Chapter 27
TWENTY-SEVEN
Pandora’s Box
Patrick
I tried to be the good guy.
I sat in my cottage for a solid hour last night, pacing the kitchen, telling myself to stay the hell away from The Crooked Kilt. Opened a beer, then shoved it back in the fridge.
She’s not your responsibility, I told myself. Jake asked you to keep an eye on her, not shadow her around the island like a stalker. She’s old enough to make her own decisions.
I lasted another ten minutes before I grabbed my keys.
She looked like she was having a good time. The boy in the kilt looked harmless enough, until I clocked the car keys swinging from hands that could barely hold steady.
That was it. My body moved before my brain caught up. There was no way I was letting her get in a car with a drunk driver.
The truth is, it wasn’t just about her safety. It was about mine. Because if something happened to Georgie, I’d never come back from it. Jake would never forgive me. Hell, I wouldn’t forgive myself. And I don’t give anyone that kind of power over me.
I can live with her hating me. I can’t live with her getting hurt.
By the time I get back from my run, ten miles down the coastal path, I almost feel human again. I shower, towel off, crack open a bottle of water, and check my phone.
Nothing.
The text I sent at seven this morning—You okay?— just sits there, delivered but unread.
She’s probably still asleep. But something twists in my gut anyway. A restlessness that has me checking my phone every five minutes.
I bury myself in emails, budget reports, contractor updates—anything to keep me from circling back to her.
The hours crawl by. Still nothing.
Eleven o’clock. Noon. One.
The silence is driving me crazy.
I call her. Straight to voicemail. Her phone’s either dead or off. I try again an hour later. Same thing.
I heard lads staggering home at six this morning, shouting their lungs out. Her door was hanging wide when I dropped her off last night. What if Fee stumbled in and left it open again? What if some pissed-up bastard followed her in?
I can’t sit here a second longer.
I grab my keys, shove on my boots, and head straight for her cottage. I knock hard.
The door swings open, and there she is—green eyes blinking up at me, startled and sleepy.
Air rushes out of me before I can stop it. “You’re okay.”
Her hands fly to her face. “You can’t see me like this!”
I frown. “Like what?”
She peeks through her fingers, voice muffled by her palms. “Like this!”
Her hair’s sticking up in every direction. She’s swimming in a T-shirt that reads Have you tried turning it off and on again? that’s slipped off one shoulder. No bra—that much is distractingly obvious. Shorts covered in the fucking Periodic Table. There’s a pillow crease on her left cheek.
I’ve had supermodels sprawled across my bed, professionals who’ve turned seduction into an art form. Not one of them has ever affected me like Georgie does right now—standing barefoot in her doorway, wearing an IT support joke and looking rumpled.
This is wrong. My wiring’s completely fucked. Since when do Periodic Table shorts work better than Agent Provocateur?
Last night crashes back—the mirror, her reflection as she came apart on my fingers, the broken little sounds she tried to muffle. The way her whole body trembled, trusting me completely. Something hot and possessive coils in my gut. I was the first man to give her that. It feels almost sacred.
Fuck, how does this even work?
She’s still my employee. Still Jake’s sister. What am I supposed to tell him when he gets back? Everything’s grand, mate. Your sister’s thriving. Oh, and I’ve had my tongue inside her.
The logistics are a nightmare. The morality’s worse.
“I look like I’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards,” she moans through her fingers. “And I’m wearing my shame pajamas that no one is ever supposed to see.”
“Your shame pajamas have arsenic on your crotch.”
Her hands drop. “That’s silver, actually. Ag. Arsenic would be As.”
“I flunked chemistry.”
“Sorry.” She catches her bottom lip between her teeth. “I don’t mean to correct you; it’s just... automatic. My brain can’t help itself. Very annoying, I’m told.”
“Not annoying.” I lean against the doorframe, studying her. “Head a bit sore today?”
She presses her fingertips to her temples, wincing. “Everything hurts. Even my hair hurts. I didn’t realize the Scottish were so wild.”
I chuckle, but it dies quickly, tightening into something heavier. Because now she’s here, alive and talking, I feel how wound up I’d been. How fucking relieved I am that she opened that door. “Your phone was off. I just wanted to check that you were okay.”
Her eyes go wide. “Oh God… I’m sorry. I just… couldn’t look at it today. My brain wasn’t prepared. I didn’t mean to worry you.”
“That’s fine,” I say gruffly. What else am I meant to say? Order her to keep it charged and glued to her hand every hour of the day?
She bites her lip, staring up at me, cheeks flushed pink.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“I don’t know how to act around you now. After last night…”
“Just act normal.”
She laughs shakily. “I’ve never managed normal with you. And today’s even worse because I feel like death.” She hesitates, fingers fidgeting with the hem of her t-shirt. “And sometimes you’re hot and cold with me. I never know where I stand. Like after the boat trip.”
I grimace. “Fair point. I’ve been a bastard about it. I’ll try to do better.”
Her shoulder lifts in a small shrug, but the hurt flickers across her face before she can hide it. She doesn’t believe I’ll do better, and why would she?
She looks so miserable—hungover, confused, standing there in her pajamas with pillow creases still on her cheek—that something in my chest pulls tight.
I’ve got a stack of work waiting and already wasted half the morning pacing, wondering if she was alright. I should leave.
Instead, I hear myself say, “You know what helps a hangover? An ice bath.”
Her eyes widen. “Your ice bath? At your cottage?”
“Yeah. Come on, I’ll sort you out.”
“You don’t have to...” She shifts from foot to foot. “I’m sure you have better things to do than nurse my self-inflicted suffering.”
