“Just checking in on civilization.” His voice crackles through wind tearing across whatever frozen wasteland he’s currently conquering. “How’s life?”
“Can’t complain about much. How’s the expedition going?”
“Making solid progress across the ice sheet. Weather’s been surprisingly cooperative.” There’s a pause. “Actually, mate, I’m calling about Georgie.”
My stride shortens. “What about her?”
“Is she doing all right up there? I rang her this morning and she said she’s been at the hotel working since six.”
Since six? On a Saturday? “I wasn’t aware.”
“I know she’s not technically your responsibility, and I’m putting you in an awkward position here...” He pauses. “But Christ, Patrick, she’s twenty-five. She should be having some sort of life outside work, not pulling twelve-hour days on weekends.”
Something uncomfortable twists in my gut. Maybe Ihavebeen a bastard to her. After Thursday night’s dinner, I’ve started to think she’s trying harder than I’d given her credit for. And nowher brother’s calling from the arse-end of the world because she’s working herself into the ground on my watch.
“I’ll check on her.” I’m already turning, heading for the hotel.
“I’m not asking you to babysit her. Just… she seems stressed. I’m worried about her, you know?”
“She’s a grown woman. What she does with her time is her business.” Even as the words leave my mouth, my stride lengthens toward Clachmòr. “You need to stop mollycoddling her.”
“Fair point.” He sighs, the sound almost lost to a roar of wind.
When I hang up, the conversation sticks under my skin. So does the memory of dinner.
If I’m being honest, it was the first time in months I’d genuinely enjoyed a conversation about the hotels. The sanitized boardroom presentations strip the life out of everything, but the small, messy details make running these places feel alive again, instead of being just another asset portfolio to manage.
Yesterday, I asked Craig for reports to verify Georgie’s theories about the bagpipe acoustics and haunted room spending patterns. The numbers came in exactly as she’d claimed.
I’d caught myself grinning when I read it.
I find her in the back office, completely absorbed. Shoulders hunched, her fingers flying across the keyboard. Her hair’s escaped from whatever she’d tied it back with, dark strands falling around her face.
She looks up when I fill the doorway, and her eyes go wide. They drop to my bare chest, still slicked with sweat from my run, and she makes a small, strangled sound like a startled bird.
“Patrick. Good morning.”
“It’s Saturday.”
“Is there—” She swallows hard. “Is there a problem?”
“You shouldn’t be working today,” I say, nodding at her laptop.
“We’ve got deadlines looming, and I’m stuck on this particularly frustrating integration issue.” Her gaze flickers down, and catches on my bare legs. She jerks her eyes away like she’s been burned. “It doesn’t matter. How can I help you?”
I drag a hand across my chest, suddenly aware of how this looks. I'm standing half-naked, dripping sweat, looming over her in an empty office. She’s probably terrified. Or uncomfortable.
“We’re going out on my boat,” I tell her. “To tick something off your list. Whales and puffins. I can’t guarantee the whales will cooperate, but I’ll do my best.”
“Oh.” She blinks. “That’s really kind, but I’m sure you have better things to do. Other people to spend your Saturday with. I don’t want to be a burden. I’m fine here with my integration issues, really.”
There’s something about how quickly she dismisses herself that irritates me.
“If I wanted to spend my Saturday with someone else, I would.”
“You know what I mean. You don’t need to babysit me for my brother’s sake. Did he call you?”
I shift uncomfortably, rubbing the back of my neck. “That’s not what this is about. I want to show you what this island has to offer rather than watch you bury yourself behind a screen all weekend.”
