Chapter 18
EIGHTEEN
The most awkward journey ever
Georgie
I’m completely shell-shocked.
Shell-shocked at this version of me that emerged on the boat like a dormant creature finally clawing its way to the surface after years of hibernation.
I have never felt urges like that. Never been remotely that forward with anyone in my entire life.
But his eyes went dark when he looked at me. Those rough sounds he made, the way his hands shook—they were all because of me. Georgie Fitzgerald.
Those behavioral psychologists deserve a Nobel Prize for understanding what red fabric does to the male brain.
Oh my God, my hand felt tiny wrapped around him. It’s been so pathetically long since I’ve held a dick that I’d almost forgotten what they felt like.
But what I really don’t want is this horrible, suffocating tension that’s followed us off the boat and into the Land Rover.
Is he going to say something? Or are we going to drive all the way back pretending I didn’t just have my hand wrapped around his most intimate anatomy?
I peek at him sideways.
He’s gripping that wheel like he’s trying to strangle it. Like kissing me was such a catastrophic error he can’t even look in my direction without wanting to throw himself from the moving vehicle.
Before I can ask him to ease up, he slams on the brakes. My seatbelt yanks me forward.
“Sorry,” he mutters.
First word since the boat. Progress.
A sheep has decided to have a nap in the middle of the road. It just sits there, working its way through what I can only assume is truly fascinating cud, oblivious to the fact that it’s blocking the path of two humans having the most awkward post-kiss journey ever.
You couldn’t make it up.
Patrick lets out a heavy, frustrated breath and gets out to deal with our woolly roadblock.
I watch through the windscreen as he shoos the sheep to the side of the road, and I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing hysterically.
Not just because it’s funny, but because my nerves are bubbling up from some deep pit inside me, threatening to spill over into inappropriate giggles at the worst possible time.
He climbs back in but doesn’t start the engine. Just sits there, staring straight ahead, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows.
“You know,” I say lightly, “you’re actually more dangerous in a Land Rover than you are in a helicopter. It would be pretty ironic if that’s what killed me.”
The joke dies a brutal death in the space between us.
He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t acknowledge I’ve spoken. His jaw might as well be welded shut.
For one terrifying second, he looks so furious I think he might order me out to walk the rest of the way back.
“Georgie.”
I flinch at the sound of my name.
He still won’t look at me.
“I’m sorry. What happened was my fault. I take full responsibility.”
Finally, his eyes meet mine. There’s something hollow and defeated in them. “I understand if you want to tell Jake.”
Tell Jake? What am I, five?
“Or HR. Whatever you need to do to feel safe moving forward.”
My mouth drops open. “What? I kissed you back. No one’s pressing charges.”
“That’s not the point.” The anger in his voice makes me shrink back against the seat. “I’m in a position of authority over you.”
He’s treating me like I’m a helpless little girl who needs protecting from the big scary CEO.
“It was a mistake. A lapse in professional judgment on my part. Completely inappropriate and inexcusable.” The coldness in his voice makes me wince.
“It takes two people to kiss, Patrick. You didn’t force me. I wanted—”
“What you think you wanted is irrelevant. It was wrong, and it won’t happen again. Don’t get any ideas about what this means.”
The bluntness punches the air from my lungs. What ideas? That he might actually like me? That when he groaned my name against my mouth, it meant something?
Asshole.
How did he go from apologizing to being such an absolute dick?
“Right then.” I force brightness into my voice, the same tone I use when Craig humiliates me in meetings. “Let’s forget it happened. Blame it on the sea air.”
He nods, looking almost relieved, and something inside me cracks.
The engine roars to life, loud enough to kill any chance of more conversation. His shoulders stay rigid, self-loathing written all over him.
On the boat, for those few minutes, I felt powerful. Desired. Like maybe I was someone worth wanting.
Now I’m just silly little Georgie again, reaching for things she can’t have, being shipped off home as quickly as possible before I can cause any more embarrassment.
Isn’t this the promise I made to myself?
