Chapter 32
THIRTY-TWO
Apologizing to every herring
Patrick
She grips the rod, knuckles white. “I’m terrible at this.”
I step in behind her, close enough that my chest meets her back. My arms come around either side of her, hands settling over hers on the rod.
“Loosen up,” I say. My calluses catch against her soft skin. “The rod does the work. You just guide it.”
She leans back into me. “Like this?”
The line shoots out, barely disturbing the water before flopping sideways.
“Not quite.” I shift her stance, one hand at her hip, turning her until she’s aligned with the water. “Feel the weight of it. Don’t force it.”
Her next cast sails cleaner, the line arcing properly this time.
“Oh! I think I’ve got something!” Her eyes go wide, rod bending. “It’s huge! It’s fighting me!”
I watch her reel in, face glowing like she’s about to haul up Moby Dick. A dripping tangle of seaweed breaches the surface.
“It’s massive,” she says proudly, then frowns. “Oh. That’s... not a fish.”
“No. It’s not.” I bite back a laugh. “Good effort, though.”
She deflates. “The fish are probably down there laughing at me. ‘Look at that numpty, catching salad.’”
“You’re doing fine.”
She sets her jaw, as she casts again. “I’m crap at this. Honestly, I’m humiliating the entire herring industry right now.”
“Hey.” I steady her elbow as she lines up another throw. “It’s all in the trying.”
She gives me a look. “You’re lying.”
“I’m not. You’ve got patience. That’s half of fishing.”
She snorts but tries again. And again. Line tangling, rod jerking, curses spilling out under her breath. Determined little thing.
Finally, a tug bends the rod. Her squeal splits the air. “I’ve got one!”
She reels, her whole body involved, practically wrestling the rod. A fish, barely bigger than my thumb, breaks the surface.
“Oh my God, I did it!” Then, as the thing flaps helplessly, her face crumples. “I can’t. I feel too mean. It probably has a fish family.”
“Georgie—”
She’s already loosening her grip. “I can’t.”
Before I can respond, she lets it slip back into the water. It disappears in a silver flash.
“Sorry, little friend,” she whispers to the water, then looks up at me, sheepishly. “I’d make a terrible fisherwoman. I’d end up apologizing to every herring.”
She stands there, hair tousled by the wind, genuinely concerned about the emotional well-being of a fish the size of a sardine.
“We can stick to catch and release,” I say.
She smiles. “Thank you for being so patient. I’m obviously rubbish at fishing. But I love being out here. It’s so peaceful.”
She’s right. The sea is calm. Gulls circle overhead. She’s not skittish or anxious like she usually is. She’s calm. Happy.
Maybe that’s why I couldn’t get on that flight on Monday.
I couldn’t stomach leaving her upset over a bit of jewelry, even though it made no bloody sense.
So, like a fool, I canceled meetings to spend two hours hauling myself up the Old Man of Storr, only to return to the Land Rover and find the chain wedged under the gearstick.
But she’s wearing it now, fingers brushing it absently every few minutes as if checking it’s real, and that smile makes the whole miserable trek worth it.
What rattles me is knowing I’d do it again tomorrow if she looked at me with those eyes.
“Patrick?” She glances up at me. “Are you okay?”
“I’m good. Had enough yet?”
“I don’t know. What’s the socially acceptable amount of time to fail at fishing?” She wrinkles her nose. “You caught that impressive trout while I’ve caught seaweed. And guilt about disturbing fish families.”
“It’s lunchtime anyway. We’ll eat fish caught by people who know what they’re doing.”
She beams like I’ve offered her the moon. “Thank you so much for this. I hope you’ve had an enjoyable time, and it doesn’t just feel like I’m a burden.”
“You’re not a burden.”
When’s the last time anyone worried about being a burden to me? Most people see me as either a resource, a connection, or a wallet.
“I think Skye’s made me realize I need to change my lifestyle in London,” she says quietly.
“You gonna start fishing in Hyde Park pond?”
She laughs. “Not quite. But I’ll do more outdoor stuff. And I think I’ll get some flat mates for Riri’s place. Living with Fee made me realize I don’t want to live alone. Sometimes I talk to Riri’s urn. Is that weird?”
