I can’t quite put my finger on why the thought of Patrick’s brother arriving makes my stomach clench with anxiety.
Is it ironic that both our older brothers will be here at the same time?
Liam is London’s answer to Jordan Belfort, except scarier. Not that I understand finance at all—numbers make sense to me in code, not money terms—but it seems like an industry full of people who eat smaller, weaker people like me for breakfast.
I practiced ceilidh dance steps in my room yesterday like a fool, following along to YouTube videos while Fee laughed from the doorway. I nearly took out my bedside lamp twice.
Now I’m even more terrified because it feels like Patrick’s entire intimidating London world is descending on Skye. All at once. All together. His billionaire brother. His high-powered friends.
I’m not sure I’m ready to see this part of Patrick’s world, especially when it’ll make it even more obvious that “Georgie from IT” doesn’t fit in.
THIRTY-FOUR
Leg hair moving in the breeze
Georgie
“Stop fiddling with yourstrap,” Fee hisses, smacking my hand away. “You look incredible.”
“There’s no bra under here,” I whisper back, yanking at the neckline again. “One wrong move and everyone gets a show. Why did I let you talk me out of the sensible one with sleeves?”
“Because that dress made you look like someone’s divorced aunt hitting up the cruise ship buffet,” she says briskly, linking her arm through mine and hauling me toward the ballroom doors. “Now chin up, own the cleavage, stop spiraling.”
“I’m nervous,” I whisper. “Okay, so I’m ashamed to admit I did extensive research on Patrick’s friends who are arriving. Liam, his brother, is a billionaire who owns a cutthroat private equity firm in London. His partner Gemma used to be high up in the firm and now owns her own consultancy and dresses like a business version of Kate Middleton. And his friend Edward Cavendish is a top surgeon who seems to have been born in a castle. From what I can see, he’s dating a TV presenter with a figure like Jessica Rabbit.”
“Do you always see the good in everyone else and the apparent bad in yourself?”
“I’m just being realistic. I’m nowhere near as successful as these people. I’m pretty much a junior at McLaren Hotels.” I tug at my dress again. “I googled ‘Edward Cavendish’ and the first result was about his family estate. They have a Wikipedia page, Fee. For their stately house. I don’t even have a LinkedIn that’s up to date. Actually, I should probably update that.”
“So?”
“So, I’ll be standing there trying to make conversation about... what? The weather? My extensive knowledge of debugging code? While they discuss yacht racing or hostile takeovers or whatever billionaires chat about?”
“You’re lovely and smart and interesting,” Fee says firmly. “Stop comparing yourself to people you’ve cyberstalked. Now come on.”
The doors swing open and my breath catches.
Clachmòr House ballroom looks like a fishing village exploded inside a Jane Austen novel. There are nets hanging from the ceiling, lanterns making everything glowy, and the tables are groaning under the weight of seafood, haggis, tatties, and every Scottish delicacy imaginable.
There is no way I’m attempting haggis in silk. I do not need a digestive emergency tonight, not when everything else already feels so precarious.
Chef MacLeod and his team must have been working since the middle of the night to create this magic.
But food isn’t the headline act. Oh no. The headline is that every single man in this room is in a kilt.
Oh my God.
It’s just... calves everywhere. Some look like they belong on a Greek statue. Some are so hairy they could be halfway through a werewolf transformation. I swear one man’s leg hair is moving in the breeze from the air conditioning.
Fee clutches my arm. “It’s like an all-you-can-eat buffet of Scottish man meat. Look at them.”
She says it loud enough that at least three kilted specimens turn our way, which only makes her grip harder, like she’s genuinely afraid she might launch herself across the room and start dry-humping the nearest set of calves.
I try to laugh but my stomach’s doing that awful flip-flop thing it does when I’m completely out of my element. The fanciest thing I’ve been to in years was my cousin’s wedding, and I spent three hours hiding behind the chocolate fountain, darting out only for profiteroles.
“Deep breaths,” I mutter to myself. “You’re a grown woman. You can handle men in traditional Scottish dress without having a cardiac event.”
Fee snorts. “Speak for yourself. I’m about thirty seconds from asking that one if I can verify what’s under his kilt.”
