Chapter 11 #2
They’ve given me a tiny office tucked at the back of the hotel. I throw myself into implementing the system on-site. The system’s designed to run in the background, waiting to be switched on feature by feature whenever the staff decides they can stomach dealing with me again.
If ever.
Roy calls from London with a couple of basic tech questions. I keep my voice upbeat, like nothing’s wrong.
Craig messages every half hour demanding updates like he’s monitoring a space launch.
I give him one-line, purely factual updates. I don’t mention the kitchen disaster. I’m hoping I’ll have thought of a way to fix it.
It was only yesterday that I was standing in front of Patrick, promising I wouldn’t let him down.
Trying to believe in myself.
Maybe he was right to doubt me.
Maybe they all are.
Patrick
I’m buried in contracts when someone hammers my door hard enough to rattle the whisky decanter. Only one person storms through this hotel like he owns the place. Only one I let get away with it.
“Come in.”
Chef MacLeod barrels in, face beetroot, six-four of Scottish fury in chef’s whites. “Patrick, what the fuck’s going on?”
I lean back in my chair and set down my pen. “Morning to you too, Chef. What’s got you wound up?”
“What’s got me wound up?” He looms over my desk, the veins in his neck pulsing. “Ye send some wee lassie into my kitchen, telling my staff they cannae do their jobs properly!”
I sigh. “Explain.”
“This morning! Some English girl wi’ a computer, saying we need her fancy app to tell us when tomatoes go bad.” He paces. “My sous chef Davie—been with me eight years—she tells him he’s inaccurate. Poor Davie, thinking he knew how to count vegetables all this time.”
I grimace.
“Davie told her to get tae fuck, and I don’t blame him one bit. My whole team thinks they’re about to be replaced by bloody robots.”
“Calum—,” I start, but he’s too far gone. The chef’s always been dramatic, but when someone messes with his kitchen, he turns into a one-man theatrical production.
“Fifteen years I’ve been stumbling about in the dark, two Michelin stars on my wall, unaware I needed some wee computer program tae tell me how tae run a kitchen. Maybe next the computer can wipe my arse for me, since I’m clearly too thick tae manage that myself!”
“Watch your tone,” I say. “You’ve made your point. Now calm the fuck down.”
“I’ve been keeping my cool all morning just so the staff would calm down.” His chest heaves beneath his whites. “You’ve been a great boss to me, but now you want to run my kitchen by computers? Good fucking luck wi’ that.”
“Nobody’s replacing anyone. The system’s meant to help, not take over. I’ll talk to them myself.”
“Right now, I’ve got fifteen staff convinced they’re oot on their arse by Christmas.” He storms for the door.
The door slams behind him.
Georgie. What the hell did you do?
This is exactly what I don’t fucking need right now. Every detail at Clachmòr House must be perfect—flawless service, seamless operations, not a hair out of place. Forbes inspectors could walk through those doors the second I submit our application. They’ll smell weakness a mile off.
And instead of a well-oiled kitchen, I’ve got an irate head chef threatening to walk.
I scrub a hand down my face and dial Craig. “What the hell happened this morning?”
There’s a beat of silence. “Sorry, sir, I’m not entirely sure what you’re referring to.”
She didn’t even report back to him? What kind of communication breakdown is this?
“MacLeod’s entire team thinks they’re being replaced because of Georgie’s demo,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Oh.” Another pause. “She must have misrepresented the system somehow. I went through the brief with her yesterday. I’ll sort it immediately.”
“Send someone else. Someone who can handle it.”
“Roy could be there in a few days—”
I hang up, frustrated. Georgie created a mess. But Craig should have known better than to send her if she’s not ready for this role.
Five minutes later, I track her down, tucked in the back office, headphones on, lost in her screen. She doesn’t even notice me in the doorway.
“Georgie.”
She shrieks and spins around in her chair, clutching her chest like I’ve just kicked down the door with a machine gun.
“What the hell happened this morning?”
Her face goes white. “The… the kitchen?”
“Yes, the damn kitchen. I just spent twenty minutes getting chewed out by an angry Scotsman.”
“I’m sorry.” She swallows hard. “It didn’t go quite as planned.”
“No, it damn well didn’t.” I step inside her workspace, and she shrinks into the chair. “News travels fast here. One person tells another; they tell five more. By lunch, the whole hotel thinks they’re being replaced by bloody robots.”
She bites her lip. “I was just trying to show them how the system could make things easier.”
“By telling them they’re incompetent?” My voice rises despite my efforts to control it. “That everything they’ve been doing for years is inaccurate?”
“But some of what they’re doing is inaccurate.” Her voice comes out tiny and strangled, but there’s still this stubborn thread of defiance running through it.
I cross my arms, fighting to keep my temper from exploding completely.
The Forbes evaluation is looming, the staff are in revolt, and she’s sitting there defending her approach like it was reasonable.
“Christ almighty. You can’t just bulldoze in there and tell people their methods are shit.
You’ve got to warm people up first. Not just ram it in and hope for the best.”
Her mouth opens, then snaps shut, and she stares at me with this deer-in-headlights expression that makes me realize exactly how that sounded.
Professional, McLaren. Try not to sound like you’re explaining sexual techniques to your employee.
She nods quickly, her cheeks flushing pink. “Right. Of course.”
I clear my throat roughly. “What I’m trying to say is… this hotel has two Michelin stars. MacLeod’s team has been perfecting their craft for decades. These aren’t amateurs you’re dealing with—they’re professionals at the top of their game.”
She nods fast, chewing her lip like she might bite clean through it.
“I’ve asked Craig to send backup from London. Someone with experience handling these kinds of rollouts. You should’ve reported immediately when it went sideways. We don’t hide fuck-ups here. That’s not how I run things.”
Her eyes well up so fast it knocks the wind out of my chest. “You’re replacing me?”
I lean forward, hands braced on her desk, trying to soften this somehow. “No, Georgie—”
She flinches back so hard the chair wheels bump against the wall.
For a moment, I just stare at her in complete bewilderment.
What the hell? Does she genuinely think I’d lay a hand on her? The thought is so disturbing I immediately take a step back, putting distance between us.
This whole situation is making me deeply uncomfortable.
“You’re not being replaced,” I say, forcing my voice to stay deliberately gentle. “We’re getting you support. That’s it.”
“Right.” Her voice comes out steady, but I can see her jaw working, muscles tight like she’s clenching her teeth to keep from falling apart. Those soft lips are pressed into a hard line.
I exhale harshly. The last thing I wanted was to make her cry.
“Georgie,” I start, not even sure what I’m trying to say or how to fix this.
“It’s okay. I understand.”
I’ve had to discipline plenty of staff over the years. Fired people. Dealt with spectacular fuck-ups that cost thousands. It’s part of running a business, and I don’t lose sleep over it.
When I was starting out, working construction sites and learning the hotel trade from the ground up, I had foremen tear strips off me.
Screaming in my face about mistakes, calling me every name under the sun.
That’s how you learned—you fucked up, you got bollocked for it, you didn’t make the same mistake twice.
I’m being gentle with her compared to that.
But watching her sit there, fighting back tears... it sits wrong in my gut. Like something’s fundamentally off about this whole interaction.
I leave because there’s nothing productive left to say.
But that feeling—like I’ve just kicked something that was already injured—follows me all the way back to my office.
Like I’m the kind of man who makes young women cry in back rooms and calls it business.