EPILOGUE
Northern Lights and morning delights
Patrick
The next morning
I rock against her, moving slow and deep, feeling her pulse around me with every thrust. The tent walls ripple in the wind, the wild Arctic breeze raging outside while we’re cocooned in here together, warm skin against warm skin.
“This is actually pretty romantic,” she breathes, her voice hitching as I push deeper inside her. The sleeping bag rustles beneath us with every movement.
“Even if I can’t feel my toes.” She giggles. “I hope I don’t lose one, like you.”
I let out a rough laugh despite being close to the edge. “If you lose a bloody toe to frostbite while I’m buried inside you, I’ll never forgive myself.”
I pause, braced above her on my forearms, holding myself still inside her, and look down at her face.
The light filtering through the tent fabric catches on her features.
Her cheeks are flushed pink from the cold and from us, her eyes bright with pleasure, hair spread across the sleeping bag in wild tangles.
“What?” she whispers. Her hands flutter uncertainly on my shoulders.
“You’re beautiful.”
She wrinkles her nose. “I’m a disaster. My hair’s a mess, and I’m pretty sure I have pillow creases on my face, and—”
I dip my head down and kiss her to silence her, swallowing whatever other protests she was about to make. “You’re beautiful,” I repeat against her lips, rougher this time. “Stop arguing with me.”
“Okay.” She smiles that soft, genuine smile that feels like a gift every time. “But only because you’re being very persuasive right now.”
I drive into her again, harder.
“I love you,” I growl against her mouth. Against her temple. Against her throat where I can feel her pulse jumping. “I love you.”
I can’t seem to stop saying it now.
“I love you too.” She cups my face, thumb stroking my cheekbone. “I can’t believe you’re here. That this is real.”
“I’m here. Not going anywhere.” I thrust deeper, watching her eyes go hazy. “Never.”
“Oh God, Patrick.”
Her words dissolve into a moan as I pick up the pace, and I watch her face transform.
The self-consciousness melts away, replaced by an open, unguarded pleasure that I only ever want her to show me. No other man.
“Patrick,” she whimpers, fingers sliding into my hair, tugging hard. “Please, I need—”
“I know what you need, sweetheart.”
I shift my weight to one arm, muscles burning with the effort of holding myself up, and reach between us with the other hand to find that perfect spot. The second I touch her there, her whole body jolts beneath me.
“Yes, God, yes.” She trembles, thighs shaking against my hips. “Don’t stop, please don’t stop.”
Her back arches off the sleeping bag, lifting toward me, mouth falling open, eyes squeezed shut. I feel her clench around me, pulsing, her body shuddering with it.
“That’s it,” I murmur against her ear, working her through it. “Fucking perfect.”
She breaks apart beneath me, crying out my name, and it’s better than standing on top of any mountain in the world.
I bury my face in her neck, breathing her in.
“Georgie,” I groan, rhythm turning erratic. She pulses around me, and every whimper drives me closer. “Fuck, I’m…”
I thrust into her as deep as I can go, and come hard. It rips through me, making my arms shake with the effort of not crushing her completely.
When I finally surface, I’m dead weight on top of her, but she doesn’t complain. Just keeps stroking my hair, pressing soft kisses wherever she can reach.
“Sorry,” I mumble eventually, trying to shift my weight. “Heavy bastard.”
“I don’t mind.” She smiles at me, fingers tightening in my hair to keep me close. “I like you here. Makes me feel...” She bites her lip. “Safe. Like nothing bad can happen as long as you’re here.”
“Good. That’s how you should feel.”
“That was...” She trails off with a breathless laugh. “I don’t even have words.”
“Really good exercise to keep warm?”
“I was going to say transcendent, but sure.”
I smirk against her skin.
Then her eyes go wide, horror dawning across her face. “Oh God, I can hear Jake farting in the next tent. You men are absolutely disgusting. Do you think he can hear us?”
Well. That’s one way to kill the post-coital glow.
“Definitely.”
“Bloody hell! You know, even though I’m twenty-five I still don’t like the idea of my big brother knowing I’m being naughty with you in a tent meters away from him.”
“Being naughty?” I raise an eyebrow. “Christ, Georgie. You sound like you’re confessing to the headmaster. Jake’s a grown man. He’ll survive the trauma.” I pause, grinning darkly. “Anyway, he literally applauded us kissing in front of strangers last night. I think he’s well aware.”
