Chapter 31
THIRTY-ONE
Hot rubber
Georgie
It’s Friday night, and Fee and I are tucked into one of the squashy leather armchairs in the hotel’s lobby bar.
Out the tall windows we’ve got a perfect view of the lawns rolling down to Portree harbor. Very Visit Scotland brochure chic.
I dig my fork into the bowl of mussels we’re sharing. “So, how long are you staying up here?”
Fee wipes butter off her chin, grinning. “Maybe a year? Then I’m thinking of applying to the McLaren hotel in Cornwall. But we have to stay in touch. London, Cornwall, wherever we end up. No excuses.”
“Definitely,” I say, though the thought of living alone again makes something twist uncomfortably in my chest. “I’d love that.”
“Ladies?”
We both look up.
Chef MacLeod looms over our table, hands clasped behind his back. This is bizarre. Usually he just barks from the kitchen and death-glares at anyone stupid enough to make eye contact. Now he’s hovering like a nervous waiter. “I trust everything is satisfactory this evening?”
“It’s lovely, thank you,” I say, puzzled why he’s checking in personally when Fee and I are staff, not paying guests. And it’s only mussels. Not exactly groundbreaking culinary innovation.
“Good,” Fee says. The little smirk playing at her mouth immediately puts me on high alert. “Really hit the spot.”
MacLeod’s cheeks go pink above his beard. “Good. That’s… very good.”
He gives a stiff nod and retreats to the kitchen, not before shooting Fee a look that could only be described as yearning.
The second he’s out of earshot, she leans in, stage-whispering. “Okay, don’t judge me. I did something bad.”
My wine glass freezes halfway to my mouth. “Define bad.”
“I shagged MacLeod.”
Wine. Wrong pipe. I cough so hard the entire table shakes. “You what?”
“Last night.” She shrugs. “We got chatting in the bar. He still had his chef whites on. I don’t know, it just… worked for me.”
“Oh my God, Fee.” I slap my napkin over my mouth to stifle the hysterics.
She grins. “Let’s just say he fucks exactly like he runs that kitchen. Efficient. Zero wasted movements.”
“That explains why he was acting so strange!” I wheeze. “I guess shagging a chef is advantageous. After the last guy gave you Irn-Bru, chips and gravy.”
“If you’re going to do it, might as well go top tier. Two Michelin stars, baby.” She clinks her glass against mine.
I slump in my chair, still giggling. “I think he’s got a crush. Where does he live?”
“One of the staff cottages. Sure, he’s a bit rough around the edges. But the man keeps his kitchen immaculate. Whole house, spotless actually. The contrast is kind of sexy.”
I flop against my chair, laughing. “This might be the highlight of my week. You realize I’m going to use this to my advantage, right? He’ll be forced to be nice to me if he knows we’re friends. Are you going to see him again?”
She shrugs. “Yeah, maybe.”
That’s when I hear it: the distinctive whir of helicopter blades chopping through the air.
My stomach drops like I’ve just swallowed one of the mussel shells whole, but I’m absolutely not going to leap up and press my face against the window.
I do the casual thing. Casual. So casual.
Just a quick, completely uninterested glance toward the window, as if I’m admiring the dusky pink of the sky and oh look, what a remarkable coincidence, a helicopter just happens to be descending onto the helipad. Fancy that.
It doesn’t mean it’s him. Could be one of the pilots ferrying rich people in for the weekend. Could be Beyoncé.
“When did you last hear from him?” Fee asks, because apparently my poker face is rubbish.
“Monday night.”
It’s been bloody killing me that I haven’t gotten to speak to him since. But I’m trying to act like a casual, cool girlfriend of a billionaire. Not overthinking. Not checking my phone every five seconds, even though I want to.
The thing is, I know he’s busy. He’s running hotels, attending board meetings, probably doing whatever it is billionaires do.
But there’s this humiliating little corner of my brain that keeps whispering, Maybe he’ll text. Just something small. “Thinking of you.” Or even just an emoji. I’d take an emoji at this point. A thumbs up. The aubergine. The poo emoji. Literally anything to prove he remembers I exist.
But no, I’m evolved now. Mature. The kind of woman who can go three whole days without contact and not assume he’s either dead in a helicopter crash, has run off with a supermodel, or has suddenly realized I’m actually quite boring and decided to ghost me.
The helicopter door swings open.
There he is.
Patrick drops down onto the tarmac, broad shoulders silhouetted against the last of the light, and my lungs stop working.
The effect this man has on me is frankly terrifying.
But he’s not alone. Two women climb out after him, way more elegant in their descent from the helicopter than I was.
