“Patrick,” I correct, already regretting the whole idea. “Is Georgie about?”
“No, she’s still at the hotel, I think. Working late. But you could wait inside? I was literally just about to open a bottle of wine…”
“I’ll try the hotel,” I cut in, already stepping back from the doorway.
“Of course. She’s probably holed up in that back office.”
The guilt that’s been gnawing at me all afternoon twists deeper. And I can’t work out why. If any other employee had messed up the way she did this morning, I’d expect them to put in extra hours fixing it. That’s how this business works—you mess up, you course-correct. End of story.
But with her? Something about the whole situation sits wrong in my chest.
Maybe it’s because Jake specifically mentioned she’d been having a rough time lately.
I’m halfway back down the path when I spot her.
She trudges up the lane, laptop bag sliding off her shoulder with every step. Dark strands have escaped her ponytail. Her whole body radiates exhaustion; shoulders rounded like she’s been carrying the weight of the world all day and it’s slowly crushing her.
Then she sees me. Her eyes turn wary like she’s bracing for another verbal battering.
“Patrick?” she says quietly. “What are you doing here?”
“Wanted to have a word.”
She shifts her bag higher on her shoulder. “Oh.”
“Look,” I start, rubbing a hand over my jaw. “I was too harsh earlier. Calum came to see me. Said he was impressed with the system.” I pause, watching her face. “With you.”
She exhales like I’ve just given her permission to breathe after holding it all day. “I’m glad. I just wanted to make their jobs easier, not...” She manages a weak smile. “I wasn’t trying to trigger a full-scale culinary rebellion.”
“I know.”
“Are you…” She tilts her head slightly. “Apologizing?”
My jaw tightens. “I’m setting the record straight. I don’t like how we left things this afternoon. I still think you mishandled the initial demonstration,” I add, because I’m not in the business of rewriting history, “but you went back and sorted it out. That takes backbone. Especially with someone as hot-tempered as MacLeod.”
Her lips twitch when she realizes that no, I’m not apologizing. I’m offering credit where it’s due, not contrition.
“That’s okay.” She fiddles with her bag strap, giving me a rueful smile. “I guess that’s just the way of the industry, right? Gordon Ramsay’s built a multimillion-pound empire on yelling at people. And we all watch it like it’s brilliant television. So I suppose I should’ve been more prepared for the whole ‘chef gets to verbally eviscerate anyone who dares enter their sacred kitchen’ thing.”
Even though her attempt at humor is sharp enough, something about her delivery makes me frown.
“Was there anything else?” she asks.
There shouldn’t be. I should leave her alone, let her get on with her evening. But something keeps me rooted to the spot.
“How’s the cottage? Are you settling in all right?”
She nods. “Yes, it’s lovely. The view’s spectacular.”
“You can see everything from this height.”
“Everything,” she agrees, her cheeks flushing pink. “It’s all just… out there. On full display.”
She won’t meet my eyes anymore. Guess that’s normal for her.
Her stomach growls.
“Sorry,” she mutters, wrapping an arm around herself.
