Guardian of Georgie Fitzgerald
Georgie
Malcolm jerks to astop 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 specificnot calm at allway. “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 thedrunk-driving-death-trapvariety.
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 Hotelsdomonitor 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.”
