Chapter 23
TWENTY-THREE
Guardian of Georgie Fitzgerald
Georgie
Malcolm jerks to a stop at the pub door, his arm snapping back like he’s hit an invisible wall.
“What the—?”
My eyes drop to where Patrick’s hand has locked around Malcolm’s wrist.
“Not a fucking chance,” Patrick growls. He doesn’t even glance at me. All that terrifying focus lasers onto Malcolm. “You think you’re driving her somewhere? Not happening.”
My brain catches up slowly. Then I see car keys dangling from Malcolm’s trapped hand.
Oh.
“Ah, come on, big man.” Malcolm’s laugh comes out strangled. He tries to pull free, but Patrick’s grip doesn’t budge. “It’s one mile. This is Skye, not Glasgow. I’ll go slow and there’s no police around.”
“You’ve had six of those drinks,” Patrick says, voice calm in that very specific not calm at all way. “You’re not putting her in a car.”
Malcolm tugs harder, face reddening. Patrick could probably hold him there until morning without breaking a sweat.
Finally, Patrick’s eyes find mine. “You’re done. You’ve had your night of wild fun. Now you’re coming home with me.”
“This is… kind of hilarious, actually,” I say, voice wobbling. “Me. Georgie Fitzgerald. Getting told off for being too wild. Me, the quietest woman on the planet.”
Patrick’s expression doesn’t soften. If anything, it hardens further.
Malcolm shifts, clearly calculating whether defending my honor is worth fighting one of the most powerful men on the island. “With all due respect,” he slurs, “you can own the land. Doesn’t mean you own the people on it. Georgie’s been handling herself just fine tonight.”
I want the pavement to split and swallow me whole. This is exactly like being fifteen and having my stepdad storm the school disco, except my stepdad didn’t have shoulders like that, or hands that could snap wrists, or eyes that could make grown men stammer.
Patrick’s jaw tightens, that muscle jumping. For one terrifying heartbeat, I think he’s going to hit Malcolm.
No. This needs to end before we get a full Highland soap opera, complete with kilted fistfight. My anxiety can’t handle this much testosterone. I’m built for quiet libraries and debugging code, not pub brawls.
And yes, fine, Patrick’s right—I shouldn’t get in a car with drunk Malcolm. I signed up for adventure, but not the drunk-driving-death-trap variety.
I turn to Malcolm. “I think I’ve had enough for tonight. I’ll text you tomorrow?”
What follows may be the single most awkward goodbye in recorded history: Patrick looming beside me like the Grim Reaper of Fun, Malcolm mumbling something polite before bolting back into the pub, probably to tell everyone about the mad English girl with the psycho boss.
The second he’s out of earshot, I round on Patrick, booze courage roaring. “Under what authority are you here? Boss? Pseudo–big brother? Or did you promote yourself to Self-Appointed Guardian of Georgie Fitzgerald?”
Fee was wrong. McLaren Hotels do monitor our vaginas.
“I’m looking out for you because you’re not making good decisions right now.”
I bristle. Suddenly, I’m not outside a Scottish pub. I’m twenty-one, in my university flat, listening to Steve-the-Shit tell me why I couldn’t go out with my friends. You’re not making good decisions. Same words. Same kick in the gut.
“Excuse me?” My voice goes sharp. “What did you just say?”
“You were about to get in a car with a drunk guy. Jesus Christ, Georgie.”
“Actually, I hadn’t noticed the car keys.
But I wouldn’t have gotten in the car. Because I trust myself to make basic adult decisions.
But you didn’t even let me get that far, did you?
” My hands ball into fists at my sides. “Because silly Georgie can’t be trusted.
Silly little Georgie needs a big, strong man to tell her what’s good for her. ”
The sensible voice in my head shrieks that Patrick McLaren is not the person to test my overdue feminist awakening on. But the fish cocktails have gagged her and set her on fire.
He exhales through his nose like I’m the most exhausting thing he’s had to deal with all year. “For fuck’s sake. Get in the Land Rover.”
“No.” The word surprises me as much as him.
“No, you’re going to listen to me first. I am not your responsibility or your obligation or your…
whatever you think I am. I’m a grown woman.
I’ve been voting for seven years. I have a university degree.
Well... nearly. Three-quarters. But still!
I pay taxes. I can operate heavy machinery—okay, laptops, but they’re complex—and outside my contractual working hours, I can see whoever I damn well please! ”
He glares down at me, carved from Yorkshire stone and barely contained frustration, which only makes words tumble out faster. If I stop, I’ll lose whatever half-baked point I’m making.