I press a kiss to her forehead and roll off her, immediately missing her warmth. “Come on. Let’s get you fed before you overthink yourself into a spiral. I saw that annotated tourist guide of yours. We’ve got ground to cover. Those huskies aren’t going to cuddle themselves.”
Doesn’t matter if it’s a tent in Norway or a house in London; I realize I want this every morning for the rest of my life.
Georgie
Three months later
“I was thinking we could have a relaxation nook here.” I beam at Roy, gesturing toward the corner space by the window.
He gives me a look that’s equal parts fond and judgmental. “Are you actually going to use it to relax, or are you going to sit there spiraling about deadlines while pretending it’s mindfulness?”
I open my mouth to argue, then close it again because, well… fair point. “Okay, probably not me. But someone will use it. My good intentions and my unnecessarily expensive cushion budget shouldn’t go to waste.”
I turn to look around the space, taking it in. My beautiful, albeit small, startup office. The afternoon light streams through the windows, hitting the exposed brick, and I have to pinch myself. It’s perfect.
We’ve got bike racks downstairs so we can cycle in, and mine’s only a twenty-minute ride from home.
The cycle is great for my coding brain. Something about the physical movement and the constant low-level terror of cycling in London makes everything click into place.
I solve problems on that bike that would’ve taken me hours at my desk.
“You’re doing that thing again,” Roy says.
“What thing?”
“That thing where you look around like you still can’t believe this is real. It’s real, Georgie. You built this.”
My throat goes tight. “We built it. You could’ve stayed at McLaren Hotels. You didn’t have to take a risk on me.”
“On us,” he corrects firmly. “And yeah, I could’ve stayed. Or I could’ve followed the most brilliant coder I know. Easy choice.”
I bite my lip, fighting a smile. “Stop being nice to me. I’m trying to be professional.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
My gaze drifts to the sign on the wall.
FORTIS
Deep blue letters, clean against the brick. It’s Latin for strong and brave, which Patrick said was “very fitting” when I told him.
Roy and I cycled through so many ridiculous names when we got drunk.
Code & Crumpets. Very British, very silly.
404: Company Name Not Found. Programmer humor at its finest but probably confusing for actual clients.
Have You Tried Turning It Off And On Again Solutions. I really, really wanted this one.
Nervous Systems. Because I’m the CEO, and that’s just accurate branding.
But Fortis fit. Because I’m trying to be a serious CEO now.
“Okay!” I clap my hands together. “Champagne time for Thirsty Thursday! Alya, that’s enough work for now. We’re celebrating.”
We’re three people in total: Roy, me, and Alya—who’s twenty-two, brilliant, and so shy that during her interview she mostly spoke to her shoes.
But then I asked her to solve a coding problem on the spot, and she absolutely demolished it in about forty seconds.
She’s significantly smarter than I am. I’ve made peace with it.
I pop open the champagne, and it fizzes over my hand. Very professional. Very CEO. I’m nailing this.
It’s our first week in the new office after months of working remotely, and it feels amazing to be in one place.
“You’re definitely going to have to expand fast,” Roy says, accepting his glass with a grin. “I can only handle one glass of champagne, so if we’re opening a bottle between the three of us for Thirsty Thursday every week, I’m in serious trouble.”
“I’ve already posted ads for two new developers,” I say, still half in disbelief that I get to hire people.
So far, IRIS has three major hotel chain clients. McLaren Hotels, obviously, because Patrick basically handed me that contract on a silver platter.
Then there’s Ashworth & Grey, a gorgeous boutique chain with historic properties across the UK. Their VP of Operations told me our system “changed her life,” which made me cry in the bathroom for fifteen minutes while Roy stood guard outside, pretending I was “taking an important call.”
And then there’s Thornfield Hospitality—luxury manor houses and estates across England and Scotland, the kind of places where you expect Mr. Darcy to emerge from the shrubbery.
They came to us after seeing what we did for McLaren Hotels, and I had to have Roy sit in on the pitch meeting because I was shaking so hard I could barely hold my laser pointer.
At one point, I accidentally aimed it at the CEO’s forehead and apologized three times in a row.
They still signed with us, which means we’re brilliant.
People are seeking out my software, which means I need more developers, and fast.
I have so many ideas. Too many. Roy tells me to write them down before I “have a cognitive meltdown and forget something brilliant.” I now have four notebooks full of half-legible scribbles for future Georgie.
The terrifying part? Interviews.
I have to interview people. Me.
But I’m trying. I have a public speaking coach, who’s lovely and only mildly intimidating when she makes me do “power poses.” I also have a business coach, who uses phrases like “lean into your authentic leadership style.”