Chapter 33
THIRTY-THREE
Cute as a button
Georgie
I’m curled up in one of the tartan armchairs in the lobby with a book in my lap. The words might as well be gibberish. What I’m actually doing is listening for helicopter blades while pretending to be deeply absorbed in chapter twelve of what I’ve just realized is a book about murders in Scotland.
I know exactly when they should be landing.
I’ve calculated it based on when they left Inverness, factored in the wind, checked three different weather apps, and briefly considered calling air traffic control just to be sure.
It sounds obsessive because it absolutely is.
Two of the most important men in my life are up in that flying tin can, and every time Patrick climbs into that thing, my brain starts running crash statistics, failure rates, and every possible way it could fall out of the sky.
Ever since our fishing trip last week, things have been suspiciously good. The kind of good that makes you want to spit three times over your shoulder and knock on wood just in case the universe notices you’re happy and decides to fuck with you.
Somehow, I’ve been spending every night at his cottage.
I’d imagined being with Patrick would mean pretending to enjoy dangling from those terrifying tents they bolt to cliff faces, smiling through hypothermia just to be near him. But underneath all that adrenaline-junkie swagger, he’s still just a regular guy.
A regular guy who snores when he’s flat on his back. Who leaves damp towels everywhere. Who has made me porridge every morning. Who was genuinely kind about my attempt at dinner last night, even though we both knew pasta wasn’t supposed to crunch like that.
But part of me is waiting for the moment he realizes I’m not the kind of woman who belongs in his world. That I’m the IT girl who apologized to a fish, playing dress-up in borrowed waders.
The low whir builds outside. I snap my book shut and hurry to the window. The helicopter touches down, and relief floods through me so intensely that I have to grip the windowsill. Nobody’s becoming a cautionary tale about aviation today.
Jake climbs out of the passenger seat, beard achieving new levels of mountain hermit, and I feel that familiar warmth of seeing my brother safe. The relief. The excitement to catch up after time apart.
Then Patrick climbs out.
Oh, fuck.
My eyes forget Jake exists. They zoom straight to Patrick like he’s the only thing worth looking at in Scotland, possibly the world. I lean forward, my nose nearly touching the glass like a dog’s at a car window.
My chest tightens with this awful realization: if something had happened to him flying, I wouldn’t just grieve like a normal person. I wouldn’t just be heartbroken. I’d be destroyed.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I haven’t seen Jake in ages. I saw Patrick literally an hour ago when he left to collect Jake, and yet my brother might as well be invisible.
Bloody buggering bollocking hell.
I love him.
Wait. What?
I blink hard, trying to reset my brain back to something sensible like Thank God nobody died in a fiery helicopter crash.
But the feeling sits there in my chest, refusing to budge.
I love Patrick McLaren.
Shit, shit, shit.
When did this happen?
Was it gradual, or did it happen all at once when I wasn’t paying attention? Was it the mountain? The fishing?
How did I let this happen?
I was supposed to be having a breezy Highland fling with a local fisherman, not falling catastrophically, definitely-going-to-need-therapy-when-this-ends in love with my emotionally complicated boss who also happens to be my brother’s friend and could fire me if this goes badly.
The two men walk toward the hotel. Patrick says something that makes Jake laugh.
I love Patrick so much it physically hurts. This is a fucking disaster.
That’s exactly why I can’t tell Jake. Not until I figure out what to do with all these feelings.
Jake will take one look at this situation and see exactly what it looks like: his baby sister getting her knickers in a twist over his powerful, experienced friend who could eat her for breakfast.
Breathe, you muppet. You cannot have a panic attack the second your brother rocks up. That’s terrible timing, even for you.
Okay. So, I love him. Fine. People fall in love all the time. Statistically speaking, it’s practically mundane. I read somewhere that the average person falls in love 2.5 times in their life, which makes me wonder who the half-person was and what happened there.
I fling open the lobby door and run across the lawn, nearly tripping over my own feet in my enthusiasm. Jake scoops me up into one of his bear hugs, lifting me clean off the ground.
