EPILOGUE #2
Gemma, Liam’s wife, is mentoring me. Somehow, she thinks I’m worth her time. She sends me voice notes at random hours with advice like “Stop apologizing in emails; you’re the CEO.”
Patrick wanted to mentor me, but I pushed his own rules about boundaries back at him. He didn’t love that, but he conceded the point.
It’s a lot. Honestly, it’s overwhelming. But it’s a good kind of overwhelming.
I get to build the kind of workplace I always wanted. One where people don’t dread Mondays or have anxiety dreams about their boss; where compassion and profit can coexist without one undermining the other.
I don’t want to be Craig, tearing people down because of his own insecurities. I don’t want to be David Brent from The Office.
I want to be someone people want to work for.
That’s why I introduced Focus Fridays, so everyone gets uninterrupted deep work time without someone asking a “quick question” that’s never actually quick.
It’s why we build buffer time into every deadline because things always take longer than expected, and I refuse to have my team working until midnight because I underestimated a project.
Roy got me a new mug last week. It says “World’s Best Boss” in huge letters, which I think is a bit of an exaggeration and possibly sarcastic, but I may have teared up when he gave it to me. He pretended not to notice, which is the mark of a truly excellent employee.
Riri’s photo sits proudly on my desk, right there in the open where everyone can see it. I don’t hide her anymore. I don’t hide any part of myself, actually.
“To Fortis.” I raise my slightly sticky champagne glass.
“To Fortis,” they echo.
An hour later, I’m squinting at an email about server configurations when there’s a knock on my office door. I look up to find my most handsome client leaning against the doorframe with a massive bunch of flowers: deep purple irises tucked among blush-pink roses.
My stomach flutters. Other parts of me do fluttery things too.
My fingers pause over my keyboard, forgotten.
The flutters never go away. I’ve accepted this as a permanent condition.
Even when I’m ninety-three in some nursing home, wearing velour tracksuits and complaining about the texture of porridge, I’ll pull out faded photos of Patrick McLaren and feel the flutters.
Even after he’s dead, because statistically, men die first.
“You don’t have an appointment.” I straighten in my chair, tugging at the hem of my cream silk blouse where it’s come untucked from my navy trousers, trying to project a stern CEO vibe.
“So now you’re a big shot, you don’t have time for your first client?” That smirk curves his mouth.
“Depends on what he’s after.” I wave vaguely at my laptop screen. “I’m very busy.”
He pushes off the doorframe and crosses my office, coming around my desk and settling against the edge, one long leg stretched out, the other bent. His thigh is inches from my keyboard.
I lean forward, inhaling the flowers’ scent—sweet roses and the sharper, almost peppery smell of irises—then take them from him and set them on my desk. “They’re beautiful. But completely inappropriate from a client.”
“Damn.” His voice drops lower. “I was hoping they’d do the trick.”
My mouth twitches despite my best efforts. “Do the trick?”
“I was hoping to christen your new desk.” His eyes drop to the polished wood surface between us, then back to my face.
This man is so horny all the time; I don’t know how he gets any work done. Does he have a calendar reminder that says, “2 p.m.: earnings review, also think about shagging Georgie on office furniture”?
I’m starting to think his legendary business acumen is just displaced sexual energy that occasionally manifests as good investment decisions.
I purse my lips. “Absolutely not. I’m outraged. Scandalized, in fact. This is a professional workplace.”
I glance through my office door at Roy and Alya, who are finishing the last of the champagne with the building’s cleaner, who’s apparently joined Thirsty Thursday. They’re laughing about something, completely oblivious.
“That’s not the type of place I run here,” I hiss, trying to sound authoritative. “There’s no debauchery in my company. We have policies. And a relaxation nook.”
He winks. “You’re no fun. I preferred when you were intimidated by me.”
“No, you didn’t.” I narrow my eyes at him.
His expression softens, the smirk fading into something gentler. I’ve won that point.
“I got an email from an old uni mate today,” I say, changing the subject before my brain gets too distracted by his proximity and the way he’s looking at me in my office.
He shifts his weight against the desk, moving closer. “Oh yeah?”
“My ex, Steve has been fired from his tutor job.” I watch his face carefully. “Do you know anything about that?”
The smirk returns. “Why would I know anything about that? Surely the guy got himself fired. Poor performance. Toxic workplace behavior. These things happen.”
