“I wonder if I’ll be like you someday.” I look up at him. “Ruthless.”
His free hand comes up, fingers gentle as he tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “I saw you in that meeting with my lawyers. You already are.”
I fight a smirk. “I can be a badass, can’t I?”
Fortis indeed.
“You are a badass.” His lips graze my jaw, barely touching, just enough to make me gasp. “You built your own company. Set your own terms. Made me fall completely in love with you to the point I’m a fucking sap now.” His voice drops to a growl. “And you look fucking incredible doing it.”
“We can’t,” I whisper, but I’m leaning into him anyway, which sends a rather mixed message.
“Pity.” He presses one more kiss just below my ear before straightening up and stepping back. “I’ll wait downstairs for you to finish up. Then I’m taking you home.” His eyes lock on mine. “Where I can take my time showing you exactly how powerful I think you are.”
I actually whimper. Out loud, in my new office.
My eyes land on Riri’s photo sitting proudly on my desk.
I swear to God she winks at me.
Three months later
“Fee!” I squeal, flinging open the door and nearly taking it off its hinges in my enthusiasm. “You made it!”
“Of course I made it, you numpty.” She pulls me into a hug. “Did you think I’d miss your ‘housewarming’ party? Or ‘house renovation celebration’ as it’s more accurately called?”
Patrick and I have given the whole house a makeover, and it’s gorgeous. With Riri’s spiritual blessing from beyond, of course.
I spent so long worrying about how I could ever fit into Patrick’s world. He’s too adventurous, older, more experienced, and a billionaire.
But now Patrick has given up his sleek London penthouse and moved into Riri’s house with me.
It never occurred to me that he would fit into my world and that he’d be happy here.
We’ve only been to Skye once since we got back from Jake’s Norway expedition and made things official, because I’ve been so buried in Fortis business—hiring developers, debugging crises, and having minor breakdowns about whether I’m a real CEO—that I haven’t had time to go back yet. Which kills me because I miss the island and Fee.
She steps back from the hug and looks around the entrance hall. “Georgie, this place looks incredible. The photos don’t do it justice. Did you hire an interior designer?”
I beam. “Patrick and I chose the design together. Well, I chose it, and he nodded approvingly. He’s pretty easygoing about décor. Typical bloke, doesn’t even notice if the walls change color. I’m fairly certain I could paint the entire house neon pink with purple polka dots, and he’d probably just wander through, squint a bit, and then ask if we have milk for his tea.”
She grins. “He’d live in a cardboard box if you were in it. The man’s besotted. Or he’s just smart enough to know that arguing about paint colors isn’t worth sleeping on the sofa.”
I laugh, though I’m thinking there’s absolutely no way I could banish a man with thighs like that to the sofa. He needs to be in my bed at all times.
The hall does look incredible, even if I’m biased. We’ve painted it a buttery cream that makes everything feel light instead of the slightly depressing magnolia it was before (sorry, Riri).
There’s a vintage console table that Patrick found at an antique market, topped with an enormous vase of fresh flowers that he replaces every week, which I think is really sweet of him and also slightly wasteful, but I don’t say that because he looks so pleased with himself when he brings them home.
“You look great!” I beam at her. “How’s Skye now that tourist season’s winding down? Is it really quiet?”
She smirks. “We’re finding ways to entertain ourselves. Oh, here he is.”
Chef MacLeod materializes behind her. His arm slides around her waist possessively, and she reaches up to tug on his beard. The movement is somehow deeply, disturbingly erotic. This couple, I swear to God, they’re constantly shagging like rabbits. The sexual energy is palpable.
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.”