“You look like you’ve been living in a cave.” I laugh, tugging at his ridiculous beard.
“Don’t squeeze too tight,” he groans, setting me down. “I need a shower, twelve hours of sleep, and possibly a sheep shearer.”
“How were the flights? Are you wrecked?”
“Let’s just say I’m ready to stay in one place for more than five minutes.”
Patrick nods at me. “Georgie.” It’s his hotel-owner voice. His talking-to-staff voice. Not his morning-after voice that goes all rough when he’s half-asleep.
This is fine. Everything’s absolutely tickety-boo.
“Hi, Patrick.” I aim for breezy-colleague instead of woman-who-just-realized-she’s-catastrophically-in-love-with-you. “Good flight?”
“Smooth enough. I brought him back to you in one piece.”
Jake slings an arm around my shoulder as we walk toward the hotel. “You look great, Button. Got some color in your cheeks.”
I glance at Patrick, and of course he’s heard it. Cringe.
“Button?” His brow arches.
“My name for Georgie,” Jake explains cheerfully, completely unaware he’s just murdered my dignity. “She was tiny as a kid. Cute as a button.”
In one swift verbal assassination, Jake’s reduced me to the little sister. How am I supposed to convince anyone I’m a sophisticated adult woman when my own brother makes me sound like I should be wearing light-up trainers?
I glance at Patrick. Something shifts in his expression, a tightening around his eyes like he’s just realized he’s been sleeping with someone called Button. It’s not exactly a name you cry out in the throes of passion, is it? “Oh yes, Button! Right there, Button!”
“Jake, you can’t call me that anymore,” I mutter.
“Course I can. I’ll be calling you Button when you’re ninety and I’m ninety-six.”
“Bold of you to assume you’ll make it past fifty with your hobbies.”
Patrick chuckles behind us, and the sound makes every hair on my arms stand up. Full-body goosebumps.
“So, you’re loving Skye.” Jake grins. “Since you never answer my calls anymore.”
“I answer them,” I protest. “I missed maybe... three. Four max.” I beam up at him, trying to look innocent and not like someone who’s been too busy being railed by his best friend to check her phone. “I’ve been busy. Hiking. Swimming.” My eyes flick to Patrick. “Fishing.”
The word comes out with a ridiculous giggle-squeak hybrid that makes me want to dissolve into the earth, and I catch Patrick’s slight frown. When his gaze meets mine, there’s a warning there. That fishing trip got very filthy, very fast.
Jake’s eyebrows shoot up. “Fishing? You nearly cried when I tried to teach you to bait a hook when you were twelve. Said it was ‘inhumane to the worms’.”
“People change,” I say. “I can try new things.”
Like falling in love with your best friend.
Oh fuck.
“I can’t wait to hear all about it.” Jake gives my shoulder a squeeze. “Dinner in an hour? I just need to shower off the travel grime first.”
“Perfect.” I beam up at him, but part of me is already wondering how this is going to work. Dinner with Jake while pretending Patrick and I are nothing more than colleagues.
Jake and Patrick are already at the restaurant table when I arrive. Jake pulls me into a bear hug that lifts me off my feet, while Patrick gives me a polite nod.
I smooth my skirt and slide into my chair, suddenly aware of every movement. Am I sitting normally? Do I look casual?
“Definitely got some color on you,” Jake says, grinning as he studies my face. “You look relaxed. Glowing. Must be all that Highland air.”
Highland air. That’s why my skin looks dewy and my hair’s bouncier than it’s been in years. Nothing to do with the fact I’m sleeping with the man sitting directly across the table, and I spend ages on my hair and makeup these days when he’s around.
“Yes. All that... Highland air.”
“Good to see you exploring instead of being chained to a screen all day.” Jake waves his beer glass in Patrick’s direction.
“Just make sure this one doesn’t work you to death.
You’ve got to set boundaries with him.” He glances back at me, eyes glinting with mischief.
“Seriously, don’t let him bend you over backwards trying to please him. ”
Heat crawls down my neck like I’m having an allergic reaction to my own lies. If only he knew how literally, how specifically, how enthusiastically that exact scenario played out last night.
