Chapter 19
NINETEEN
The back office
Georgie
Sometimes my obsession with coding edges into unhealthy territory, but it’s my safe space. It’s the one place where I get to be creative, daring, and wildly impressive.
It’s been three days since The Great Nautical Cock-Up. I’ve basically barricaded myself in the back office ever since, hiding inside lines of code, where everything makes sense and nothing can reject me.
I put myself out there on that boat.
And it blew up in my face.
I haven’t seen much of Patrick since. The few times we’ve crossed paths in the hotel, he’s given me a pained look. Like he’s remembering the moment he temporarily lost grip on reality and kissed the office nerd.
Maybe my inexperience was obvious. Fumbling around like I’d never encountered male anatomy before—which, to be fair, it had been a while. It certainly wasn’t the sultry confidence of a woman who knows her way around a penis.
Or maybe I’m just not pretty enough. Too mousy. Some fatal flaw that sends men sprinting after kissing me.
Maybe he’s genuinely concerned about what Jake would think. Though honestly, Jake would sooner believe Patrick had joined a cult than that he’d made out with his socially awkward sister on a boat.
But here’s the scarier thought: if I let this stop me, I’ll retreat further until I’ve disappeared altogether. I’ll end up as that woman who only emerges to refill her bird feeder.
I’m going to put myself out there. I know there are decent guys, not just the Steves and Craigs of the world, or the Patricks with the power to break me into tiny pieces.
I deserve passion. I deserve good dick. Even if it’s just island magic that disappears when I return to London.
Fee, saint that she is, has already lined up a date for me—her yoga friend’s brother. He has a kind smile in his photos. He’s not my boss. These feel like reasonable starting criteria.
So no, I’m not giving up. Not on men, not on life, not on myself. Not yet. And that includes facing my fears of talking in public.
I grab my notes and head to the conference room for my housekeeping meeting. Hopefully this runs smoother than the kitchen demo. At least MacLeod came around once he realized IRIS wasn’t replacing him with a robot.
This time, I’m not leaving a single thing to Craig. I’ve briefed the senior housekeeping staff myself. Still, my hands are already trembling.
I slip into the room early, hoping for a few quiet minutes to get my head straight before anyone arrives.
No such luck. Mary’s already there with three senior housekeepers, chatting away.
“Hi, love,” she says warmly. She introduces the others—Linda, who’s been here since the hotel opened, and two newer staff members whose names I immediately lose because my brain’s too busy rehearsing my opening lines.
The projector flickers on. IRIS’s interface fills the screen. My throat tightens.
Not the nervous burps. Please, not now.
It doesn’t matter that there are only four of them. Or that Mary’s nice. They’re still people watching me. Worse, I have to deliver Craig’s ridiculous corporate script.
“Today I’m going to show you some of the features of IRIS for housekeeping,” I begin, my voice coming out like I’m reading a telephone directory.
Then comes the line Craig insists we use.
“IRIS gets its name because it’s the... the eye of the hotel. Always watching, always optimizing.”
Their faces shift into polite confusion.
“I mean, it sees everything.” Oh God, that’s worse. “Not in a creepy Big Brother way. More in a helpful way.”
Linda exchanges a look with the others. Already lost them. Three minutes in.
“Right.” My voice squeaks. “Shall we just… dive in?”
I click into IRIS’s dashboard and launch into Craig’s script—synergy this, leveraging that, optimization everywhere.
One of the newer staff’s eyelids droop. She jerks herself awake, then starts losing the battle again.
Halfway through “dynamic workflow integration,” I stop.
Honestly, I might as well be saying: IRIS is going to streamline your daily activities, but this still doesn’t change the fact there are forty-seven thousand sheep on Skye and only ten thousand people, which means that if the sheep attacked, each person would have to fight off roughly five sheep.
Craig’s word-vomit might impress the suits at McLaren HQ, but it’s useless for people like Mary, who just want to get on with cleaning rooms without some girl with a laptop trying to revolutionize their perfectly functional morning.
Think, you muppet.
I’m not a TED talker. I’m a problem solver.
And Craig’s not here to police every word.
“Actually,” I say, “forget the features. Tell me about your day instead.”
Mary blinks. “Well, it’s fine, love. Can’t complain.”
“But if you had to complain? What wastes your time every single day?”
“Of course there are things in every job we just have to get on with. It’s a big hotel, always fully booked, so you spend an awful lot of time on the phone coordinating between departments.” She smiles at Linda. “I must ring her team a hundred times a day.”
Bingo.
