I stand in receptionwith James, running my eyes down the occupancy figures. Solid numbers—the kind that keep accountants happy.
The hotel is thriving, and the scrawny kid in me who used to sneak onto these grounds during summers with my granddad still can’t help but feel a fierce surge of pride.
Back then, Clachmòr was nothing but crumbling stone. Even half-dead and rotting, I thought it was the most magnificent thing I’d ever laid eyes on.
Now it gleams. Scottish stone and history brought back to life. Every number on this page is proof of what I’ve built—guests dining in our restaurant, sleeping in our beds, leaving with memories that’ll keep them talking about Skye for decades. That’s my legacy. That’s what matters.
I glance up to see MacLeod striding across the lobby like a man with serious business on his mind.
“Can I have a minute, boss?”
What now? Maybe Georgie’s convinced the housekeeping staff they’re all being replaced by robot hoovers.
I nod to James, who takes the hint and makes himself scarce.
“What’s the problem this time, Calum?”
“About this morning. I might have been a wee bit hasty in my judgment.”
I raise a brow. “Aye?”
“The lass came back to see me. Showed me this system properly.” He rubs the back of his neck, looking genuinely embarrassed. “It’s frightening, Patrick. Bloody clever. Tracks my supplier prices in real time, catches when MacPherson’s trying to shaft me on the langoustines. Shows me actual food costs as we’re plating each dish.”
“She went back to see you?”
I’d assumed she’d be holed up in that back office, licking her wounds and counting down the minutes until reinforcements arrived from London.
“Aye. Marched right up to my kitchen door, demanded a meeting. Even gave me a bollocking.”
I blink hard. “Shetold you off?”
“She was right to, the wee thing. We were harsh on her.” He shrugs, looking sheepish. “The lass stutters and apologizes, but once she stopped all that and showed me what this system could do...” He shakes his head. “Well. I told her I’d give it proper consideration.”
I nod, trying to wrap my head around this unexpected development. “Thanks for letting me know.”
I went in guns blazing. Made her eyes fill with tears, watched her shrink into that chair. That flinch when I moved—Christ, what kind of bastard makes a woman react like that?
But she’d handled it. Picked herself up and went back to the scariest chef in Scotland to demand respect.
That takes backbone.
“She’s a nice lass,” MacLeod adds. “Pretty little thing too.”
My jaw tightens. “Find someone else to chat up, Calum.”
He shrugs, holding his hands up. “Just saying.”
He heads back toward the kitchen, leaving me standing in the middle of my own hotel feeling like the worst kind of bastard.
Jake asked me to look out for his sister.
Spectacular job I’m doing so far.
I knock on Georgie’s cottage door at seven thirty. I’d thought doing this away from the hotel might feel less formal, but now I’m wondering if showing up at her home this late crosses a professional boundary I’ve got no business crossing.
The door swings open to reveal a redhead in yoga gear—works in the spa, if memory serves.
She blinks up at me. “Mr. McLaren.”
