My breath catches. The street noise fades to white noise.
“And if you knew how close I’ve come to—”
He cuts himself off, body going rigid, jaw clenched like the rest of that sentence might set the night on fire if he lets it escape.
“—you’d be smart enough to keep your distance.”
I can’t breathe properly. My pulse pounds in my ears, drowning out the bagpipes, the shouting from the pub, the whole island. I don’t even fully understand what he means, only that it’s lodged inside me like a spark refusing to burn out.
His fingers brush my shoulder, and I realize my strap has slipped down. I hadn’t noticed. He slides it back up, thumb ghosting across my skin so gently my whole body shivers.
“Now,” he mutters, “can you please just get in the damn car?”
He doesn’t give me the chance to argue. He marches to the Land Rover and wrenches the passenger door open.
I follow on wobbly legs that don’t feel entirely mine anymore. The heels aren’t helping.
He offers his hand to help me climb up.
“Thank you,” I mumble, because even when arguing with someone, manners matter.
He slides into the driver’s seat beside me, and suddenly we’re trapped in this confined space together, the air thick with heat and tension.
Just like after the boat trip.
Only this time, the silence isn’t empty because neither of us will speak.
It’s loaded because too much has already been said.
And for once, I’m not the quiet one.
I said something. Stood my ground.
Granted, it involved shouting about reverse harems and ferry orgies, but still. I used my voice. I made him hear me.
TWENTY-FOUR
The cabin temperature is fine, thanks
Georgie
We drive back ina silence so suffocating it might as well be a third passenger, buckled in between us. Patrick only breaks it once to ask if the heat’s okay. Like, yes, Patrick, the cabin temperature is definitely our biggest issue right now.
I try not to replay the last twenty minutes, but my brain has other plans. Somewhere between haddock martinis and synchronized mooning, I evolved from anxious, people-pleasing coder into the sort of woman who shouts about reverse harems at her billionaire boss in a pub car park.
Is this what Riri meant by “living boldly”? Because it feels more like “living stupidly.”
Still, he apologized. Patrick McLaren said sorry to me, which might be more shocking than anything else that’s happened tonight.
I sneak a glance at him. His cap’s pulled low, face unreadable in the darkness.
“Thanks for the lift home,” I attempt breezily. “Although I’m pretty sure this technically qualifies as kidnapping with a side order of cock-blocking.”
He turns his head. No smile.
Tough crowd.
“So,” I try again, desperate to fill the silence. “Did you enjoy the festival?”