“So, hours lost walking around to pass messages or playing phone tag,” I say.
Mary shrugs. “That’s just part of the job, love. We need to stay in constant communication.”
“But what if you never had to make those calls?”
Mary frowns. “How’s that possible?”
“What if IRIS did it for you?” My voice steadies now that we’re talking real-world problems. I click to a different screen. “Say a guest checks out of 237. The second their keycard hits reception, your tablet pings—’Room 237 ready for cleaning.’ No phone call needed.”
Mary’s eyebrows lift.
“When you enter a room, you tap ‘started’ on your tablet. Reception sees everything live—room 237, cleaning in progress.”
Linda leans forward. “We wouldn’t have to keep ringing down?”
“Exactly! Watch.” I clear my throat. “IRIS, is the penthouse ready for the 3 p.m. VIP?”
“Penthouse suite currently being cleaned. Estimated completion: 2:15 p.m.,” the system replies.
“Bloody hell,” Linda breathes. “It’s like having a personal assistant.”
“Exactly. No more phone tag. Everyone sees the status in real time.”
My chest loosens. They’re actually interested.
Mary shakes her head. “This would free up hours every day.”
“Can we see it in action?” one of the newer staff asks. “Like, properly?”
“Yes!” I practically bounce, handing Mary a tablet. “Let’s simulate a real morning.”
For twenty minutes, we run through scenarios. Check-outs, early arrivals, blocked toilets. They’re all talking at once now, throwing out ideas, finishing each other’s sentences.
“What about our seasonal staff who don’t speak English well?” Linda asks. “Could it work in Polish?”
I pause, already building the language module in my head. “Not yet, but I could definitely look into it.”
They’re looking at me like I’ve created something miraculous.
I guess it’s not that surprising. Some of the tech they use in this hotel is so ancient it feels like it’s from The Shining hotel.
They even installed an intercom system—an actual 1970s loudspeaker announcement system—that rarely gets used because nobody under sixty knows how to work it.
There’s one in Patrick's office that I’m certain he’s never touched.
“This isn’t about replacing anyone,” I say over the chatter, smiling. “It’s about giving you time to do what you’re brilliant at instead of playing phone tag all day.”
Mary reaches over and squeezes my hand. “Love, this is going to change everything. When can we start using it?”
For the first time in weeks, I feel genuinely good at my job.
It’s a shame Patrick only ever sees me when I’m failing.
My phone rings just as I’m still floating from the housekeeping success. Craig’s name flashes on screen, and my stomach immediately drops.
“Hi Craig, I just sent through the report—”
“What the hell were you thinking? Promising features without authorization?”
I blink. “Sorry, what?”
“Other languages? Who told you to agree to that?”
“The housekeeping staff only asked if—”
“I don’t give a shit what they asked. You demonstrate what I have approved, nothing more.”
“I only said I’d look into it—”
“You don’t have the authority to look into anything. Do you understand me, Georgina? You’re a programmer. Not a decision maker. A programmer who follows instructions.”
My hands start shaking. “Understood.”
“Do you? Because your behavior suggests otherwise. Which brings me to my next point.” He pauses, letting me sweat. “What’s this about dinner with Patrick?”
The subject change makes my head spin. “He invited me. I couldn’t exactly say no to the CEO.”
“I’m the point of contact with senior management. Not you.”
“But he asked—”
“Patrick made it very clear this morning he wants to deal with me. Only me. He doesn’t want to be bothered by every programmer who thinks they’re special. You’re making my job harder. Stay in your lane.”
Even through the anger, I can hear his smugness. He’s back in control, perched neatly on top of the hierarchy.
“I was just—”
“I don’t want to hear it. Stick to the script, demo the approved features, and stop trying to cozy up to the CEO. It’s embarrassing for everyone.”
The line goes dead.
I stand frozen in my back office, phone still pressed to my ear.
Patrick doesn’t want to be bothered by me.
It makes sense. He’s drawing a line. Our relationship tipped into something inappropriate, and now he’s fixing it. He’s putting the IT girl back in her box where she belongs.
The glow from the demo evaporates, replaced with a hollow, sinking feeling.
The worst part is the prototype sitting on my laptop. I’ve been working on it for days—a solution to the waste management problem Patrick mentioned at dinner.
I’ve been pouring passion into code that I thought could make a real difference. I thought I could solve something that mattered to him.
What a fucking joke.
“Fuck you, Craig,” I say to the empty office. “And an even bigger fuck you, Patrick McLaren.”
You made me feel like I mattered. Just long enough for it to hurt when you took it back.