Chapter 25
Clementine
When Your Boss Thinks You’re a Genius
I’ve been staring at my phone on the kitchen table for at least ten minutes.
Three missed calls from Marc Dufresne, my project manager back in Paris.
Three.
In two hours.
That’s never a good sign.
Marc never calls three times in a row unless something major has gone wrong.
Like the client pulled out completely.
Or we lost the budget.
Or you’re fired.
I know exactly how he operates after four years of working with him.
Calm down, Clementine. Breathe.
I pick up the phone.
Set it down.
Pick it up again.
I’ve been distracted these past few days.
Really distracted.
I missed two team meetings—or not exactly missed them, but I sent last-minute apologies blaming connection issues.
I turned in a report two days late.
And yesterday, Marie messaged me asking whether I’d approved the Mercier budget, and I answered yes despite having absolutely no idea what she was talking about.
So, honestly?
I probably deserve whatever’s coming.
Hamish is stretched out in front of the fireplace in his usual position as my self-appointed supervisor.
He watches me with that calm expression he reserves for moments when he knows I’m in trouble.
Some people can sense a storm coming.
This sheep can sense drama.
The phone vibrates in my hand.
Marc.
Again.
This time, I answer.
“Hello, Marc!”
“Clementine! Finally! I’ve been trying to reach you all morning!”
His voice is tense.
Really tense.
I know him well enough to recognize the tone he uses when he has bad news to deliver and is searching for the right words.
I’ve heard it three times in my career.
Once when we lost the Delambre contract—the biggest account in the agency’s history.
Once when Sophie got fired after the budget-calculation disaster.
And once when—
Stop. Stop panicking.
“Sorry, I... I’ve been busy. The inventory is taking longer than expected...”
“Yes, actually. That’s exactly what we need to talk about.”
There it is.
You’re fired.
I sit down at the kitchen table.
My legs aren’t functioning particularly well, and I’d rather not add a concussion to my termination.
Hamish gets up and rests his head on my lap.
Normally, he either ignores me completely or judges me in silence.
“Marc, I know I’ve been a little... absent lately. But I promise—”
“Clementine, stop.”
I fall silent.
My heart is pounding too hard.
If I weren’t worried he’d hear me gasping, I’d be breathing through my mouth just to get more oxygen into my system.
He lets out a long sigh.
The kind of sigh people make right before saying something important.
“Listen. I know why you went to the Highlands.”
Excuse me?
“You... you do?”
“Of course I do. You’re not the type to run off on impulse to deal with some family matter. Not you. Not Clementine Fraser, the most reliable and committed project manager on the team.”
I frown.
Open my mouth.
Close it again.
I have absolutely no idea where this is going.
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“You left to send us a message,” he says calmly. “To show us we’ve been taking you for granted. And you were right.”
Silence.
I blink several times.
Hamish watches me as though he expects me to say something intelligent.
Bad luck, buddy.
My brain has officially abandoned ship.
“What?” I mutter.
“You made us realize your value by leaving without warning, becoming less available, and forcing us to recognize how much we depend on you. It was brilliant, Clementine. Truly. I couldn’t have handled it better myself.”
Is this a joke?
Is Marc Dufresne—the most rational man I know besides myself—seriously telling me that I went to Scotland to... negotiate?
“Marc, I—”
“And it worked. We had a meeting with senior management yesterday. We talked about you. Your importance to the team. Everything you bring to the company. Your ability to hit deadlines, manage crises, coordinate the most complex projects. And we came to one conclusion.”
My brain refuses to process the information correctly.
The words seem to arrive out of order, forcing me to mentally rearrange them into something that makes sense.
“You’re telling me that...”
“I’m offering you a promotion, Clementine. Senior Project Director. Along with a substantial salary increase. Fifteen percent. Your own office. No more mandatory office time if you don’t want it. More flexibility with your schedule. More autonomy in choosing projects.”
I freeze.
My left hand absently strokes Hamish’s wool.
My right hand grips the phone so tightly my fingers hurt.
“You’re offering me a promotion?”
The words nearly choke me.
“Yes. And frankly, you’ve earned it. You’ve always been our strongest performer. We should’ve recognized it sooner.”
Hamish yawns loudly.
I glare at him.
He stares right back with an expression that clearly says:
And?
“I’m... surprised,” I manage weakly.
That’s putting it mildly.
I’m so surprised my brain has temporarily stopped functioning in a coherent manner.
