Chapter 21
TWENTY-ONE
The chain of command
Patrick
“What’s the occupancy looking like for next week?” I lean against reception, watching Mary navigate her computer.
She squints at her screen. “Ninety-two percent Monday through Thursday. Full up for the weekend—that wedding lot from Edinburgh.”
“Did they sort out their dietary demands yet?”
“Aye. Eighteen vegetarians, four vegans, and one poor sod who’s allergic to everything but air.” Her fingers click across the keyboard. “Kitchen’s not happy about the last-minute changes, but they’ll manage.”
“Tell MacLeod tough shit. That’s what we pay him for.” I drum my fingers on the counter. “And the contractors? They finishing the west wing repairs before the wedding guests arrive?”
“They say Friday, but...” She gives me that look that means don’t hold your breath.
“Thursday. Or they’re covering every comped room out of their own pockets.” I push off the counter. “Anything else I need to lose sleep over?”
“That’s all the disasters for now.” She pauses, shuffling key cards. “That poor lass in the back office has been here since half six this morning. Again.”
“She’s doing her job. I’m not chaining her to the desk.”
The words come out defensive. But all I can see is Georgie in the Land Rover, looking at me like she couldn’t understand what she’d done wrong.
She hadn’t done anything wrong. I had.
Mary hums, still sorting cards. “Well, it’s good she’s keen. Linda from housekeeping hasn’t shut up about that demo. Means we’ll get it sooner if she keeps at it.”
I frown. “The housekeeping demo went well?”
“We were impressed. Much better than that disaster with the kitchen.” She glances up. “Though I heard she sorted that too eventually.”
I’d been so focused on keeping my distance that I’d missed how the work was progressing. I’d convinced myself the sooner she finished this project and left Skye, the better off we’d both be.
But the memory keeps ambushing me. Her hands on my skin. The sounds she made.
I’d pounced like a starving wolf on someone who deserved better than my appetite.
Like I had any right to put my hands on her.
There aren’t many women I’ve wanted who I’ve had to wrestle myself away from.
Maybe that’s the worst part—I can’t tell if I wanted her more because of how she made me feel…
or because the challenge lit up some rotten part of me that likes what it can’t have, despite all my fucking so-called morals and bro-code to Jake.
“Right,” I grunt. “Better check how she’s getting on.”
That’s what any responsible boss would do.
Five minutes later, I’m standing outside what I generously call her “office.” Now that I’m looking at it, the damn thing’s barely bigger than a broom closet. She’s wedged between filing cabinets and toilet paper inventory.
When the hell did I approve this?
I rap my knuckles against the open door.
She glances up from her laptop, and her eyes go wide. Then she pastes on a tight smile.
This woman—this employee—had her small hand wrapped around my bare cock. I suppress a groan. At least I didn’t come in her palm.
“Hey.” I clear my throat, feeling like I’m crowding her space just by standing here. “Mary says you’ve been working hard back here.”
“Mary’s lovely.” She swivels to face me fully, hands folded in her lap. “Very generous with her praise.”
She waits, eyebrows raised politely. Making me work for whatever I came here to say.
“What can I do for you, Patrick?”
“The housekeeping team’s thrilled with the system. Mary says it’s made an impression.”
“That’s wonderful.” Another polite nod, another practiced smile.
Bloody hell. When did talking to my own employee become torture?
Stupid question. I know exactly when—right around the time I shoved my tongue down her throat.
I shift against the doorframe. “What are you working on?”
She glances at her screen, bites her lip, then looks back at me. “I’m finalizing the implementation plan. All deliverables are aligned with Craig’s specified timeline. We remain on schedule.”
There’s a bite in the way she says his name. Probably not even deliberate. But clear enough. She doesn’t like him.
“Can I see it?”
“According to the project hierarchy, demos go through Craig. I wouldn’t want to create confusion about the chain of command… or risk overstepping.” Her fingers tremble as she taps the trackpad. But she still looks me dead in the eye.
A rabbit staring down a wolf. Terrified but not backing down.
She’s throwing my own rules in my face. I’m the one who said she should go through Craig so I could create distance. I’ve made her feel like she needs permission to speak to me.
That’s not who I am. Or wasn’t. I’ve always prided myself on being approachable to my staff. Otherwise, I would be sitting in my cushy office in London headquarters all the time.
I rub the back of my neck, irritation fighting guilt. “I’d still like to see it now.”
Her lips compress into a thin line. “Of course. I’d be delighted.”
Delighted. Right.
I drag the spare chair over and drop into it beside her. My thigh presses against hers before I can shift back. This cupboard wasn’t built for two people, especially not when one takes up as much space as I do.
She doesn’t flinch but her eyes dart down to where we’re touching, then away.
My jaw tightens. Of course she’s nervous. Last time we were this close, I had her pressed against my boat, tongue in her mouth.
She scoots her chair sideways. When she angles the laptop toward me, she’s careful not to let our arms touch. Like that two-inch gap is a fucking fortress wall.
“Phase one’s complete,” she says, as she clicks through screens. “There’s also something extra you might find useful. A waste tracking module for those efficiency concerns you mentioned at dinner.”
Her fingers fly across the keyboard, windows popping up faster than I can track.
“You can forecast to reduce waste,” she says briskly, not looking at me. “As long as the data’s easy to collect. If you make it manual, it won’t happen. Kitchen staff don’t have time to track every scrap. And once it’s in the bin, it’s gone.” She pauses. “But IRIS will.”
My gaze flicks to the screen.