“I could line up every farmer, fisherman, and lighthouse keeper on this island for a reverse harem! I could drink my way to Edinburgh and back, shag my way through the ferry staff, and none of it has a damn thing to do with you.”
His brows pull together into that thunderous scowl that usually makes me want to hide under desks.
“I genuinely don’t understand what you want from me, Patrick.
I really don’t.” My hands shake—probably the cocktails, definitely the confrontation.
“Because I’m a programmer. I deal in logic and facts.
And the facts are: you kissed me. I kissed you back.
Other things happened that we’re apparently never discussing.
You told me not to get any romantic notions in my head, and fine.
Message received. But all I wanted was for you to treat me like an equal with some respect. ”
His jaw clenches but he doesn’t interrupt.
“I did everything you wanted! Followed your chain of command like a good little girl who knows her place.” My voice climbs higher. “And then you show up tonight, on my date, and try to drag me home.”
The words tumble out of me in a messy rush, miles from the feminist mic drop I’m hoping for.
“Do you know how hard it is for me to even go on a date? I’m twenty-five years old.
And dare I say it—although clearly you don’t believe it—I’m a competent adult and a halfway decent employee of your company.
And I’m sick of men like you thinking you know better than I do about my own life. ”
My chest heaves. The street spins slightly.
We stand there, the night air crackling between us.
“Men like me?” His voice has gone dangerously quiet.
“Yes. Men who—” I fling my hands out, nearly smacking him in his massive chest. “Men who think they own everything. The distillery, the island, the people, the bloody air we breathe—”
“I don’t think I own everything.”
“You literally ordered me home! Like I’m your property. So yes, men like you. Men who make me feel stupid and small and incapable of basic decision-making without supervision.”
His shoulders rise with a long inhale, chest expanding like he’s summoning patience from the depths of his soul.
This is how it goes, I think bitterly. I finally find my voice and it’s slurred, pathetic, and will probably get me fired tomorrow.
“Finished?” he says at last.
I sniff. Not finished. But my dignity’s already in pieces on the pavement.
Let’s see what a man like Patrick goes for. You’re being childish, Georgie. You’ll regret this tantrum in the morning when you’ve sobered up and can see that I’m right.
“Fuck.” He yanks off his baseball cap, and rakes his fingers through his hair until it stands in wild spikes.
Then he steps in closer, so close the heat of him rolls over me, his breath stirring my hair. “I wasn’t trying to make you feel stupid. If that’s how it came across, then I fucked up.”
I blink at him, pulse hammering. “What?”
His hand rises halfway toward my face. I watch it hover there, fingers curling into a fist before dropping back to his side. “I’m sorry. For upsetting you.”
“You’re... apologizing?”
This isn’t how it goes. Men like Patrick don’t apologize to women like me. They explain why we misunderstood. Why we’re overreacting.
His grimace deepens. “I handled tonight badly. Not just tonight. Where you’re concerned, I’ve been handling everything badly.”
I squint at him suspiciously, the cocktails making everything fuzzy. “Are you worried I’ll file a complaint with HR or something?”
“No. Though you should if you want to. This is me telling you I crossed the line. Multiple lines. And it wasn’t about making you feel small. It’s that I have no idea what to do about this… situation.”
“What situation?”
His eyes lock onto mine. “The situation where I can’t get what happened on that boat out of my head. Not for a single fucking day.”
My breath catches. The street noise fades to white noise.
“And if you knew how close I’ve come to—”
He cuts himself off, body going rigid, jaw clenched like the rest of that sentence might set the night on fire if he lets it escape.
“—you’d be smart enough to keep your distance.”
I can’t breathe properly. My pulse pounds in my ears, drowning out the bagpipes, the shouting from the pub, the whole island. I don’t even fully understand what he means, only that it’s lodged inside me like a spark refusing to burn out.
His fingers brush my shoulder, and I realize my strap has slipped down. I hadn’t noticed. He slides it back up, thumb ghosting across my skin so gently my whole body shivers.
“Now,” he mutters, “can you please just get in the damn car?”
He doesn’t give me the chance to argue. He marches to the Land Rover and wrenches the passenger door open.
I follow on wobbly legs that don’t feel entirely mine anymore. The heels aren’t helping.
He offers his hand to help me climb up.
“Thank you,” I mumble, because even when arguing with someone, manners matter.
He slides into the driver’s seat beside me, and suddenly we’re trapped in this confined space together, the air thick with heat and tension.
Just like after the boat trip.
Only this time, the silence isn’t empty because neither of us will speak.
It’s loaded because too much has already been said.
And for once, I’m not the quiet one.
I said something. Stood my ground.
Granted, it involved shouting about reverse harems and ferry orgies, but still. I used my voice. I made him hear me.