That I’d never let a man make me feel small again? Never twist myself into knots wondering what I did wrong when it’s their feelings they can’t handle?
Yet here I am, shrinking into my seat, making myself smaller, already preparing apologies for existing too loudly in his space.
I’ve lived this story before. Memorized every painful beat of it.
The only difference this time is that I can see the ending coming.
I push through the cottage door.
It was nothing. A moment of madness brought on by sun and sea air. Patrick was right to stop it—we work together; he’s my boss’s boss’s boss. The smart thing is to pretend it never happened and try to salvage whatever scraps of professional dignity I have left.
Fee’s sprawled on a yoga mat in the living room, ankle behind her head.
“Oh, you’re back,” she says, without untangling herself. “How was it then?”
Without any warning, I burst into tears.
What the actual fuck?
She scrambles up so fast she nearly crashes into the coffee table. “What happened?” Her eyes bulge. “Jesus, your hair. You look like you’ve been through a hedge backward.”
Brilliant.
I wave my hands frantically, trying to signal that everything’s fine through the sobbing.
“I’m so embarrassed.” I sniff. “This is the second time I’ve cried in front of you. That’s not normal housemate behavior.”
My brain scrambles for an excuse, any excuse. I could blame Riri. I can’t tell Fee. She works for McLaren Hotels.
Except I feel like I might explode if I don’t tell someone.
“Please don’t tell anyone, but we... kissed.”
Her eyes go huge. “You and Patrick McLaren?”
The disbelief in her voice says everything. Like saying a sparrow kissed an eagle.
“No, me and a passing seal. Yes, Patrick.” I swipe my nose with my sleeve. “Sorry. That was snarky.”
“It’s okay. You’re upset,” she says softly. “But what happened? Why are you crying like this? Oh my God, did he force himself on you?”
“No! God, no. He would never—” I shake my head, horrified that she’d even think that. “We kissed and then afterward he just... shut down completely. Like it was this massive mistake he needed to undo as fast as possible.”
I drag the backs of my hands over my cheeks to dry them.
“Oh, love,” Fee murmurs. “I’m really sorry.”
“I don’t know how I’m supposed to face him again. It was such a lovely afternoon, we saw puffins and seals and then...” My throat closes. “Then everything went wrong, and he couldn’t get rid of me fast enough.”
Fee bites her lip, studying me. “Look,” she says gently, “I guarantee Patrick’s not sitting in his cottage upset. You move on, put yourself out there, and you finish that list like we talked about.”
A brittle laugh bursts out of me. “No, he’s definitely not crying into his whisky about kissing the IT girl.”
“The thing is...” Fee winces. “I see him sometimes with women. Different ones. Getting into his Land Rover, on the beach. He’s discreet, but...” She squeezes my arm. “You’re too soft for someone like that.”
“Thanks,” I say, my voice flat with hurt sarcasm.
“Shit, no!” She grabs both my arms. “That came out wrong. I meant you’re too good for him. I just don’t want you to get hurt worse than you already are. You’re far too gentle and sweet for someone like him; that’s all.”
The thing is, I already know this. It’s not like I harbored a ridiculous fantasy that Patrick would suddenly decide the awkward IT girl was his soulmate. I’m not that delusional. He’s got women far more attractive and accomplished than me throwing themselves at him.
“You’re probably right anyway. I’m hardly his type, am I?”
Fee doesn’t argue. Doesn’t say of course you are. Just bites her lip and changes tack. “Can we at least cross off ‘see puffins and whales’ from the list?”
“No,” I say quietly. “We didn’t see the whales.”
She winces, clearly regretting she brought it up. “Sorry. So... the bikini worked though, didn’t it?”
I stare at her, watery-eyed, recoiling.
That bikini wasn’t meant to work. It wasn’t bait. It wasn’t some strategic deployment of sex appeal. It was me trying to fake a little confidence, to look like a woman who belonged on a boat next to him instead of the anxious IT gremlin I usually am.
Now, her saying it worked is like a bucket of ice water dumped over my head. What message did I send? That I was trying to seduce him?