Chapter 34 #2
“Oh, Wickes!” I say, trying to sound knowledgeable, desperate to contribute something. “My friend just got her bathroom redone through them.”
“That’s Wickes, the DIY shop,” Patrick says gently, though I can see him fighting a smile. “Wickes Capital is a private equity firm.”
Heat floods my face. Of course it is. I’ve just confused a multi-billion-pound financial firm with the place where I panic-bought a shower curtain. This is it. This is Patrick realizing exactly how far out of my depth I am.
“Right, yes, private equity,” I mumble, wanting to dissolve. “Different Wickes. The money one, not the... grout one.”
“Easy mistake,” Edward says kindly, chuckling.
“Though if we could get a discount on bathroom renovations as part of the deal,” Gemma says with a grin, clearly trying to rescue me, “that would be useful.”
They all laugh, and I join in even though something inside me shrivels. The thing is, I know I’m not stupid. I can build complex IT systems. I’m knowledgeable in my field. I just don’t know much about company takeovers and stuff.
Thank god a server floats by with champagne. I grab a glass and take what might be considered an aggressive gulp. I feel it immediately joining forces with my anxiety.
I am not equipped to talk to these CEO types. I don’t know the language or the rules.
Every time one of them speaks, every casual reference to their world, I feel the gap between Patrick’s life and mine getting wider.
“What area of IT are you in?” Edward asks politely, in an accent so posh it makes the Queen sound common.
“Hotel management systems. Databases. That sort of thing.” In my head, I sound like I’m explaining my homework. “Nothing as complex as surgery.”
“Oh, I’m sure it’s very complex,” Edward says. “I can barely navigate some of our NHS systems.”
“Georgie built something incredible that’s being used in the Skye hotel right now,” Jake announces, his big-brother pride making me cringe. “She was explaining it to me earlier but honestly, it went right over my head.”
“It’s really not that complicated,” I mumble, face burning.
Please, Jake, I’m begging you, stop talking.
I can’t look Patrick in the eye. I feel him watching me, and oh God, he probably thinks I’ve been bragging to Jake about IRIS, making myself sound important when he thinks Craig’s the mastermind behind everything.
The truth is, I’ve deliberately avoided discussing work with him. The last thing I want is to remind him that I’m his employee, and that there’s this massive professional chasm between us.
“The technical teams are so essential,” Liam says more kindly than I imagined a financial shark capable of. Though I suppose sharks need to seem friendly; otherwise, how would they get close enough to bite?
I nod enthusiastically, probably too enthusiastically.
“The hotel looks incredible, Patrick,” Liam continues. “The renovations were worth every penny.”
And they’re off.
Patrick launches into expansion plans and the Forbes accreditation process. Million-pound renovations like he’s choosing between paint samples. Proper CEO chat. They all nod knowingly while I stand there like someone’s brought their teenage daughter to work.
I clutch my champagne, trying to look like I understand why everyone’s nodding about “market positioning.”
Even Jake can contribute because they all think he’s entrepreneurial with his extreme sports company.
What’s my unique selling point here? Liam’s a finance shark who eats smaller companies for breakfast but seems to genuinely adore Gemma. Gemma is clearly brilliant—you don’t get to be Head of HR somewhere like Ashbury Thornton without being able to go toe-to-toe with people like Liam.
Next to her, I feel like a potato someone put in a dress. A potato someone tried to make fancy by adding parsley, but it’s still obviously a potato.
And Edward is literally saving lives when he’s not at Highland parties making small talk.
Can I honestly imagine fitting into this world? What on earth would I contribute to their conversations? “Hey, I debugged something yesterday and only stress-ate three packets of biscuits”?
I take another sip of champagne, then another, trying to look thoughtfully engaged rather than completely lost. Maybe if I nod at the right moments, no one will notice I have nothing to add.
Then I see who is approaching, and my stomach drops through the floor. Can this get any fucking worse?
Maren glides over to the group, and ‘glides’ is the only word for it. She’s in a tartan mini dress that makes her legs look endless.
I find myself shifting slightly behind Jake as Patrick introduces everyone.
“This night is incredible, Patrick.” She beams at him, luminous and poised, tall enough that she meets his eyes without cocking her chin. I’d need a ladder to stand in the same line of sight. “You and your team really outdid yourselves.”
Patrick’s mouth quirks. “The team did the heavy lifting. I just signed the checks.”
