Chapter 15
FIFTEEN
A nun’s habit with leg holes
Patrick
There’s nothing more liberating than running beside the wild Scottish sea. It’s the kind of freedom that reminds you what your body’s built for—not being boxed into a boardroom where people bicker over margins, but cutting through salt air with lungs burning and legs pounding.
Skye gets clogged in summer, tourists choking the roads with rental cars and selfie sticks. But step off the designated tourist trails, and you can run for miles without seeing another soul; just sheep and the odd Highland cow.
By the time I jog back into Portree, my lungs are burning, but it’s the good kind of burn.
Clachmòr rises on the horizon, exactly as it did when I was a boy sneaking through the fences with Liam. I used to stare up at it and imagine what it would be like brought to life again, full of people.
It stuck with me, even when I forgot, buried under the grind of building smaller hotels, chasing each new project. The dream was still there, like an author chasing The Times list or a chef going for a third star. And when I finally had the money, I bought it and restored it.
My phone buzzes against my thigh. Jake.
I swipe to answer. “Thought you’d be too busy freezing your arse off in the middle of nowhere to call.”
“Just checking in on civilization.” His voice crackles through wind tearing across whatever frozen wasteland he’s currently conquering. “How’s life?”
“Can’t complain about much. How’s the expedition going?”
“Making solid progress across the ice sheet. Weather’s been surprisingly cooperative.” There’s a pause. “Actually, mate, I’m calling about Georgie.”
My stride shortens. “What about her?”
“Is she doing all right up there? I rang her this morning and she said she’s been at the hotel working since six.”
Since six? On a Saturday? “I wasn’t aware.”
“I know she’s not technically your responsibility, and I’m putting you in an awkward position here...” He pauses. “But Christ, Patrick, she’s twenty-five. She should be having some sort of life outside work, not pulling twelve-hour days on weekends.”
Something uncomfortable twists in my gut.
Maybe I have been a bastard to her. After Thursday night’s dinner, I’ve started to think she’s trying harder than I’d given her credit for.
And now her brother’s calling from the arse-end of the world because she’s working herself into the ground on my watch.
“I’ll check on her.” I’m already turning, heading for the hotel.
“I’m not asking you to babysit her. Just… she seems stressed. I’m worried about her, you know?”
“She’s a grown woman. What she does with her time is her business.” Even as the words leave my mouth, my stride lengthens toward Clachmòr. “You need to stop mollycoddling her.”
“Fair point.” He sighs, the sound almost lost to a roar of wind.
When I hang up, the conversation sticks under my skin. So does the memory of dinner.
If I’m being honest, it was the first time in months I’d genuinely enjoyed a conversation about the hotels.
The sanitized boardroom presentations strip the life out of everything, but the small, messy details make running these places feel alive again, instead of being just another asset portfolio to manage.
Yesterday, I asked Craig for reports to verify Georgie’s theories about the bagpipe acoustics and haunted room spending patterns. The numbers came in exactly as she’d claimed.
I’d caught myself grinning when I read it.
I find her in the back office, completely absorbed. Shoulders hunched, her fingers flying across the keyboard. Her hair’s escaped from whatever she’d tied it back with, dark strands falling around her face.
She looks up when I fill the doorway, and her eyes go wide. They drop to my bare chest, still slicked with sweat from my run, and she makes a small, strangled sound like a startled bird.
“Patrick. Good morning.”
“It’s Saturday.”
“Is there—” She swallows hard. “Is there a problem?”
“You shouldn’t be working today,” I say, nodding at her laptop.
“We’ve got deadlines looming, and I’m stuck on this particularly frustrating integration issue.” Her gaze flickers down, and catches on my bare legs. She jerks her eyes away like she’s been burned. “It doesn’t matter. How can I help you?”
I drag a hand across my chest, suddenly aware of how this looks. I'm standing half-naked, dripping sweat, looming over her in an empty office. She’s probably terrified. Or uncomfortable.
“We’re going out on my boat,” I tell her. “To tick something off your list. Whales and puffins. I can’t guarantee the whales will cooperate, but I’ll do my best.”
“Oh.” She blinks. “That’s really kind, but I’m sure you have better things to do. Other people to spend your Saturday with. I don’t want to be a burden. I’m fine here with my integration issues, really.”
There’s something about how quickly she dismisses herself that irritates me.
“If I wanted to spend my Saturday with someone else, I would.”
“You know what I mean. You don’t need to babysit me for my brother’s sake. Did he call you?”
I shift uncomfortably, rubbing the back of my neck. “That’s not what this is about. I want to show you what this island has to offer rather than watch you bury yourself behind a screen all weekend.”
“Okay,” she says quietly. “But just so I’m prepared, unlike the helicopter situation… you’re not planning any dramatic maneuvers, are you? No jumping waves or racing other boats? This is a normal, boring, safe boat with lifejackets and flares and a way to call the coastguard?”
“Christ, Georgie. Yes, it’s seaworthy and Coast Guard approved. You’re safe with me. We’ll watch the puffins, maybe stop in a bay if you fancy a swim.”
Her head jerks up. “A swim? So I should bring… swimming trunks?”
Not a costume, not a bikini. Trunks.
For a second, I picture her showing up in one of those striped Victorian bathing costumes, maybe a rubber cap with flowers on it.
At least I don’t have to worry about her showing up in something skimpy. I don’t want her getting any wrong ideas about this trip.
“Just pack whatever you’re comfortable wearing,” I tell her.
She nods with the seriousness of someone receiving military orders. Then her voice softens. “You know, you could have asked me directly for those data reports instead of going through Craig.”
“Craig’s the lead. I go through him for everything.”
