He’s already circling to the driver’s side, so I miss the look on his face. Does he realize this is romantic? At least by my standards anyway.
“I picked the smallest adult one,” he says, climbing in beside me.
“Hey!” I elbow him when he settles behind the wheel, but he just smirks, clearly pleased at himself.
“So, you actually fish, then?” I ask.
“Every now and then. You don’t need a permit for sea fishing in Scotland.” His tone softens a fraction. “My grandad used to bring me out here when I was a kid. Liam too.”
I bite my lip, something warm fluttering in my chest. “So you’re a proper fisherman.”
He chuckles as he starts the engine. “Wouldn’t go that far. Never been paid for a catch. But my grandad was the real deal. He worked the North Sea for forty years.”
“He taught you?”
“Everything useful I know.” His hands relax on the wheel as he talks. “Reading weather patterns, fixing engines, tying knots. Heused to say being smart wasn’t about exam scores—lucky for me, since I barely scraped through school.”
“You struggled in school?” I can’t picture it.
One corner of his mouth lifts. “Liam was the brilliant one. I was quiet and people assumed I was a bit thick. Grandad was the only one who thought I’d amount to anything. Still trying to prove him right, I suppose.”
Oh my god. Patrick McLaren just admitted to feeling inadequate. Maybe this powerful, confident man who builds hotels wasn’t always that man. At some point he was a kid struggling in school.
“Maybe we’ve found the one thing you’re scared of,” I say quietly.
“What?”
“Letting your grandad down.”
Something flickers across his face. “He’s been dead ten years. Can’t let down a dead man.”
The rough edge in his voice says otherwise.
“Well, you don’t have to worry. You proved him right.” I pause. “Is that why you’re so hellbent on getting Skye on the Forbes List?”
“Maybe. That, and I’m an arrogant, competitive bastard.”
My chest tightens. IRIS has to work. It has to be perfect. Not just because Craig will crucify me if it isn’t, but because Patrick needs this. It feels like more than my project now; it feels like my part in proving something too.
One of the suspender straps slips off my shoulder. “Bloody things,” I mutter, yanking it back up. “I don’t feel remotely attractive in this getup.”
His gaze drags down, taking me in. “You look like a sweet little thing.”
“Sweet little things aren’t sexy.”
His hand leaves the wheel and drops heavy onto my knee. Even through the layers of rubber, the heat of him sears straight through. The Land Rover jolts over a bump, but he keeps steering one-handed like a total caveman. “I’ll be the judge of that.”
My breath hitches. Everything about this scenario is ridiculously hot.
“You look really handsome like this,” I murmur, biting my lip.
“Glad you approve,” he says, voice dropping to that low rumble that makes my pulse trip.
The squeak of my waders fills the cab every time I shift.
“You can drive one-handed? That’s… quite the multitask.”
“I can.” His thumb strokes lazy circles against my leg. “So, tell me. In this fisherman fantasy of yours, what exactly happens?”