“Patrick.”
He leans in, close enough that his lips brush the shell of my ear when he speaks, and goosebumps race down my arms. “There’s something you should know about me, sweetheart. I didn’t get to where I am today without being a little ruthless sometimes.”
His hand slides to my waist, thumb pressing against my hip bone through my sensible CEO trousers. “And you really don’t want to cross someone I love. Really, really bad idea. Because I take care of what’s mine. Always.”
I visibly shiver. That’s hot. Also slightly terrifying and maybe a little bit mafia boss, but primarily hot. Very, very hot.
My eyes dart to the door, to Roy and Alya still chatting with the cleaner. Maybe if they leave soon, we could have a little christening party on this desk. Just to show appreciation for my first and most valued client and make him feel special. Definitely legitimate business reasons.
“I wonder if I’ll be like you someday.” I look up at him. “Ruthless.”
His free hand comes up, fingers gentle as he tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “I saw you in that meeting with my lawyers. You already are.”
I fight a smirk. “I can be a badass, can’t I?”
Fortis indeed.
“You are a badass.” His lips graze my jaw, barely touching, just enough to make me gasp. “You built your own company. Set your own terms. Made me fall completely in love with you to the point I’m a fucking sap now.” His voice drops to a growl. “And you look fucking incredible doing it.”
“We can’t,” I whisper, but I’m leaning into him anyway, which sends a rather mixed message.
“Pity.” He presses one more kiss just below my ear before straightening up and stepping back. “I’ll wait downstairs for you to finish up. Then I’m taking you home.” His eyes lock on mine. “Where I can take my time showing you exactly how powerful I think you are.”
I actually whimper. Out loud, in my new office.
My eyes land on Riri’s photo sitting proudly on my desk.
I swear to God she winks at me.
Three months later
“Fee!” I squeal, flinging open the door and nearly taking it off its hinges in my enthusiasm. “You made it!”
“Of course I made it, you numpty.” She pulls me into a hug. “Did you think I’d miss your ‘housewarming’ party? Or ‘house renovation celebration’ as it’s more accurately called?”
Patrick and I have given the whole house a makeover, and it’s gorgeous. With Riri’s spiritual blessing from beyond, of course.
I spent so long worrying about how I could ever fit into Patrick’s world. He’s too adventurous, older, more experienced, and a billionaire.
But now Patrick has given up his sleek London penthouse and moved into Riri’s house with me.
It never occurred to me that he would fit into my world and that he’d be happy here.
We’ve only been to Skye once since we got back from Jake’s Norway expedition and made things official, because I’ve been so buried in Fortis business—hiring developers, debugging crises, and having minor breakdowns about whether I’m a real CEO—that I haven’t had time to go back yet.
Which kills me because I miss the island and Fee.
She steps back from the hug and looks around the entrance hall. “Georgie, this place looks incredible. The photos don’t do it justice. Did you hire an interior designer?”
I beam. “Patrick and I chose the design together. Well, I chose it, and he nodded approvingly. He’s pretty easygoing about décor.
Typical bloke, doesn’t even notice if the walls change color.
I’m fairly certain I could paint the entire house neon pink with purple polka dots, and he’d probably just wander through, squint a bit, and then ask if we have milk for his tea. ”
She grins. “He’d live in a cardboard box if you were in it. The man’s besotted. Or he’s just smart enough to know that arguing about paint colors isn’t worth sleeping on the sofa.”
I laugh, though I’m thinking there’s absolutely no way I could banish a man with thighs like that to the sofa. He needs to be in my bed at all times.
The hall does look incredible, even if I’m biased. We’ve painted it a buttery cream that makes everything feel light instead of the slightly depressing magnolia it was before (sorry, Riri).
There’s a vintage console table that Patrick found at an antique market, topped with an enormous vase of fresh flowers that he replaces every week, which I think is really sweet of him and also slightly wasteful, but I don’t say that because he looks so pleased with himself when he brings them home.
“You look great!” I beam at her. “How’s Skye now that tourist season’s winding down? Is it really quiet?”
She smirks. “We’re finding ways to entertain ourselves. Oh, here he is.”
Chef MacLeod materializes behind her. His arm slides around her waist possessively, and she reaches up to tug on his beard. The movement is somehow deeply, disturbingly erotic. This couple, I swear to God, they’re constantly shagging like rabbits. The sexual energy is palpable.