I chuckle, but under the dark humor, something else sits there.
She’s lonely.
The thought lands heavy in my chest. A woman like Georgie shouldn’t be lonely. Shouldn’t be worrying about having conversations with an urn because there’s no one else to talk to. Someone should be coming home to her.
I don’t know what scares me more: the thought of her ending up alone or the fact that I’m standing here giving a damn about it in the first place.
But I can’t fix that for her. I’m good at running companies, good at the brutal decisions that affect hundreds of staff without blinking.
Good for a fuck, for adventure, for making a woman forget her own name for a few hours.
But the deeper stuff? Being someone’s husband, the person they count on when life goes to shit?
That’s not me.
She turns. Water laps high against her thighs while it barely grazes my knees. She shifts on the stones, unsteady, then pushes onto her tiptoes, stretching until her palm finds my jaw, as if she’s trying to anchor me in place despite the fact I tower over her.
“You’re such a kind, considerate man,” she whispers. “Underneath everything.”
“Everything?”
She nods, her thumb brushing my stubble. “The everything you put between yourself and the world. The part of you that looks like you’d rather wrestle a storm than say how you feel. You’re kind, Patrick.”
I grunt, jaw ticking under her touch. “I have my moments.”
Her palm lingers against my cheek. Her hands feel so small against me.
“I like you,” she blurts suddenly, then immediately looks mortified. “God, that sounded so teenage. I mean, I really like you. And it terrifies me.”
My chest tightens. “Why?”
“Because you could hurt me.”
I frown, holding her gaze. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
She laughs quietly, but there’s no humor in it. “Most people don’t.”
It’s only ten, but we’re already in bed.
An early night, and not one that feels wasted after the day we’ve had.
Fishing in the morning, Neist Point Lighthouse after that, and lunch at the café by the beach.
I’d put that place up against any Michelin-star restaurant.
It’s just a family joint with peeling paint on the shutters and sand on the floorboards, but it serves the best seafood on the island, piled onto paper plates.
Then we went back to my cottage for what can only be described as very satisfying sex.
Georgie gives herself over completely when I touch her.
No pretense. No performance. Every gasp, every arch of her body is honest, unfiltered, and vulnerable.
She doesn’t know how to fake anything; she doesn’t even try.
She makes me feel like I own the world when I’m inside her.
I listen to her breathing, wondering if she’s finally dozed off. She’s sprawled half on top of me, her dark hair spread across my chest. It’s been a good day. Better than good. There’s something right about having her here like this.
Just when I think she’s asleep, she lifts the covers and peers down, letting out a soft giggle.
“What are you laughing at?”
“Sorry,” she says, still grinning. “I’m conducting important research.”
“Christ, Georgie. No man wants a woman lifting the covers, peering down, then giggling.”
“I’m not giggling at that! That’s very impressive, actually. I’m looking at your missing toe. I wanted to see it properly. I’m relieved you have at least one physical flaw.”
“I’ve plenty.”
“Oh please.” She rolls her eyes. “You’re built like a Greek statue. I’ve been holding in my stomach for the past hour.”
“Don’t.” My hand finds her waist, palm flattening against the curve of her. “I don’t want you holding in anything around me. You’re gorgeous. Naked or in waders.”
“Such a charmer. But I don’t believe you.” Her finger traces across my chest, but she can’t stop the shy smile tugging at her lips.
I mean it, though. I love how soft she is. Her curves fit perfectly in my hands. Against my body.
All that softness, the way she yields under my hands, how she doesn’t try to match my strength but surrenders to it instead. I spend hours maintaining my body, controlling every aspect of my physical existence. She undoes me with her softness, making me want to protect and possess in equal measure.
“Stop with this bollocks. And I can’t wait to see you all dressed up at the Annual Harvest Ceilidh. I meant to ask, do you want me to buy you something? Pick out a dress; I’ll cover it.”
She lifts her head. Alarm flashes in those green eyes. “I’m not going to that!”
“Why the hell not? Most of the staff go. It’s a decent event.”
The hotel throws a ceilidh every year for locals, suppliers, and staff. Free drinks, good food, proper Scottish celebration.
