His worried face swims into focus, and guilt hits hard. “No! God, no. You’re lovely. It’s just...”
I trail off because what can I possibly say that doesn’t make me sound unhinged?
“It’s not nothing,” Malcolm says, huffy now. He does a discreet breath-check against his palm, like maybe his haddock martini fumes have just assassinated the moment.
“Sorry,” I blurt, trying to reel it back in. “It’s just… my boss is over there.”
Malcolm glances over. “McLaren? Aye, I know him. Well, know of him. You scared of him?”
“Of course not!” I blurt.
Only… sometimes.
“Wouldn’t blame you. I wouldn’t cross him. Man’s got serious influence around here. Pisses off some of the locals, though.”
“Why?”
“He’s not Scottish, is he? Another rich Englishman buying up our land.” Malcolm shrugs. “Then they get bored and move on to the next shiny thing.”
He’s probably right. One day, Patrick will get tired of Skye, pack up his empire, and find another picturesque corner of Britain to conquer. That’s what he has been doing for a decade.
“Still,” Malcolm says warmly, “it’s your night off. You’re allowed to have fun, aren’t you?”
“Yes! Totally. Just me being… silly.”
My traitorous eyes drift back to Patrick. He’s turned away now. Completely unbothered that he just saw me kiss another man.
It’s stupid of me to care. We shared one reckless kiss that he’s clearly embarrassed about and wants to pretend never happened. Why would he care who else I kiss?
Except wasn’t he all protective about me not shagging my way through Skye? Apparently, he’s decided my vagina can have free-range grazing rights after all.
I’m not the kind of person who tries to manufacture jealousy, and it’s not like I knew he’d be here tonight.
Either way, he saw me kiss someone else and couldn’t care less.
Which is fine. Absolutely fine.
Except my throat feels tight, and some petty, hormonal part of me has this childish urge to cry.
“Well, that was lovely,” Malcolm says, oblivious to my spiral. “But you seem a wee bit distracted now.”
“I’m fine,” I lie, brightly.
“Want to head somewhere else? The Dirty Scot has a ceilidh on as well.”
“Sure,” I say. Best to be in literallyany other pubthan the one containing Patrick and his stupid baseball cap, which makes him look like a grumpy, handsome lumberjack.
Malcolm beams. I remind myself sternly: this is exactly what I wrote on that list. A rugged Highland fisherman. Not Patrick. Never Patrick.
He takes my sweaty hand in his equally sweaty one, and with the other, rummages in his sporran.
This is what moving on looks like, Georgie. You’re doing it. Gold star.
I lift my chin and march out of that pub with my fisherman prize.
I do not, under any circumstances, look toward Patrick.
TWENTY-THREE
