Chapter 13
THIRTEEN
Not on my watch
Patrick
I stand in reception with James, running my eyes down the occupancy figures. Solid numbers—the kind that keep accountants happy.
The hotel is thriving, and the scrawny kid in me who used to sneak onto these grounds during summers with my granddad still can’t help but feel a fierce surge of pride.
Back then, Clachmòr was nothing but crumbling stone. Even half-dead and rotting, I thought it was the most magnificent thing I’d ever laid eyes on.
Now it gleams. Scottish stone and history brought back to life. Every number on this page is proof of what I’ve built—guests dining in our restaurant, sleeping in our beds, leaving with memories that’ll keep them talking about Skye for decades. That’s my legacy. That’s what matters.
I glance up to see MacLeod striding across the lobby like a man with serious business on his mind.
“Can I have a minute, boss?”
What now? Maybe Georgie’s convinced the housekeeping staff they’re all being replaced by robot hoovers.
I nod to James, who takes the hint and makes himself scarce.
“What’s the problem this time, Calum?”
“About this morning. I might have been a wee bit hasty in my judgment.”
I raise a brow. “Aye?”
“The lass came back to see me. Showed me this system properly.” He rubs the back of his neck, looking genuinely embarrassed.
“It’s frightening, Patrick. Bloody clever.
Tracks my supplier prices in real time, catches when MacPherson’s trying to shaft me on the langoustines.
Shows me actual food costs as we’re plating each dish. ”
“She went back to see you?”
I’d assumed she’d be holed up in that back office, licking her wounds and counting down the minutes until reinforcements arrived from London.
“Aye. Marched right up to my kitchen door, demanded a meeting. Even gave me a bollocking.”
I blink hard. “She told you off?”
“She was right to, the wee thing. We were harsh on her.” He shrugs, looking sheepish. “The lass stutters and apologizes, but once she stopped all that and showed me what this system could do...” He shakes his head. “Well. I told her I’d give it proper consideration.”
I nod, trying to wrap my head around this unexpected development. “Thanks for letting me know.”
I went in guns blazing. Made her eyes fill with tears, watched her shrink into that chair. That flinch when I moved—Christ, what kind of bastard makes a woman react like that?
But she’d handled it. Picked herself up and went back to the scariest chef in Scotland to demand respect.
That takes backbone.
“She’s a nice lass,” MacLeod adds. “Pretty little thing too.”
My jaw tightens. “Find someone else to chat up, Calum.”
He shrugs, holding his hands up. “Just saying.”
He heads back toward the kitchen, leaving me standing in the middle of my own hotel feeling like the worst kind of bastard.
Jake asked me to look out for his sister.
Spectacular job I’m doing so far.
I knock on Georgie’s cottage door at seven thirty. I’d thought doing this away from the hotel might feel less formal, but now I’m wondering if showing up at her home this late crosses a professional boundary I’ve got no business crossing.
The door swings open to reveal a redhead in yoga gear—works in the spa, if memory serves.
She blinks up at me. “Mr. McLaren.”
“Patrick,” I correct, already regretting the whole idea. “Is Georgie about?”
“No, she’s still at the hotel, I think. Working late. But you could wait inside? I was literally just about to open a bottle of wine…”
“I’ll try the hotel,” I cut in, already stepping back from the doorway.
“Of course. She’s probably holed up in that back office.”
The guilt that’s been gnawing at me all afternoon twists deeper. And I can’t work out why. If any other employee had messed up the way she did this morning, I’d expect them to put in extra hours fixing it. That’s how this business works—you mess up, you course-correct. End of story.
But with her? Something about the whole situation sits wrong in my chest.
Maybe it’s because Jake specifically mentioned she’d been having a rough time lately.
I’m halfway back down the path when I spot her.
She trudges up the lane, laptop bag sliding off her shoulder with every step. Dark strands have escaped her ponytail. Her whole body radiates exhaustion; shoulders rounded like she’s been carrying the weight of the world all day and it’s slowly crushing her.
Then she sees me. Her eyes turn wary like she’s bracing for another verbal battering.
“Patrick?” she says quietly. “What are you doing here?”
“Wanted to have a word.”
She shifts her bag higher on her shoulder. “Oh.”
“Look,” I start, rubbing a hand over my jaw. “I was too harsh earlier. Calum came to see me. Said he was impressed with the system.” I pause, watching her face. “With you.”
She exhales like I’ve just given her permission to breathe after holding it all day. “I’m glad. I just wanted to make their jobs easier, not...” She manages a weak smile. “I wasn’t trying to trigger a full-scale culinary rebellion.”
