Page 43 of Her Dirty Defender

Not for me.

Because my father just pushed Marcus Wade in my direction again, right in the middle of everything.

I stand near the refreshment table, my jaw clenched so tight my teeth ache.

Marcus is beside me, too damn close. He’s playing the role of the perfect gentleman. He’s polite, charming, and smug enough that I know he thinks he’s winning.

And Dad?

Dad is across the barn, talking with a group of important donors, occasionally flicking a glance my way as if he’s checking I’m doing what’s expected.

Marcus chuckles beside me, lifting a glass of lemonade. “Your dad’s a smart man, Georgina. He knows we make a good team.”

My stomach knots. “We’re not a team, Marcus.”

He takes a sip, completely unbothered. “Not yet. But people already see us that way. We make sense to them.”

The words land like a weight on my chest.

And the worst part? He’s right. Peoplearewatching. I can feel the eyes of half the damn barn on us. Watching the sheriff’s daughter with the “perfect” man he picked for her. Reading between the lines and creating their version of the truth.

Marcus must sense it, too, because his hand drifts to my lower back in a light and possessive touch that’s still blatant enough to tell the room I’m his.

Heat burns up my spine. Not from attraction. From rage.

He thinks this is a done deal and the only thing left is for me to play along.

Something inside me snaps.

I whirl to face him, knocking his hand away hard enough that his cocky smile falters. “Don’t touch me,” I say, low and controlled.

Marcus exhales through his nose and looks at me as if I’m being unreasonable. “George?—”

“Excuse me.”

I don’t wait for his response. I march across the barn, straight toward my father, ignoring the startled looks from people in my path.

His back is to me when I reach him, but he must sense the storm coming because he turns as I step in front of him.

“George,” he says, his voice low. A warning.

I don’t care. Not anymore.

“Enough.” My voice is steady, but I feel hot all over, and my hands shake from the force of everything I’ve been holding back.

Dad’s expression hardens. “Not here, Georgina.”

“Why not?” I throw my arms out, gesturing to the decorated barn, the tables of people, and the banners with his name on them as the event’s main organizer. “This is exactly where you want me to play nice, right? To smile and let Marcus touch me so people get the idea?”

His jaw ticks. “You’re making a scene.”

I let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “You know what? Good.”

Dad steps closer, lowering his voice. “We’ll talk about this later.”

“No,” I snap. “We won’t. Because nothing ever changes. You don’t listen, Dad. You just decide what’s best for me and expect me to fall in line.”

His nostrils flare, but there’s something worse in his expression. Something tired. Worn. Like he’s already bracing for me to leave.

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