Chapter 34
THIRTY-FOUR
Leg hair moving in the breeze
Georgie
“Stop fiddling with your strap,” Fee hisses, smacking my hand away. “You look incredible.”
“There’s no bra under here,” I whisper back, yanking at the neckline again. “One wrong move and everyone gets a show. Why did I let you talk me out of the sensible one with sleeves?”
“Because that dress made you look like someone’s divorced aunt hitting up the cruise ship buffet,” she says briskly, linking her arm through mine and hauling me toward the ballroom doors. “Now chin up, own the cleavage, stop spiraling.”
“I’m nervous,” I whisper. “Okay, so I’m ashamed to admit I did extensive research on Patrick’s friends who are arriving.
Liam, his brother, is a billionaire who owns a cutthroat private equity firm in London.
His partner Gemma used to be high up in the firm and now owns her own consultancy and dresses like a business version of Kate Middleton.
And his friend Edward Cavendish is a top surgeon who seems to have been born in a castle.
From what I can see, he’s dating a TV presenter with a figure like Jessica Rabbit. ”
“Do you always see the good in everyone else and the apparent bad in yourself?”
“I’m just being realistic. I’m nowhere near as successful as these people.
I’m pretty much a junior at McLaren Hotels.
” I tug at my dress again. “I googled ‘Edward Cavendish’ and the first result was about his family estate. They have a Wikipedia page, Fee. For their stately house. I don’t even have a LinkedIn that’s up to date.
Actually, I should probably update that. ”
“So?”
“So, I’ll be standing there trying to make conversation about... what? The weather? My extensive knowledge of debugging code? While they discuss yacht racing or hostile takeovers or whatever billionaires chat about?”
“You’re lovely and smart and interesting,” Fee says firmly. “Stop comparing yourself to people you’ve cyberstalked. Now come on.”
The doors swing open and my breath catches.
Clachmòr House ballroom looks like a fishing village exploded inside a Jane Austen novel. There are nets hanging from the ceiling, lanterns making everything glowy, and the tables are groaning under the weight of seafood, haggis, tatties, and every Scottish delicacy imaginable.
There is no way I’m attempting haggis in silk. I do not need a digestive emergency tonight, not when everything else already feels so precarious.
Chef MacLeod and his team must have been working since the middle of the night to create this magic.
But food isn’t the headline act. Oh no. The headline is that every single man in this room is in a kilt.
Oh my God.
It’s just... calves everywhere. Some look like they belong on a Greek statue. Some are so hairy they could be halfway through a werewolf transformation. I swear one man’s leg hair is moving in the breeze from the air conditioning.
Fee clutches my arm. “It’s like an all-you-can-eat buffet of Scottish man meat. Look at them.”
She says it loud enough that at least three kilted specimens turn our way, which only makes her grip harder, like she’s genuinely afraid she might launch herself across the room and start dry-humping the nearest set of calves.
I try to laugh but my stomach’s doing that awful flip-flop thing it does when I’m completely out of my element. The fanciest thing I’ve been to in years was my cousin’s wedding, and I spent three hours hiding behind the chocolate fountain, darting out only for profiteroles.
“Deep breaths,” I mutter to myself. “You’re a grown woman. You can handle men in traditional Scottish dress without having a cardiac event.”
Fee snorts. “Speak for yourself. I’m about thirty seconds from asking that one if I can verify what’s under his kilt.”
“Please don’t,” I beg, already imagining having to apologize to multiple Highland men for my friend’s wandering hands.
“Fine. I’ll behave. For now.”
I tug at my strap again self-consciously.
“You look beautiful,” Fee says, softer now, squeezing my arm gently. “Stop second-guessing yourself.”
I squeeze back, grateful for her ability to read my spiral before it fully forms. “Thank you. You look gorgeous too. That silver is perfect on you.”
That shopping trip was three hours of me panic-sweating while Fee held up dresses that screamed bend me over a table.
We’d finally compromised on this green one with enough cleavage that Fee declared my tits “absolutely criminal”, but with enough fabric that I wouldn’t get arrested for public indecency.
I scan the room, my chest tightening like it does when I’m overwhelmed by too many people and not enough exits.
Across the ballroom, Mary and the housekeeping crew wave enthusiastically, clearly several drinks past giving a shit about anything. The newer hires are stuck working the event; the veterans get to party.
I wave back like I, too, am carefree and fun.
Then I spot Patrick.
He’s impossible to miss, considering he’s a head taller than most of the room.