“Right.” Her eyes drop back to the keyboard. “Of course. Chain of command.”
It’s the way she says it. A tiny note of hurt, but sharp enough to lodge somewhere uncomfortable in my chest. I don’t like the way it sits there.
And I don’t like that I want to say something to fix it.
Georgie
A day at sea with Patrick McLaren.
My heart hasn’t stopped somersaulting since he told me. Fifteen minutes until he picks me up. Fifteen minutes to mentally and physically prepare… and there is no way in hell I’m squeezing in an emergency leg wax.
The smell of something eggy hits me as I step inside. Fee’s at the stove, poking scrambled eggs.
“Morning,” I call, dumping my bag.
“Morning, love,” she says without looking up. “Please tell me you’re not working on a Saturday.”
My cheeks betray me instantly. “Actually… I bumped into Patrick and he’s taking me out on his boat. Out of obligation, obviously,” I add quickly. “Jake guilt-tripped him.”
I’d had to admit to Fee last night that I knew Patrick—kind of hard to hide when he’d shown up at our door on Thursday.
Fee freezes mid-stir, then spins around, spatula in hand. “Guilt trip or not, that’s pretty intimate. Just you and him? On a boat?”
I shrug, nerves knotting tighter. “I think so? He didn’t mention anyone else.”
A fresh wave of panic hits. What if it’s not just us? What if I’m gate-crashing some work thing? Or worse, what if the blonde woman from the ice bath is there?
“He said we’re going to see puffins. And maybe go swimming?” I chew my lip. “Is it safe to swim here?”
Fee’s grin is wicked. “If you’re going to die anywhere, please let it be in McLaren’s arms. God, this is exciting.”
I bite my lip, heart thudding. “Honestly, for him it’s nothing. Anyway, I need to dig out my swimming costume.”
I flee to my room and dig out my trusty navy one-piece—the reliable friend that’s seen me through holidays where I mostly sat by the pool reading.
I can’t be half-naked in front of Patrick. I don’t have a body like that blonde woman I saw at his cottage. The less skin I show, the better for everyone involved.
I trudge back to the kitchen with my supplies: factor fifty sun lotion, oversized sunglasses, the one-piece, a floppy hat, and my guidebooks.
“Let me see the swimsuit,” Fee demands.
I hold it up.
“What the fuck is that?” She snatches it. “This isn’t swimwear, this is a nun’s habit with leg holes. Absolutely not.”
“I think you’re being slightly dramatic. It’s perfectly fine—”
“Perfectly fine for the 1950 Olympics.” She holds it by the straps, gaping at the shape. “Is this monster reinforced? Are you planning to go deep-sea diving in it?”
“I like that it’s supportive!”
“Oh my God. Don’t move.”
She storms off toward her bedroom.
I don’t have time for this. I’m meant to be getting ready for a day at sea with a man who makes me forget how to breathe. Instead, I’m being swimsuit-shamed by someone scrambling eggs in a silk kimono.
I pack my things in my backpack carefully and apply some lip balm and a touch of blush.
Five minutes later, she returns wielding something red and terrifying. “Here we go.”
It’s not a bikini. It’s a suggestion of a bikini. Two red postage stamps strung together with dental floss.
“I can’t wear that,” I squeak.
“You can and you bloody will.” She thrusts it at me. “You’ve got an amazing body. Great tits, tiny waist. Stop hiding it.”
I gape at it. One rogue breeze and I’ll be flashing the entire west coast of Scotland.
“Fee, he’s the CEO. This isn’t a date. I can’t turn up looking like I’m trying to seduce him.”
“Oh, darling.” She sighs. “This man is pouring millions into your nerdy IT system. You want to move up in the company? Show him you’re confident. A grown-up. Not a nervous child still coloring at the adults’ table.”
She holds up my trusty one-piece. The swimsuit equivalent of mashed potatoes, I guess. “This thing says you skipped the adults’ table entirely and went straight to the nursing home. Honestly, Georgie, it’s tragic. You’re with the high rollers now; it’s time to start acting and dressing like one.”
I narrow my eyes. I’m pretty sure Fee’s still half-stoned from the weed she smoked last night because this pep talk is… a lot. But annoyingly, she might have a point.
“It’s so red,” I whisper, like saying the color out loud makes it more dangerous.
Fee rolls her eyes.
“No, seriously. You know there’s psychological research showing men find women in red more sexually desirable?
Evolutionary psychologists think it’s because female primates display red, um…
swollen bits when they’re fertile, so basically this bikini is screaming ‘fertile female’ directly into his lizard brain. ”
She stares. “Did you just compare yourself to a baboon?”
“It’s science,” I squeak. “I’d be weaponizing his evolutionary programming.”
She blinks. “You are an absolute nerd. But genuinely fascinating information. Thank you, David Attenborough.” She smirks. “Now go unleash your baboon magic on our handsome lizard CEO.”
Before I can protest, she tosses denim shorts, a white tank, and a knitted jumper into my arms. “Wear these over it. Casual but put-together.”
I hold up the shorts. “They’re so short.”
“Yes,” she says, exasperated. “That’s why they’re called shorts. Not mediums. Not longs. Shorts.”
I peel off my leggings and pull them on.
Fee studies me like a proud coach. My legs actually look good, which is both thrilling and terrifying.
“Look,” she says, gentler now. “I’m not telling you to throw yourself at him. Just stop hiding. Show him you exist.”
I glance at the bikini. It’s completely outside my comfort zone. Exactly the sort of thing Riri would have snuck into my suitcase without telling me.
Maybe the nun-suit stays home today.
I swallow hard.
Maybe I’m done with him seeing me as a nerdy little mouse.
Maybe it’s time he sees me as a woman.