If only he knew about theathletic Highland sexchalked at the top of my kitchen wishlist.
I roll out of bed. The swoop in my stomach reminds me that IRIS implementation starts today.
I need to configure the IT systems throughout the hotel and introduce key staff members to IRIS’s core features.
I pad over to the cottage window in my pajamas. What a view. So calming. And it’s only six in the morning.
My eyes land on the binoculars sitting innocently on the windowsill. I pick them up, feeling instantly outdoorsy.
Portree is barely awake. A couple of dog walkers shuffle along, a postman does his rounds—and oh, wow, mate, you might want to know that I can see you goingelbow-deepin your nostril while you sort the mail.
I swing the binoculars toward the hotel, already drunk on my newfound surveillance power. Someone’s doing laps in the outdoor pool.
I pan across to the staff cottages. Someone’s left laundry out overnight, which feels risky in Scotland.
Then I shift to the posh cottage, the one tucked away between the trees.
I adjust the focus and suddenly I can see right into the back garden. They probably think the trees give them complete privacy. And they’re not wrong—unless someone’s standing in a cottage on a hill with professional-grade binoculars like a nosy little creep.
Oh, this issonaughty.
I hover, fingers twitching on the focus wheel. One small adjustment. Just a peek.
Just a tiny, innocent—
“Oh myGod.”
The binoculars catapult out of my hands. I fumble frantically and catch them mid-air, pulse hammering against my throat.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Was that really—?
Of course it was.
There’s only one man who could make my body react like this.
I should put the binoculars down. Respect his privacy. Maybe do some therapeutic stretching or meditation.
Instead—
My hands betray me instantly.
Binoculars up. Focus wheel turning.
The image sharpens into high-definition sin.
Patrick McLaren is naked in the garden.
Not “cheeky towel low on the hips” naked.
No.
We are talking full-frontal, Greek-statue-in-IMAX naked.
My gaze greedily trails over him, soaking in every breathtaking inch.
Those thighs—thick with muscle that shifts and flexes as he moves. His chest is all hard definition, with enough dark hair to remind you he’s a grown man who doesn’t wax for anyone. The sharp V of his hips draws my eyes lower, following that dark line to—
