“Are you fucking kidding me? Tell me that isn’t what I heard?”
“Jake—” I start.
“That’s my fuckingsister, Patrick. Jesus Christ.”
“Jake, stop!” Georgie’s voice cracks. “I’m not a child anymore. This isn’t your business.”
“Not my business?” He glares at her. “After the last time?”
Two strides, and he’s chest to chest with me. “You fucking prick.”
Every instinct tells me to push back, to stand my ground. But I don’t. Because he’s right. I’ve broken his trust in the worst way.
Georgie wedges herself between us, her small hands pressing against Jake’s chest. She’s so much smaller than both of us. “Jake, stop! Please, this isn’t what you think.”
“It’s exactly what I think,” he snaps, glaring at me over her head. “Patrick’s been screwing my sister like she’s some random hookup.”
“She’s not,” I say.
“She’s not what? Not your much younger employee? Not my sister?”
The age gap isn’t that big, but the fact that she works for me is real. That imbalance is real.
“Get your hands off her,” he growls.
I realize my hand’s still on her lower back. I lift it slowly, carefully, like I’m surrendering a weapon.
This is the disaster I wanted to avoid.
“Let’s take this outside. Away from my sister.” Jake steps back but keeps his stare locked on me. “Now.”
Georgie’s head snaps between us. “Outside? Are you serious? You can’t just fight him. This isn’t a pub brawl. Please. You guys are best friends! You’ve been friends for years.”
“It’s alright,” I say softly.
Whatever’s coming, whether it’s words or fists or both, I’m ready for it.
Jake glances at his sister. “Stay here.”
“This is insane.” Tears roll down her cheeks. She tries to wipe them away, but more keep coming. “Don’t do this. I’m not some damsel who needs defending. I’m a grown woman who made a choice.”
I catch her gaze, my chest tightening at how devastated she looks. “Georgie, stay here. Please. Let me sort this with Jake.”
She shakes her head, muttering something that sounds like “idiots” under her breath.
We storm out of the hotel in silence. My shirt’s still half-untucked. Jake’s ahead of me, shoulders rigid, fists still clenched at his sides.
We cross the drive to the quiet lawns, far enough from the hotel that no one will hear whatever’s about to happen.
He stops. Turns.
I can see it in his stance, the way he’s shifting his weight, rolling his shoulders back. He’s going to swing.
“If you’re going to hit me, just get it over with.”
His fist connects with my jaw. White pain flares, and my head snaps back. I spit blood into the grass and test the hinge of my jaw until it moves again.
This isn’t the Jake I’ve known for ten years. He’s not a man who throws punches.
