EPILOGUE #3
This is why Fee stayed in Skye instead of moving on to the next McLaren hotel posting. It wasn’t for the career opportunities, but the enormous Scottish chef and whatever they’re doing that makes her look like that.
He holds out three massive containers. “A few wee delicacies there, from me. Nothing fancy.”
“Thanks, Calum.” I take them, blushing. His name still catches in my throat. My brain desperately wants to call him “Chef MacLeod.”
Also, I know too much. In the beginning, Fee told me, in graphic detail that I didn’t ask for but received anyway, exactly how their relationship works.
How he likes her to shout at him in the kitchen, and tell him he’s a useless chef who can’t even boil water properly, that his soufflés are a disgrace, and that he’s a shame to Scotland’s culinary tradition.
Then they have violent, passionate, countertop-destroying sex right there among the pots and pans.
I can’t look the man in the eye.
“Come in. Please,” I say. “Let me take your coats. I’ll get you champagne. Or whisky? We have good whisky.”
I smile. I like hosting. Not huge parties—the thought of twenty-plus people in my space makes me want to hide under my bed and never emerge. But this I can do. Quality over quantity.
I lead them into the living room where a few of my university friends are scattered about, along with Roy and Alya.
Some of Patrick’s friends are here too—Liam and Gemma, and Daisy with Edward.
Plus Jake who’s already helped himself to the expensive whisky Patrick was saving for “special occasions.”
I’ve gotten to know Daisy properly over the last few months. She had all these worries about fitting into Edward’s world—the man’s family has an estate with staff and peacocks—and we bonded immediately over shared imposter syndrome.
Now she texts me at random hours asking if things are “appropriate” and I have to remind her that I’m the woman who once apologized profusely to a mannequin at Zara after walking into it.
The living room looks gorgeous, if I’m allowed to say that about my own house without sounding smug.
Patrick is practical and good with his hands which is both useful for home renovation and deeply sexy.
He made the built-in bookshelves in the living room himself while I watched and tried not to visibly swoon.
My IT books are strategically hidden behind more aesthetically pleasing spines because books about network security and firewalls are ugly.
Right at eye level is Steven Bartlett’s The Diary of a CEO, which I bought purely because no self-respecting CEO would be caught without it.
Riri’s ashes sit on the mantelpiece in a beautiful ceramic urn. Sometimes I still talk to her, tell her about my day, about the business, about how Patrick leaves his socks on the bathroom floor, and it drives me insane but also makes me stupidly happy because it means he lives here.
At least his socks don’t smell as bad as Jake’s. Though that might just be my pheromones doing some heavy lifting. Love is blind, and apparently it’s also lost its sense of smell.
Patrick catches my eye and smiles. That slow, warm smile that’s just for me, the one that makes my stomach flip even after all these months.
There’re the flutters. Right on schedule. They never go away.
He raises his glass to me from across the room where he’s talking to Roy.
This is my life now.
Just like Riri always wanted for me.
“Did you enjoy the party, sweetheart?”
His voice comes from behind me, low and rough, and his arms wrap around my waist. He bends down to press his lips to my neck—has to bend because he’s ridiculously tall and I’m not—and the heat of his mouth against my skin makes my knees go weak.
A full-body shiver runs through me. Every. Single. Time. I cannot play it cool with this man, not even slightly. Five years from now, I’ll still be turning into a puddle every time he does that thing with his lips on my throat.
“It was amazing.” I let myself melt back against him, feeling the solid wall of his chest. My head tips to the side, giving him better access. “But now I’m glad it’s just us.”
I sigh, eyes closing for a moment. Then reality crashes back in, and I straighten. “I should do the dishes, though. I won’t be able to sleep knowing they’re sitting there getting crusty.”
“Hmm.” He kisses my neck again, slower this time. I feel his smile curve against my throat. “Yeah, you should.”
Cheeky bastard. He could offer to help. He has two perfectly functional hands.
I pull away from him with what I hope is dignified disappointment. I stroll into the kitchen, except it’s less of a stroll and more of a shuffle because I’m absolutely knackered and my feet hurt from hosting in heels.
Empty beer bottles and wine bottles cover every surface like evidence of a very successful party.
I start gathering them, glass clinking as I deposit them in the recycling bin.
I reach for my rubber gloves when something stops me cold.
The whiteboard. The board Patrick and I put up on the wall, the one where we leave each other notes and reminders. Like the one I had in Skye that started this whole thing.
There’s new handwriting on it. His handwriting, bold and confident in black marker.
Patrick’s To-Do List:
Marry her
My hands fly to my mouth. The rubber gloves fall forgotten on the counter.
I hear him clear his throat behind me.
When I spin around, he’s leaning against the doorframe, grinning at me.
“Are you proposing?” I gasp
He chuckles and pushes off the doorframe to prowl toward me.
“In the kitchen?” He stops in front of me, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to look at him. “No, sweetheart. Not yet.”
I suck in a breath, my heart pounding. “Not yet?”
“Just so you know...” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, fingers lingering. They trail down slowly, tracing the line of my jaw, my throat, making me swallow hard. “I know you don’t like surprises. So, consider this fair warning. It’s on my list. Quite high up, actually.”
He winks, and I feel it between my thighs.
Oh my God.
“How high up? Like, top five? Top three? Higher than ‘buy milk’?”
“Higher than buy milk.” His thumb traces my bottom lip, and my lips part involuntarily. “Much, much higher.”
“Oh. Very good.” I swallow, pulse hammering. “Actually, I think the dishes can wait.”
“Excellent decision-making. Very CEO of you.”
He scoops me up, literally lifts me off my feet. I giggle, hands grabbing onto his shoulders for balance.
Oh my.
My Skye bucket list had “athletic sex with rugged Highland men.” I’m about to have very athletic sex with exactly one man.
Singular. A Yorkshireman, technically, which doesn’t count geographically, although he is half Scottish.
But I’m crossing it off because I make the rules, and also because I’m about to be thoroughly ruined.
Quality over quantity, as they say.
And Patrick McLaren is definitely quality.
THE END
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Rosa x