“I’ve got more years of this festival under my belt than you. Trust me.”
“Really, you don’t need to look after me.” She wraps her arms around herself. “I’ll be fully de-fished and functional for work tomorrow, I promise.”
I let out a slow breath. “Georgie, after last night, I think we’re past pretending I’m only checking whether you’re fit for the office tomorrow.”
She goes still, teeth catching that bottom lip. Her chin’s faintly pink, scraped raw from my stubble. “I suppose we are. I can’t believe I’m saying this… okay. I’ll just grab my bikini.”
She disappears inside, and I drag a hand down my face, muttering a curse under my breath. I came here to check she hadn’t choked on her own vomit. Now I’m inviting her over to my ice bath because I just can’t help myself.
When she reappears, she’s in leggings and an enormous jumper that keeps sliding off one shoulder. She’s attempted to tame her hair and put on bright red lipstick, probably trying to look less hungover.
When the hell did this happen?
Somewhere between the boat trip and her mortified face when she opened the door in Periodic Table shorts, she went from Jake’s sister to a woman I’ve been thinking about far too often.
We walk side by side to my cottage. The sea breeze whips her hair across her face. She hugs the jumper closer, looking small next to me. Every instinct howls to pull her in against me, but I shove my hands deeper into my pockets and keep walking.
“After you,” I say, pushing the door open.
She hovers in the hallway, scanning the space. Her nose wrinkles at the line of boots. “I’ve never seen a man with so many boots.”
I glance over, amused. Hiking boots, sailing boots, trainers, all lined up, caked with mud and salt. “Each has its use. My housekeeper’ll sort them tomorrow.”
“But why do you need five pairs of hiking boots? Are your feet very high-maintenance?”
I arch a brow. “I have big feet. They sweat.”
Her mouth drops open, then snaps shut, like she’s not sure whether to laugh, gag, or remember what else comes with big feet.
I lead her into the kitchen. “Sit.”
She perches on the stool, drowning in that jumper, swinging her legs like a kid.
I pull spinach, banana, frozen berries, and coconut water from the fridge. Her brows lift as I load the blender.
The blender roars, and she winces, pressing her palms over her ears. Hangover written all over her face. I flick it off, pour the purple sludge into a glass, and slide it toward her.
Her nose wrinkles suspiciously. “This is where you tell me it’s full of sheep guts, right? Some Scottish hangover cure?”
“Drink it.”
She takes the world’s tiniest sip, like it might be poison. Then her eyes widen. “Oh. That’s... actually really good.”
I lean back against the counter, arms folded. “Your body’s crying out for half of what’s in there after you rinsed it all out with booze last night. That’s why you feel like shite.”
She takes another gulp, getting a purple mustache she doesn’t notice. “This is really kind. You didn’t have to.”
“It’s just a smoothie.”
“Still. Not everyone would bother.” Her voice drops. “My ex used to get angry when I was hungover. He was such a… grump about it.”
I arch a brow. I haven’t had many long-term relationships, but I know enough to recognize that’s not how you treat someone. “Your ex sounds like a prick.”
She shrugs, staring into the smoothie. “He was... yeah. He was.”
She sets her glass down, and I catch the faintest tremor in her fingers.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“I’m still rattled about last night. I know you’re used to women who are confident and know exactly what they’re doing in these situations. I’m not that. I just feel... like I’m doing everything wrong.”
I push off the counter and close the distance between us, turning her stool so she has to face me. “You think I don’t know this is complicated? You think I don’t know I’m the big bad wolf in this situation already? The last thing I want is for you to feel wrong around me.”
“But you left so suddenly last night. Did I do something wrong?”
“Christ, no.” I shake my head. “You passed out. I wanted you to sleep.”
“We didn’t have sex.”
My eyebrows pull tight. “Is that a question? Because I didn’t think you were that drunk.”
“No! I remember everything.” Her cheeks burn crimson. “I just meant... you didn’t want to?”
“Of course I wanted to. But you’d been drinking. I wasn’t about to take advantage.”
She bites her lip. “So you do want to…”
“Yes, I want to. And I’ve got no fucking clue what to do about it.”
She blinks up at me, cheeks burning. “But last night, you... and I didn’t reciprocate. You didn’t get anything from it.”
A noise breaks out of me, half growl, half laugh. “I got plenty from it.”
Her lips part in a shocked little oh.
I cup her jaw, my thumb grazing her cheek.
“Look,” I start. “I don’t do this. I don’t get involved with employees. Or with a mate’s sister. It’s a fucking disaster waiting to happen. But get this straight—I didn’t lose out last night. Watching you…” My jaw clenches. “Trust me, I got what I needed.”
She makes a small sound, but I don’t let her cut in. My thumb strokes her skin, keeping her still.
“There’s nothing sexier than—fuck.” I shake my head. “Than you exactly as you are. Not pretending, not performing. Just you.”
The words feel foreign in my mouth. I don’t talk like this. Don’t do this. But Georgie’s too sweet and sincere for me to rip apart with carelessness. She doubts herself enough already. The last thing I’m going to do is feed it.
She needs to hear it straight. That what happened last night wasn’t me taking from her—it was me barely holding myself back.
“This thing?” I let out a rough breath. “It’s messy as hell. It shouldn’t be happening. But it is. So we either face it, or we don’t. Just don’t insult me by thinking I was doing you a bloody favor.”
Her throat bobs, lips parting. She’s ready to come back at me. I hush her with my thumb brushing over her mouth.
“Unfortunately for me,” I mutter, “you’re in my head now.”
She stares at me, breath caught, looking so lovely and overwhelmed I have to step back. “Ready for the ice bath?”