My hand tightens on my glass.
Patrick shifts, discomfort flashing for half a second. “It’s not exactly my usual attire.”
“Your plaid’s crooked though.” Before he can respond, Maren’s already fixing it, hands smoothing tartan across his chest.
I stand frozen, pretending I don’t notice, while noticing every second. It’s such an easy touch, like her hand knows its way home. When I touch Patrick, it still feels like I’m stealing something. Like I’m getting away with something I shouldn’t.
Patrick doesn’t step back, but there’s this tiny muscle in his jaw doing that telltale twitch—the only sign he knows how excruciating this is. Not that anyone else notices.
I scan desperately for Fee, but she’s vanished, probably getting acquainted with MacLeod’s sporran behind a haggis display, leaving me stranded with top CEO types and Patrick’s clenched jaw.
The band strikes up something aggressive and Scottish, and the entire ballroom seems to surge toward the dance floor.
Maren turns to Patrick with a smile that makes my stomach drop. “Dance with me?”
He glances at her, then at me.
“I’ll sit this one out,” he says finally.
“Oh, come on. Just one dance. Please? I love this song.”
Patrick’s eyes find mine, and there’s something there—apology? Resignation? I can’t tell because I’m too busy trying not to let my face show how much this hurts.
“Go on, Patrick,” Gemma encourages, clearly oblivious to my internal crisis.
“He can’t dance,” Liam says, but he’s smirking.
Patrick grimaces, and for one desperate moment, I think he might refuse. Then he offers Maren his arm. “Alright then.”
And off they go.
They join the reel; some elaborate Scottish jig where everyone else apparently memorized the moves at birth. I watch because looking away would somehow be worse than watching.
Patrick’s stiff at first, clearly not loving the whole ceilidh performance thing. Then Maren says something, and his shoulders relax a bit. She spins around laughing, head thrown back. His hand goes to her waist. Her hand finds his shoulder. They settle into the rhythm while I stand like a loser, wishing I could disappear.
I down the rest of my champagne in one go, wondering if it’s possible to die from feeling too much while pretending to feel nothing at all.
As the music shifts to a slower section, Maren leans up to whisper something in Patrick’s ear, her hand resting on his chest for balance. Whatever she says, Patrick smiles politely.
My brain, helpful as always, starts its commentary:Look at her, you potato. Maren is perfect: endless legs, natural grace, a laugh that doesn’t risk turning into a snort. She looks like a tartan-wrapped goddess. Meanwhile, you’re Georgie Button Fitzgerald. Anyone with working eyeballs can see which one of you belongs with Patrick McLaren.
That’s when it hits me. The kind of realization that feels like stepping off a curb you didn’t see coming.
Oh my fucking god.
Maren is perfect for Patrick. She’s smart, gorgeous, sophisticated, and adventurous. Yet even with all that perfection, he’s not interested in anything serious with her. Maren, this absolute goddess of a woman, has never made it past the friend zone, and I’m not even in the friend zone. I’m in some horrible subcategory—the little-sister-of-a-friend zone.
The math is simple and brutal: if Maren couldn’t secure a place in Patrick’s life, what hope do I have?
That would be fine if I hadn’t already fallen for him. If I could just laugh this off and move on. But I can’t. I’m already in too deep, past the point where I can walk away without pieces of myself missing.
My champagne glass trembles in my hand. I set it down before I drop it and add “clumsy disaster” to the list of reasons I don’t belong here.
“I need some air,” I mumble to Jake, though he’s too absorbed in Liam explaining something about market volatility to notice.
I need to get away from the ballroom, away from Maren touching his face, away from this feeling like barbed wire in my stomach.
I can’t do this. I’m not a strong enough woman to survive in his world. Patrick needs someone who can stand next to him at events like this without crumbling. Fee’s right. I’m too soft.