“We install weight sensors in the bins. Everything that gets tossed is auto-logged and weighed.”
“Clever bin.” I lean closer to the screen.
“Yes. The cameras do a quick scan and go, ‘that’s the fifth half-eaten steak today.’ Then it tags that dish as a repeat offender. Pretty soon, you’ve got a pattern: the Sunday roast’s too big, the veggie lasagna’s fine, and nobody ever eats the sad purple sprig of mystery garnish.”
This isn’t just impressive—it’s better than anything I’ve seen at luxury chains twice our size.
I lean in for a better look and reach for the mouse.
Our hands collide.
She yanks hers back like I’ve electrocuted her.
I guess I deserved that.
I focus on the screen instead of how she’s pressed herself against the wall to maximize distance. “If this works the way you’re describing... bloody hell, this is exactly what we need.”
“It works. It just needs testing to refine accuracy parameters.”
“You told the team about this after our dinner? Craig never mentioned.”
“No, the team don’t know yet.” She keeps her eyes on the screen. “This is something I’ve been working on, on the side.”
“When?”
“Evenings.” She shrugs, still not looking at me.
“Why?”
Finally, she turns. Her eyes meet mine.
“Because you wanted it. You talked about waste at dinner. How it bothers you. And because, believe it or not, I like solving problems.” She pauses, then adds quietly, “And because I like my job. Even when it’s… difficult.”
The last word has weight. We both know what makes it difficult.
“This is brilliant work, Georgie.”
It is. But the truth sitting in my chest is uglier. She built it for me. Which makes me an even bigger asshole.
“Do you need a better setup?” I gesture at the cramped space. “This office is tiny.”
“It’s not ideal for development work, no,” she says with that same pleasant professionalism. “We typically use dual monitors for debugging. However, we’re accustomed to working with suboptimal resources during site implementations. It’s perfectly manageable, thank you.”
“There’s room in my office.”
What the fuck am I doing? I’ve spent days creating distance between us, and now I’m offering her my office?
Something flashes behind her eyes before she pulls the corporate mask back on. “That’s very generous. But I’m fine here.”
“This is a broom cupboard.”
“It has walls, a door, and Wi-Fi, so it serves the purpose. I wouldn’t want to disrupt your workspace or create any... complications. You’ve made it quite clear that maintaining professional boundaries is paramount, and I hardly expect the CEO to share his office with a junior employee.”
The words are wrapped in perfect HR-approved language, but the subtext hits.
This isn’t the Georgie who stammered through presentations. This is someone who’s figured out how to weaponize politeness.
“Right,” I say slowly, studying her face. Where the hell has she been hiding this backbone?
This is what I wanted, isn’t it? Professional boundaries.
I push back from the desk. The chair scrapes in the cramped space.
“The offer stands.” I pause at the door. “And you shouldn’t be working these hours. It’s past five.”
“I’m not planning to tonight.” She turns back to her screen. “I have plans.”
I stay in the doorway. “Yeah? What plans?”
“Distillery tour.” She finally glances up.
“Need a lift? Taxis are unreliable that side of the island.”
“Thank you, but I’m all set.”
“I’ll call ahead to the distillery. Make sure they know you’re coming. Everything’s on the house since it’s part of the hotel group.”
“That’s very thoughtful. Thank you.”
“Right then.” I step into the corridor. “Have a good evening.”
“You too.” She’s already turning back to her screen.
I turn to leave, and behind me the door clicks shut. Not slammed. Not angry. Just... final.
The sound follows me down the corridor like an accusation.
I call the distillery about a shipment issue, but I’m not fooling myself. It could’ve waited. What I want is to know if Georgie’s been in yet. After everything on the boat, the least I can do is make sure she enjoys Skye.
“Did Georgie Fitzgerald come in yet?” I ask Fiona. “Make sure it’s on the house. Food included. And get her a taxi back when she’s done.”
“Oh, she canceled last minute.”
I pause. “Did she sound alright?”
“Better than alright. From the racket in the background—bagpipes and shouting—she’s at The Crooked Kilt. Like half the island. It’s dead quiet here.”
I grimace.
I should let it go. She’s not my problem. She’s not my anything.
But every muscle in my back goes rigid.
The Crooked Kilt. During the Night of the Herring festival.
One night a year, the island collectively loses its mind. Most of the young ones use it as an excuse to get shitfaced.
The distillery stays out of it, but the pubs on the island brew their own “Herring Brine”—a lethal cocktail that must contain at least one ingredient tied to the sea. Seaweed gin, smoked salt vodka, or something worse. Always cloudy. Always rank. Always guaranteed to destroy you.
You can’t sip it either. You down it “as a fisherman would,” in one long pull, then slam the glass on the bar.
It gets raucous. Too much drink, too many fists flying, half of both police stations on the island filled by morning. Every young man on the island will be crammed into those pubs tonight, drunk out of their skulls.
Georgie’s there. In the middle of it.
Perfect place to tick off the first thing on her bloody list. She’ll have eager volunteers lined up.
Fuck.
I know I give Jake grief about being overprotective. She’s twenty-five, capable of making her own decisions. It’s not my responsibility to police her social life.
Still, the thought of her there, some drunk in tartan breathing whisky fumes down her neck… no.
I’ll call Seamus MacManus at The Crooked Kilt. Tell him to keep an eye out for her. Make sure she gets a car back to the cottage and doesn’t end up in the back of some tractor.
This isn’t about me. It’s about Jake wanting me to look out for her.
What I want has nothing to do with it.