“I know.”
“Are you…” She tilts her head slightly. “Apologizing?”
My jaw tightens. “I’m setting the record straight.
I don’t like how we left things this afternoon.
I still think you mishandled the initial demonstration,” I add, because I’m not in the business of rewriting history, “but you went back and sorted it out. That takes backbone. Especially with someone as hot-tempered as MacLeod.”
Her lips twitch when she realizes that no, I’m not apologizing. I’m offering credit where it’s due, not contrition.
“That’s okay.” She fiddles with her bag strap, giving me a rueful smile.
“I guess that’s just the way of the industry, right?
Gordon Ramsay’s built a multimillion-pound empire on yelling at people.
And we all watch it like it’s brilliant television.
So I suppose I should’ve been more prepared for the whole ‘chef gets to verbally eviscerate anyone who dares enter their sacred kitchen’ thing. ”
Even though her attempt at humor is sharp enough, something about her delivery makes me frown.
“Was there anything else?” she asks.
There shouldn’t be. I should leave her alone, let her get on with her evening. But something keeps me rooted to the spot.
“How’s the cottage? Are you settling in all right?”
She nods. “Yes, it’s lovely. The view’s spectacular.”
“You can see everything from this height.”
“Everything,” she agrees, her cheeks flushing pink. “It’s all just… out there. On full display.”
She won’t meet my eyes anymore. Guess that’s normal for her.
Her stomach growls.
“Sorry,” she mutters, wrapping an arm around herself.
“Have you eaten dinner?”
“No.”
“Twelve hours in front of a screen and you haven’t eaten,” I mutter, trying not to sound as irritated as I feel. The hotel provides meals for all staff; there’s no excuse for this. “The kitchen’s there for a reason.”
“I forgot,” she says with a shrug.
“You don’t forget to eat, Georgie. That’s not optional.”
“I wasn’t sure if the chef with the neck tattoo was planning to poison me after this morning.”
I chuckle. “Davie does hold grudges. But only for about six months.”
Her eyes go wide before she realizes I’m joking.
“Have dinner with me. I guarantee they won’t slip arsenic into your soup at my table.”
“You don’t have to. I can just grab something from—”
“I want to. Unless you have plans?” I add, giving her an out.
She glances back at the cottage uncertainly. “I was just going to finish up some work.”
“You’re eating. Nonnegotiable. Change if you want. I’ll wait.”
We walk the short distance to her cottage in silence. I can practically feel the nervous energy radiating off her.
“Fee?” she calls out as we step inside. There’s the sound of movement from somewhere deeper in the cottage.
“Must be having a bath,” she mutters.
She turns to face me, looking uncertain. “Do you want a beer or something?”
“I don’t drink midweek.”
“Oh! Me neither. Not on work nights. Obviously. I just thought—social convention—”
“Georgie,” I cut through her spiraling. “You’re allowed to drink. You’re a grown woman.”
“Right. Yes.” She nods too many times, that blush climbing up her neck. Absolutely everything makes this woman turn scarlet. “I’ll just be five minutes.”
“Take your time.”
She disappears down the hall, leaving me standing in her living room, feeling like I’ve strong-armed my way into her personal space. I probably have.
The window draws me over. That view—wild sea trying to demolish Scotland one wave at a time. This is what I miss in London. Real water, not the Thames pretending to be a river while it flows between concrete banks.
Maybe that’s why Jake and I understand each other so well. Give us a mountain to climb, a kayak to navigate through rough water, a stretch of wild coastline to explore, and we’re content.
“I’m going to grab a glass of water,” I call toward her bedroom. No response.
I head to the kitchen. All the cottages have identical layouts.
I turn on the tap, letting the water run cold while I hunt for a clean glass when something on the wall stops me dead.
A chalkboard.
I frown, staring at the scrawled text while my glass fills.
GEORGIE’S SKYE TO-DO LIST
Have athletic sex with rugged Highland men
The glass overflows, water spilling across my hand.
A low growl escapes my throat as I quickly shut off the tap.
I stare at the chalkboard.
Subcategories for thorough consideration:
Farmer (pros: strong hands; cons: 4 a.m. wake-up calls for milking)
Fisherman (pros: excellent with rope work; cons: smells like haddock)
Mysterious lighthouse keeper (pros: romantic isolation and brooding potential; cons: possible serial killer)
She’s written herself a comprehensive fucking manual for getting laid on the island.
I scan down to the items at the bottom—IRIS implementation sitting pretty at number seven—and my jaw clenches. The entire reason she’s here ranks below planning her Highland sex tour.