patrick just happened to be heading this way. I got… bundled along.”
“Patrick McLaren?” she practically shrieks. “You must be someone.”
“Hardly. It was more like a charitable airlift. HR realized I was landing at the same time and took pity.”
Her eyes widen. “What’s he like?”
I shift nervously. “He was… fine. Professional.”
What I don’t mention is that Patrick knows my brother.
Because people either assume I’m some sort of corporate spy who’ll report them for taking extended lunch breaks, or they suddenly become my best mate, casually asking if I could perhaps drop their name to Patrick—no pressure, but they’re passionate about hospitality and did I happen to notice they’re Employee of the Month?
As if I have that kind of influence with him.
She tilts her head. “What are you here for?”
“IT stuff. I work at HQ in London. They’ve shipped me up here for a special project.”
Fee nods. “So that’s why you were crying.”
I snort. “Pretty much. What about you? What do you do here?”
“Yoga instructor,” she says, rolling her shoulder in a way that would probably dislocate mine. “Been here about three weeks now. Just got back from leading a wellness retreat in Peru.”
“Wow. That’s incredible.” Meanwhile, my last trip was a three-day work conference in Slough.
“Hang on, I’ll come in.”
She breezes through the cottage door moments later, flopping onto the sofa. “Want to talk about the crying?”
I shrug, the universal gesture for “yes, but also no, but maybe.” “My great-aunt died recently,” I say, fiddling with my coat sleeve. “We were close. That’s all. I’m fine; I’m just… being silly.”
Fee’s face softens. “That’s shit. I’m sorry.”
I manage a wobbly smile. “Thanks.” I deliberately change the subject. “This cottage is absolutely lovely.”
“I’ll be honest, I’ve gotten spoiled having the whole place to myself,” she admits, then pauses. “Hope you don’t mind if people occasionally stay over?”
“Stay over?” I blink in confusion.
She grins. “There are some seriously hot fishermen in these parts. I’ve been enthusiastically sampling the local talent, if you catch my meaning.”
“Oh.” My face goes full tomato. Of course she means that kind of sleepover.
“No, of course not. That’s totally fine.” I pause, my inner rule-follower rearing its anxious head. “Are we… allowed to? I mean, does the company—?”
“Allow us to date?” She dissolves into giggles. “I’m pretty sure McLaren Hotels aren’t monitoring our vaginas, Georgie.”
Fair point. Nothing screams “excellent new flat mate” quite like inquiring about HR’s shagging regulations.
“What about you? Got a boyfriend? Girlfriend?” she asks, settling deeper into the cushions.
“Nope. Neither.”
“God, dating’s exhausting, isn’t it? So bloody time-consuming. All that swiping and small talk.”
“I’m not really dating right now… what with work and whatnot.”
She grins. “Fancy getting back into it while you’re here?”
The question catches me off guard. “Hmmm, I… maybe?”
I haven’t thought seriously about dating in a long time. It’s been easier to live in my books and my Hallmark movies. Because those are safe. They can’t hurt you like real relationships and real men. It took months before I could even think about Steve the Shit without panic clawing up my throat.
But seeing Patrick in that helicopter seemed to crack open something I’d carefully locked away. Something that made my pulse race for reasons that had nothing to do with fear of crashing.
“Is the dating scene good here?” I ask, shoving those dangerous thoughts back into their box.
“Like everything in life, it’s what you make of it.” Fee’s eyes light up. “Skye men can fix literally anything with their hands. Tractors. Boats. Sexual frustration.”
I laugh.
“You should come to the pub with me. I’ll introduce you to some locals. Oh! And the Fairy Pools. There’s this group of guys who guide boat tours that swim there. Proper Scottish beef.”
Fee seems horny.
“The Fairy Pools?”
She raises an eyebrow. “You didn’t research Skye at all, did you?”
I shake my head sheepishly. “I didn’t have time.”
I was too busy obsessively researching everything about the hotel itself—room layouts, technical specifications, network infrastructure details. I could sketch the building’s floor plan from memory, but ask me about tourist attractions? Total blank.
“They’re these natural pools in the mountains. Freezing as fuck but gorgeous. Come with me.”
Riri’s voice pipes up in my head: Wet hot Scots frolicking in those pools. Get your ass in that freezing water before I haunt you properly.
I tuck my hair behind my ear, a nervous habit, and try to sound casual. “Sure. Why not?”
Fee and I chat a little longer—about life on Skye, the hotel, Peru—before I finally retreat to my room.
It’s compact but charming, with the same spectacular view as the lounge. Only this angle includes more of the staff cottages… and one larger one set slightly apart from the others.
My eyes land on something on the windowsill.
Binoculars.
Must have been left behind by the previous occupant, for birdwatching or something.
I pick them up, heavier than expected, proper professional ones, and peer through.
Everything sharpens into crystal clarity. I can see individual feathers on a seagull perched on the cliff edge.
I swing the binoculars toward the other cottages. Through one window, someone’s left a pizza box precariously on a radiator. In another, laundry hangs everywhere—bras draped over lampshades, socks dangling from door handles.
I scan the cottages, half curious, half distracted, and okay, yes, I’m wondering which one is Patrick’s.
I’ve already devolved into the creepy neighbor who spies on people.
I lower the binoculars quickly, ashamed of myself.
I’ve been on Skye less than six hours, and already two people have inadvertently made me feel like the least interesting human alive.
First, Patrick with his “I fly helicopters for fun” energy. Then Fee with her casual “I wild swim every morning and shag hot farmers” vibe. Meanwhile, I’m the woman who cried in my coat and asked if dating was company approved.
Fuck this.
I need a fresh start. Because if I don’t start choosing my own life, someone else is going to keep doing it for me.
Two hours later, Fee’s talked me into splitting a bottle of wine. I’m laughing so hard I’m crying as she tells me about her latest dating disaster.
“He invited me over for a traditional Scottish dinner. Turns out his idea of ‘traditional cooking’ was opening a tin of Irn-Bru and serving me a plate of chips with gravy. When I asked about the traditional part, he says—” She deepens her voice—“‘Well, I’m Scottish, and this is what I eat.’”
I wheeze into my glass. “Please tell me you didn’t go back.”