My heels clatter as I escape the ballroom. I clutch my tiny tartan purse until the beads bite into my palms. Staff rush past with trays, running back and forth to the party.
“Get it together,” I whisper to myself. “You’re being ridiculous.”
The plan forming in my head is pathetic but comforting: grab my coat, march the half mile back to the cottage, and curl into a ball. Maybe eat some biscuits.
“Georgie.”
I whirl too fast, ankle wobbling dangerously in my heel. Patrick strides after me, kilt swinging with each step.
Staff in the hallway step aside when they see his expression.
“I’m leaving, have a lovely night!” I call over my shoulder, attempting to smile. I keep walking toward the exit.
He catches up in three strides, his hand wrapping gently around my elbow. “Where are you going?”
“Home,” I manage, my chin doing that awful pre-cry wobble. I bite my lip, but it’s trembling anyway.
“Why are you leaving without saying anything?”
“Because I don’t want to stand there smiling like an idiot while you and Maren—” my voice betrays me, cracking embarrassingly “—catch up on old times or whatever.”
His jaw tightens, that muscle pulsing in warning. “For Christ’s sake, Georgie. I danced with her once because I was trying to be a gentleman. Everyone was watching, including your brother. What was I supposed to do, tell her to piss off?”
Two servers stall as they pass, rubbernecking. He glares at them until they scuttle off.
“What am I doing here, Patrick?” My truth tumbles out. “I’m Jake’s sister who does the boring computer stuff at yourcompany. I’m supposed to what, laugh along while Maren puts her hands all over you? Act like it’s hilarious? That’s the deal, right? We’re nothing official, so I don’t get to have feelings about it. But it’s not fun for me. It’s confusing, and honestly, right now I’d rather just be alone than pretend everything’s fine.”
I wish I was one of those women who could handle this gracefully. Who could watch the man they love with someone else and just smile mysteriously. But I’m not. I’m soft and easily wounded, and I know that probably makes me exhausting to be around, but it’s just... who I am.
I know this is really about me feeling desperately out of place tonight, drowning in a room full of important people. And maybe the champagne—more than I usually have—is making everything feel bigger and more painful than it should. Making me say things I’d normally keep locked inside where they belong.
“Lower your voice,” he says, strain making his accent thicker. “Half the bloody staff doesn’t need front-row seats to this conversation. My office. Now.” He doesn’t wait for an answer; he turns and takes me with him.
Staff scatter out of our way, suddenly fascinated by walls and their own feet. One young waiter pivots to face the wall rather than make eye contact.
He herds me into his office. The door slams shut, rattling the Highland landscapes on the wall.
He spins on me, kilt swinging with the violence of the movement. “What the hell was that? Making a scene in front of the staff?”
I clutch my purse against my stomach. “You’re the one who stormed after me.”
“You left in the middle of the ceilidh without a word. You were clearly upset.”
“I didn’t think you’d notice.”
“Christ, Georgie.” He drags a hand through his hair. “Of course I noticed.”
He takes a step closer, frustration carved into his face. “What exactly did you expect me to do out there? Pretend Maren and I have never met? Cut her dead in front of half the bloody island? I’ve got history with her, aye, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to forget my manners.”
“No, of course not. I just… don’t know where I stand. You look so at home with her. Like you fit. And I’m just—” the fight drains out of me “—Jake’s awkward kid sister you’re being careful with.”
“Kid sister?” His voice drops. “If I thought of you as a child, Georgie, do you think I’d be losing my mind over you the way I am? Do you think I’d be bloody risking big things in my life?”
“You’re not losing your mind. You’re perfectly in control, as always.”
He laughs, short and humorless, then closes the gap until I can feel the heat where his chest meets his shirt. “You think this is control? Watching you all night in that dress and not touching you because your brother’s in the room? That isn’t control. That’s torture.”
My breath stutters. “You told me I look ‘nice.’”