He takes their bags from the helicopter while hotel staff rushes out to help with the rest of the luggage. Both are clearly trying to flirt with him with the way they are looking at him and smiling.
I hadn’t known he was coming back tonight, but then again, he doesn’t owe me his schedule.
I take a steadying breath. This is fine. They’re probably clients or business associates. Patrick runs luxury hotels—of course he flies attractive, wealthy people around. This is part of dating someone like him. I can handle this.
Fee clocks my face immediately. “Uh oh. Somebody’s nervous.”
“I’m not nervous.” I sit up straighter, drag a hand through my hair, and take a gulp of wine. “Are they hotel guests, or… his guests?”
Fee tilts her head, squinting through the glass. “Hard to tell. They look... London-y. Expensive.”
The blonde one throws her head back, laughing at something he said.
“Actually, I think I recognize her,” I say, squinting. “She’s a major magazine editor. Must be press for him trying to get Skye on the Forbes list.”
Fee watches me carefully. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.” I touch the chain at my throat, grounding myself with its weight.
I think.
“So,” Fee says, “we still don’t know if he went up the mountain or not?”
“No.” I drag my gaze away from the helipad. “He says he didn’t. But it was weird when I asked him about it.”
“I know the guy who works at the café at the bottom of Storr. He might have seen Patrick’s Land Rover. I could ask him.”
“That’s stalker territory,” I say quickly, even though a part of me is already calculating how casual that conversation could be made to seem.
“When are you seeing him next?”
“I don’t know. It’s fine.”
I hate not knowing. I live off schedules and certainty. And whatever this thing is with Patrick—it’s like trying to nail jelly to a wall. No definition. No parameters. Maybe it’s already done and I’m just the idiot who hasn’t got the memo. Especially with Jake arriving any day now.
“Oh shit!” Fee grabs my arm, nearly sending wine everywhere. “He’s coming in! Walking this way!”
I fumble for my phone, angling the screen toward me to check my reflection. Hair—passable. Lipstick—mostly chewed off but still faintly visible. It’ll have to do.
Patrick strides across the lobby, deep in conversation with the women.
“Act normal!” I hiss.
Fee bites down on her lip to keep from laughing. “This is you acting normal?”
I choke on a laugh. “Stop it. Talk about something. Say words.”
She leans in, deadly serious. “Banana. Lighthouse. Kilt.”
“Fascinating!” I fake-laugh like she’s just told the joke of the century.
Patrick’s getting closer.
“Can I reach for a mussel,” Fee murmurs, hand hovering over the bowl, “or is that too wild for you?”
“Fine. Great. Do it,” I whisper through a grin so rigid my cheeks are starting to cramp.
And then he’s there.
Walking past our table without slowing down.
“Ladies,” he says with a polite nod, like we’re random hotel guests he’s professionally obligated to acknowledge.
No smile. No pause.
My heart does a weird stuttering thing, but I keep the smile plastered on. He’s just being professional.
Fee watches him disappear toward the lifts with those two glossy women, then turns back to me with a sympathetic wince. “You know what? Kitchen staff really are the way to go. You know exactly where you stand.”
But I don’t want kitchen staff. What I want is the complicated man who just walked past with a curt nod, like I was any other employee in his hotel. Not the man who went down on me for the first time.
And now he’s back, and instead of answers, all I’ve got is a stomach full of knots.
Is it all in my head or is he actually being a jerk here? It’s difficult to say.
Maybe this is just the reality of being with someone like Patrick. Sometimes you’re feeling like the only person who matters. Other times you’re just part of the scenery while he escorts beautiful magazine editors to their suites.
It’s Saturday morning, and my phone is stubbornly silent. I told myself I wouldn’t care, that I’d sleep like a Zen goddess.
Instead, I lay flat on my back, staring at the ceiling, inventing scenarios in which he was wining, dining, and inevitably bedding one of those glossy helicopter women. Maybe both.
By seven, Fee drags me onto the front lawn for what she calls “gentle morning yoga.” Gentle, my arse. I try not to topple into the flower beds while Fee flows through the moves like she’s auditioning for a Lululemon advert.
“Focus on your breathing,” she intones serenely. “Let go of whatever or whoever is cluttering your mind.”
If only it were that easy.
My phone pings and I fly out of warrior pose.
She doesn’t open her eyes, just sighs dramatically. “Georgie, the whole point is to disconnect from technology and connect with your inner—”
“It’s him!”
Her eyes flick open.
One word glows on the screen.
Busy?
That’s it?
“What does he want?” Fee asks.
I show her the screen. “What am I supposed to do with that?”
“Tell him you’re swamped with important downward-dog commitments.”