“You played this perfectly,” Marc continues, and there’s something dangerously close to admiration in his voice. “Leaving like that. Making us manage without you for a while. Making us feel your absence. We got the message loud and clear. You’re worth far more than what we’ve been giving you.”
I didn’t play anything!
I left because my grandmother forced me to come deal with an inheritance issue in a supposedly haunted Scottish manor where I somehow ended up involved in a fake relationship scheme with an absurdly charming real-estate agent and an omnipresent sheep who refuses to leave.
But I don’t say any of that.
Because apparently my accidental disappearance has been interpreted as a strategic salary negotiation tactic.
Life is deeply ironic sometimes.
“So?” Marc asks. “What do you think? When are you coming back?”
I look around.
The manor kitchen.
The old exposed beams.
The stone fireplace where I roasted vegetables yesterday while testing a new recipe.
The window overlooking the hills.
My recipe notebook resting open on the counter, turned to a page titled:
Apple Pie for the Nights When Everything Changes.
A recipe I still haven’t finished.
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know?”
“The inventory isn’t finished. There are still things I need to—”
“Clementine,” Marc sighs. “Forget the inventory. Delegate it. Hire someone local. We need you here. The Mercier project launches in two weeks. You’ll be leading it.
It’s a major account. A very major account with a three-million-euro budget.
The client is prestigious. If you succeed with this project, you’ll move to the next level.
This is the opportunity of your career.”
The opportunity of my career.
Exactly what I would have wanted to hear before I left.
Senior Project Director.
A fifteen percent raise.
My own office.
Professional recognition.
Autonomy.
The Mercier project.
Everything I’ve worked toward for years.
So why don’t I feel happy?
Why is my first thought not finally?
Why is my first thought:
What about Cameron?
“Marc, can I call you back in a few hours? I need some time to think.”
A long silence follows.
I imagine him sitting behind his desk, frowning, trying to understand why I’m not celebrating.
“All right. Twenty percent. But I can’t go any higher. I think I can also get approval for additional performance incentives on top of that. Do you still need time to think?”
“Thank you. That’s incredible. Really. It’s just... unexpected. I need a little time to... process everything.”
“All right,” he interrupts. “Take your time. But call me soon, okay? We need an answer quickly. Management wants this finalized this week.”
“Okay. I’ll call you back.”
“Perfect. And Clementine?”
“Yes?”
“Congratulations. Seriously. You played your cards perfectly. Professional-level work.”
He hangs up.
I remain seated with the phone still pressed against my ear even though the call ended several seconds ago.
Hamish stands, stretches with the particular grace unique to sheep who believe the world belongs to them, then lowers his head onto my lap again.
His dark eyes lock onto mine with unsettling intensity.
“I didn’t do anything,” I tell him out loud. “I just... fell in love with a place. And maybe with a person.”
Hamish doesn’t answer.
Obviously.
But he doesn’t move, either.
Which, coming from him, is almost the equivalent of emotional support.
I rest a hand on his wool.
It’s warm and soft beneath my fingers.
“What am I supposed to do, Hamish?”
He blinks slowly.
That’s all.
But in context, it feels remarkably similar to:
You already know what you want. Stop pretending you don’t.
This sheep is far too perceptive for his own good.
An hour later, I’m sitting on the manor steps with my recipe notebook open on my lap.
At the top of a blank page, I’ve written:
Pie for When Life Gives You Exactly What You Always Thought You Wanted
But I haven’t written anything else.
No ingredients.
No instructions.
No notes about the emotions attached to it.
Just the title.
Because I don’t know what recipe matches what I’m feeling.
Because what I’m feeling is too complicated to translate into food.
Because for the first time since I started this notebook, I don’t know how to turn an emotion into something concrete and manageable.
Not long ago, this promotion would have been the answer to everything.
Validation for all my effort.
Proof that sixty-hour workweeks hadn’t been wasted.
Recognition I deserved.
But now...
Now I think about Cameron, who taught me that stories don’t always follow a plan.
Sometimes you just have to see what happens.
I think about the manor, which has become more than a property to evaluate.
It has become a place where I cook.
Where I write.
Where I feel at home.
I think about the hills.
The loch Cameron took me to.
Ailsa dropping by without warning.
Maggie looking at me with that expression that says I know something you haven’t figured out yet.
I think about my recipe notebook filling with ridiculous titles tied to this place.
Highlands Stew.
Soup for When Everyone Is Watching You.
Pie for the Nights When Everything Changes.
And I think about Paris.
My tiny apartment.
My office.