“Because I’d rather hide in my cottage than make small talk with the entire workforce while wearing tartan.”
“You’ll enjoy it. And Jake’s going. I’ve got a kilt sorted for him.”
Her eyes brighten. “You’ll be in a kilt too?”
I chuckle at her transparent eagerness. “Will that convince you?”
“Maybe.” She bites her lip. “But how posh are we talking?”
“Pretty smart. Tartan sashes, cocktail dresses. Some of the older women might wear tweed jackets. I’m happy to buy you something.”
“No!” She swats my chest, laughing. “You’re not my sugar daddy. That’s weird. I’m perfectly capable of buying my own dress.”
I groan, disturbed that the sugar daddy comment sounds more appealing than it should.
She smiles. “It’s lovely that you put this on for the community since the hotel’s paying for everything.”
I shrug. “Some people’ll still think I’m a prick. I guarantee at least one drunk bastard’ll start on me by the end of the night.”
Her face crumples. “That’s horrible. Why would they?”
“That’s life. And business.”
Nothing says local goodwill like the annual tradition of someone trying to glass the English hotel owner.
Her voice softens. “So Jake’s definitely going?”
“He says he is.”
“I removed the ‘have athletic sex with Highland men’ bit from my to-do list,” she says, cheeks already pink. “It’d be mortifying if Jake spotted it.”
I raise a brow. “I would’ve thought you’d want to take it down because you’re having sex with me instead.”
Her cheeks go from pink to scarlet. “Well, yes, obviously that too. But are we... I mean, is this exclusive? I just want to make sure we’re on the same page because I’m not really equipped for casual arrangements.
Because I’m not seeing other people, obviously, since there aren’t exactly loads of options on Skye, and also, I’m far too awkward to juggle multiple…
situations. So I just wanted to clarify the parameters of our—”
“Yes.”
She blinks. “Yes to…?”
“Yes, we’re exclusive. Yes, you’re mine. No, I’m not seeing anyone else. Was there more you needed clarified?”
She stares at me, mouth opening and closing like she can’t process the bluntness. “Right. Good. That’s… settled then.”
“Aye. It is.”
Bloody hell, the relief on her face. Like she expected me to laugh and mention my rotation schedule. She curls back into me, tucking herself against my side.
“I’m nervous about Jake coming, in case he suspects something,” she admits. “Even though I miss him terribly.”
I pause. “I think we should tell him.”
Her eyes snap up, wide with alarm. “Tell Jake? Why?”
“Keeping secrets goes against my nature. I want to be able to look my mate in the eye without feeling like a lying bastard.”
“I don’t think I’m ready. Can we wait a bit?”
“Georgie, I’m not sneaking around like a bloody teenager. If I keep this from him, I’m betraying him. If he finds out from someone else, it’ll be worse. You think he’s protective now? Try him thinking I’ve been hiding this behind his back.”
She sits up, panic flashing in her eyes. “Not yet. Please.”
“Why not?”
“Because…” She struggles. “He still sees me as his little sister who needs protecting. And Jake’s gotten even more protective because of my last relationship. And I don’t want to cause ripples in your friendship. I’m telling you, he won’t like it.”
She deflates. “I just need time to figure out how to tell him without him going full protective brother mode.”
“Don’t worry about me and Jake. Is there something else I need to know about your ex? The reason Jake’s so protective?”
Her face closes off completely. “It’s not worth talking about. I don’t want to talk about my ex while I’m naked in your bed. It feels wrong.”
“I’m not asking for pillow talk. I’m asking because I need to understand what I’m dealing with.”
“It’s nothing, really. You just need to give me time to tell Jake.”
From what she’s said before, her ex was a jerk. Most of us are at twenty, I suppose. But the way he gave her the silent treatment after she broke her ankle on Snowdon? What sort of prick punishes his partner for getting injured?
Maybe I should ask Jake. He’d know the whole story.
I don’t like this. I pride myself on being honest and direct. I’d rather face Jake’s anger head-on than live with deception. But I can see she’s genuinely distressed.
“I don’t like it,” I say. “But if it buys you peace, I’ll keep my mouth shut. For now.”