“I don’t mind.” She smiles at me, fingers tightening in my hair to keep me close. “I like you here. Makes me feel...” She bites her lip. “Safe. Like nothing bad can happen as long as you’re here.”
“Good. That’s how you should feel.”
“That was...” She trails off with a breathless laugh. “I don’t even have words.”
“Really good exercise to keep warm?”
“I was going to say transcendent, but sure.”
I smirk against her skin.
Then her eyes go wide, horror dawning across her face. “Oh God, I can hear Jake farting in the next tent. You men are absolutely disgusting. Do you think he can hearus?”
Well. That’s one way to kill the post-coital glow.
“Definitely.”
“Bloody hell! You know, even though I’m twenty-five I still don’t like the idea of my big brother knowing I’m being naughty with you in a tent meters away from him.”
“Being naughty?” I raise an eyebrow. “Christ, Georgie. You sound like you’re confessing to the headmaster. Jake’s a grown man. He’ll survive the trauma.” I pause, grinning darkly. “Anyway, he literally applauded us kissing in front of strangers last night. I think he’s well aware.”
I press a kiss to her forehead and roll off her, immediately missing her warmth. “Come on. Let’s get you fed before you overthink yourself into a spiral. I saw that annotated tourist guide of yours. We’ve got ground to cover. Those huskies aren’t going to cuddle themselves.”
Doesn’t matter if it’s a tent in Norway or a house in London; I realize I want this every morning for the rest of my life.
Georgie
Three months later
“I was thinking we could have a relaxation nook here.” I beam at Roy, gesturing toward the corner space by the window.
He gives me a look that’s equal parts fond and judgmental. “Are you actually going to use it to relax, or are you going to sit there spiraling about deadlines while pretending it’s mindfulness?”
I open my mouth to argue, then close it again because, well… fair point. “Okay, probably not me. But someonewilluse it. My good intentions and my unnecessarily expensive cushion budget shouldn’t go to waste.”
I turn to look around the space, taking it in. My beautiful, albeit small, startup office. The afternoon light streams through the windows, hitting the exposed brick, and I have to pinch myself. It’s perfect.
We’ve got bike racks downstairs so we can cycle in, and mine’s only a twenty-minute ride from home. The cycle is great for my coding brain. Something about the physical movement and theconstant low-level terror of cycling in London makes everything click into place. I solve problems on that bike that would’ve taken me hours at my desk.
“You’re doing that thing again,” Roy says.
“What thing?”
“That thing where you look around like you still can’t believe this is real. It’s real, Georgie. You built this.”
My throat goes tight. “Webuilt it. You could’ve stayed at McLaren Hotels. You didn’t have to take a risk on me.”
“On us,” he corrects firmly. “And yeah, I could’ve stayed. Or I could’ve followed the most brilliant coder I know. Easy choice.”
I bite my lip, fighting a smile. “Stop being nice to me. I’m trying to be professional.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
My gaze drifts to the sign on the wall.
FORTIS
Deep blue letters, clean against the brick. It’s Latin for strong and brave, which Patrick said was “very fitting” when I told him.