“Don’t be modest.” She gives his arm a playful squeeze. “You wear a kilt well. It’s been ages since I’ve seen you in full Highland dress.”
My hand tightens on my glass.
Patrick shifts, discomfort flashing for half a second. “It’s not exactly my usual attire.”
“Your plaid’s crooked though.” Before he can respond, Maren’s already fixing it, hands smoothing tartan across his chest.
I stand frozen, pretending I don’t notice, while noticing every second. It’s such an easy touch, like her hand knows its way home. When I touch Patrick, it still feels like I’m stealing something. Like I’m getting away with something I shouldn’t.
Patrick doesn’t step back, but there’s this tiny muscle in his jaw doing that telltale twitch—the only sign he knows how excruciating this is. Not that anyone else notices.
I scan desperately for Fee, but she’s vanished, probably getting acquainted with MacLeod’s sporran behind a haggis display, leaving me stranded with top CEO types and Patrick’s clenched jaw.
The band strikes up something aggressive and Scottish, and the entire ballroom seems to surge toward the dance floor.
Maren turns to Patrick with a smile that makes my stomach drop. “Dance with me?”
He glances at her, then at me.
“I’ll sit this one out,” he says finally.
“Oh, come on. Just one dance. Please? I love this song.”
Patrick’s eyes find mine, and there’s something there—apology? Resignation? I can’t tell because I’m too busy trying not to let my face show how much this hurts.
“Go on, Patrick,” Gemma encourages, clearly oblivious to my internal crisis.
“He can’t dance,” Liam says, but he’s smirking.
Patrick grimaces, and for one desperate moment, I think he might refuse. Then he offers Maren his arm. “Alright then.”
And off they go.
They join the reel; some elaborate Scottish jig where everyone else apparently memorized the moves at birth. I watch because looking away would somehow be worse than watching.
Patrick’s stiff at first, clearly not loving the whole ceilidh performance thing.
Then Maren says something, and his shoulders relax a bit.
She spins around laughing, head thrown back.
His hand goes to her waist. Her hand finds his shoulder.
They settle into the rhythm while I stand like a loser, wishing I could disappear.
I down the rest of my champagne in one go, wondering if it’s possible to die from feeling too much while pretending to feel nothing at all.
As the music shifts to a slower section, Maren leans up to whisper something in Patrick’s ear, her hand resting on his chest for balance. Whatever she says, Patrick smiles politely.
My brain, helpful as always, starts its commentary: Look at her, you potato.
Maren is perfect: endless legs, natural grace, a laugh that doesn’t risk turning into a snort.
She looks like a tartan-wrapped goddess.
Meanwhile, you’re Georgie Button Fitzgerald.
Anyone with working eyeballs can see which one of you belongs with Patrick McLaren.
That’s when it hits me. The kind of realization that feels like stepping off a curb you didn’t see coming.
Oh my fucking god.
Maren is perfect for Patrick. She’s smart, gorgeous, sophisticated, and adventurous.
Yet even with all that perfection, he’s not interested in anything serious with her.
Maren, this absolute goddess of a woman, has never made it past the friend zone, and I’m not even in the friend zone.
I’m in some horrible subcategory—the little-sister-of-a-friend zone.
The math is simple and brutal: if Maren couldn’t secure a place in Patrick’s life, what hope do I have?
That would be fine if I hadn’t already fallen for him. If I could just laugh this off and move on. But I can’t. I’m already in too deep, past the point where I can walk away without pieces of myself missing.
My champagne glass trembles in my hand. I set it down before I drop it and add “clumsy disaster” to the list of reasons I don’t belong here.
“I need some air,” I mumble to Jake, though he’s too absorbed in Liam explaining something about market volatility to notice.
I need to get away from the ballroom, away from Maren touching his face, away from this feeling like barbed wire in my stomach.
I can’t do this. I’m not a strong enough woman to survive in his world. Patrick needs someone who can stand next to him at events like this without crumbling. Fee’s right. I’m too soft.
My heels clatter as I escape the ballroom. I clutch my tiny tartan purse until the beads bite into my palms. Staff rush past with trays, running back and forth to the party.
“Get it together,” I whisper to myself. “You’re being ridiculous.”
The plan forming in my head is pathetic but comforting: grab my coat, march the half mile back to the cottage, and curl into a ball. Maybe eat some biscuits.
“Georgie.”
I whirl too fast, ankle wobbling dangerously in my heel. Patrick strides after me, kilt swinging with each step.
Staff in the hallway step aside when they see his expression.