My breath stutters. He’s always handsome, but tonight he’s in full Scottish formal dress. Kilt. Jacket. Sporran. Those sock things with the wee flashes of color at the calf that shouldn’t be sexy but absolutely are.
Fuck me gently with bagpipes.
He’s standing with Jake and the others I recognize from my Google deep-dive while investigating Patrick’s social circle. His brother Liam and friend Edward, also in kilts, look like they’ve stepped out of a Highland romance novel but the scary kind where the heroes might murder you.
Patrick laughs at something Liam said. His whole face transforms when he does that.
My chest physically aches.
Liam has his arm around Gemma, who looks effortlessly elegant. I know from my stalking—I mean, professional research—that she was Head of HR at Liam’s company. Very important. Very accomplished.
Even HR terrifies me, and they’re supposedly the friendly department with the posters about inclusivity. But they’re the ones who know exactly how many times you’ve Googled “is it normal to cry in the server room” from your work computer, so really, they’re the most dangerous of all.
I fidget with the strap of my tartan clutch, fingers twitchy with nerves.
We’ve barely made it three steps into the ballroom when Chef MacLeod materializes, decked head-to-toe in aggressive tartan.
“Evenin’, lassies,” he booms. “Ye look—” he says something that could be “bonny” or “horny” or maybe “thorny”? His accent’s so thick I need subtitles. His eyes are glued to Fee’s cleavage, so whatever he’s saying, it’s not about the canapés and it’s not directed at me.
Fee preens like she’s just been crowned Miss Scotland.
Jake spots me from across the room and waves, beckoning me over.
My stomach lurches. I don’t want to go over to Patrick’s sophisticated London circle.
“Fee,” I say quietly. “I need to go say hi to Jake.”
“I’ll come. Just give me five minutes.” She’s already turning back to MacLeod.
I sigh. I can’t be the pathetic friend who waits because she’s too scared to walk across a room alone.
“Just catch me up,” I say.
I walk over to Jake and Patrick’s circle. Patrick spots me and gives me a once-over and a smile that makes my nerves go from bad to worse. I so badly want him to see me the way he sees them. As an equal. As someone who belongs.
“Hey, sis.” Jake grins. “You look amazing.”
“You shaved.” I pat his smooth cheek in mock amazement. “Look at you, all civilized. Nice kilt. Very authentic Scottish warrior vibes.”
“Cheers.” He tugs one of my curls like I’m still twelve.
I look over at Patrick who is watching me. “Hi, Patrick.”
“Georgie. You look…” His jaw ticks. There’s a pause just long enough to torture me.
“Nice,” he finishes, and I die a little inside.
Nice is what you say about your nan’s new curtains, not someone you’ve seen naked and moaning.
“Thanks,” I manage. “You too. Very... Scottish.”
“This is my brother, Liam, his partner Gemma, and my friend Edward. Guys, this is Jake’s sister, Georgie.”
They greet me warmly and politely, the way you greet someone’s younger relative at a wedding. I imagine a parallel universe where Patrick introduces me as his girlfriend. They’d probably check him for signs of stroke.
“Are you here on holiday as well, Georgie?” Gemma smiles at me. She looks poised and classy in a beautiful mustard dress that complements her red hair.
“Oh no, only Jake. I work in the IT department for McLaren Hotels.”
From the corner of my eye, I catch Patrick’s fingers tightening around his whisky glass.
“Oh! Did you know Patrick beforehand through Jake?”
Before I can craft a response that doesn’t make me sound like I got hired through nepotism, Jake puts his arm around me. “Georgie’s an IT whizz. She was fixing my computer when she was twelve.”
I want to gently strangle him.
“Are you all on holiday?” I ask, desperate to shift focus.
“That’s right,” Liam answers. He looks exactly like Patrick but scarier. “Gemma forced me away from the office.” His hand slides possessively to her lower back, thumb stroking just above the silk of her dress.
“I had to force myself away too,” Gemma laughs, leaning into him. “But we needed a short break.”
The way they look at each other makes me feel like I’m accidentally watching something private. When I glance at Patrick, he’s not watching them. He’s watching me watch them, and it makes me even more nervous.
“Gemma’s just launched her own HR consultancy,” Patrick says.
“Oh wow,” I say, genuinely impressed. “That must be exciting, being your own boss. And probably terrifying?”
“It’s both,” Gemma agrees, smiling warmly at me. “But believe me, working in private equity was tougher.”
“She means not having to deal with me as her boss anymore,” Liam says, voice low and amused, pulling her closer.
“I still have to deal with you at home,” she teases. “Liam’s in the middle of acquiring Wickes and honestly, sometimes he’s like a bear about it.”