“I barely see him,” I blurt out. “I’m mostly just... in my back office.”
Across the table, Patrick shifts. He reaches for his whisky, taking a large sip that suggests he’s also recalling the bending-over-backwards incident.
His eyes meet mine for a fraction of a second. Oh God. He’s remembering. I’m remembering. Jake is obliviously drinking beer while two people mentally replay softcore pornography.
As dinner arrives, Jake launches into stories about his latest expedition. How one night, crossing a frozen river, one person’s foot punched straight through the ice, and the whole party froze, listening to the crack spread under their feet.
I laugh along, but it catches in my throat. Jake tells these stories like near-death experiences are just anecdotes for the table, while I sit here barely able to cope with the risks of them flying in a helicopter together.
“So.” Jake tips his glass at me. “Fishing? What happened to my sister who thought mud and cold water were torture? How did that happen?”
I open my mouth, panic bubbling. All that comes out is a squeak.
“I took her,” Patrick says smoothly, saving me. I have to bite my tongue to keep from adding “in every sense of the word.”
“I was terrible.” I smile. “Didn’t catch anything. Patrick did, though. But it was... fun.”
Jake chuckles, shaking his head. “He’s annoyingly good at most things, isn’t he? Bastard even beats me at climbing, and I’ve made a career out of it.”
Oh, he’s good at things, alright. Things that would make Jake choke on his beer if he knew.
Jake reaches over and taps Riri’s necklace where it sits against my collar. “Still can’t believe you found this. You were properly devastated on the phone. How’d you even get it back from up there?”
“Someone... handed it in. Lucky, I guess.”
The someone being the man currently studying his menu.
“Lucky break.” Jake nods, buying it. “But seriously, don’t go hiking alone up there, Button.”
Patrick’s jaw tightens just slightly. That little flash of something whenever Jake calls me Button, reminding him I’ll always be Jake’s little sister first, whatever else we are.
“Patrick took me,” I say, folding my napkin into increasingly smaller squares. “Just to show me around a bit.”
Jake looks between us, smiling. “You’re quite the tour guide, buddy.”
“Happy to help,” Patrick says in a gruff tone.
I clear my throat before this gets worse.
“Actually, it’s been a nice reset to get out of London.
” I take a breath, channeling Riri’s adventurous spirit.
“I was thinking maybe I’d try one of your expeditions.
One of the tamer ones! That Norway trip?
I checked the website, and that one looks quite manageable. ”
Patrick’s brow lifts. He gives me a soft smile that makes me feel like I’ve just won something.
Jake’s whole face lights up. “That’d be brilliant. Never thought I’d get you out on one of my trips.”
I smile, feeling oddly proud. Hopefully, Riri’s watching from the afterlife, giving me a ghostly thumbs up.
“So, the hotel ceilidh’s tomorrow night, right?” Jake asks. “Georgie, are you going?”
“Yep, can’t wait,” I say, trying to sound enthusiastic.
“I’ve got you a kilt,” Patrick says to Jake, smirking. “Liam, Gemma, and Edward are also flying in for it. Well, more for a quick getaway.”
My eyes widen. “Liam? Your brother Liam?”
“The very same.” Patrick lifts a brow, clearly seeing the horror spreading across my face.
I can’t quite put my finger on why the thought of Patrick’s brother arriving makes my stomach clench with anxiety.
Is it ironic that both our older brothers will be here at the same time?
Liam is London’s answer to Jordan Belfort, except scarier. Not that I understand finance at all—numbers make sense to me in code, not money terms—but it seems like an industry full of people who eat smaller, weaker people like me for breakfast.
I practiced ceilidh dance steps in my room yesterday like a fool, following along to YouTube videos while Fee laughed from the doorway. I nearly took out my bedside lamp twice.
Now I’m even more terrified because it feels like Patrick’s entire intimidating London world is descending on Skye. All at once. All together. His billionaire brother. His high-powered friends.
I’m not sure I’m ready to see this part of Patrick’s world, especially when it’ll make it even more obvious that “Georgie from IT” doesn’t fit in.