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If he so much as touches her, I’m going to lose my shit. Full-on, alpha-male, five-o’clock-breaking-news style.
I swallow a shot of Patron, letting the burn scald my throat, then move around the entryway of the dining area and I fucking swear I catch a hint of her strawberries and cream scent.
Khaki man is talking louder, more demanding, and I sink my teeth into my cheek.
“I mean, this is a nice dinner I’m buying you.” He leans back, rubbing his hands on top of his thighs. “The least you could have done is put in some real effort.”
The pretty brunette’s jaw drops and her mouth and those red lips should have sonnets written about them.
God, even her fucking lipstick makes me hard.
“Effort?” She screws up one side of her face and scratches her temple. “You want to talk to me about effort?”
“When I agreed to take you out, you picked the place. I assumed you would…” He makes a disgusted gesture with his hand toward where she sits. “Be appreciative. At least try to look like you’re going to give me something that makes it worth the price of your meal. That dress is total thrift store…it’s something my grandmother would wear.”
Her eyes flash, and her cheeks turn up the volume from pink to angry red.
“Then your grandmother must be one hot piece of ass,” she barks, and I snort, but she’s not done. “You’re a total piece of shit, you know that? If this place wasn’t so nice, and the food so good, you’d be wearing this panna cotta all over your hillbilly button down. NASCAR? NASCAR? Really?”
Go get ‘em, tiger. I’ve got your back.
“I think this evening is over,” he says, throwing his napkin across the table. “You entitled little…”
Like a man possessed, I’m launching myself in his direction. The restaurant falls silent, all eyes on what’s unfolding. Let them TikTok what comes next. Just fucking let them.
I lean down close to his ear. “You’re fucking right, this evening is over. And you have three seconds to apologize to the lady, then get the fuck out of here. If you don’t, you’re going to be wearing your balls as earrings.”
He releases a disbelieving snort. “Who the—”
That’s all he gets out before I lift him by the back of his neck, satisfaction spreading through me at his strangled squeak of panic as I shove him toward the door.
“You forgot to apologize,” I add, listening to the sweet, cherry-pie giggle coming from my future wife.
“Sorry.” He sneers with a pathetic attempt at a stare-down, so I step back into his space and he stumbles back, repeating his apology with a bit more sincerity. “Sorry.”
Smart asshole.
I want to make sure he knows his way out, so I fist the back of his shirt collar and lead him through the gasping onlookers, right by the smiling hostess, until I smash his face against the James Beard Award sticker and Amex logo on the glass front door. “Get the fuck out.”
And with one final shove, he’s scampering down the sidewalk, ass cheeks tucked under like he’s shit himself.
Low, excited conversation returns to a nervous hum in the dining room. All eyes are on me as I walk back, running my tongue over my teeth as I re-focus on what’s important.
Her.
The whispers and hisses from the other patrons disappear into the sound of blood rushing in my ears.
Her head is in her hands, fingertips on her forehead, her thumbs pressing into the creamy pink flesh just under her cheekbones. Her nails are painted the same cherry red as her lipstick. An invisible force tugs me forward, and I wonder why the fuck she would need a dating site.
Doesn’t matter. She won’t be on there ever again.
The jealousy and possessiveness boiling inside me are not just out of character, they’re borderline psychotic. But fuck it. I don’t even know her name, but I already know she’ll be taking mine, and the sooner the better.
I’m a logical guy. Not emotional, unless you count heated family discussions about the World Cup or our yearly Christmas game of poker. My life is built around being indifferent, distilling information, and spinning it to mine and my client’s advantage.
But with this girl? The one I set eyes on less than an hour ago?
Pure emotion. No logic. Nothing but want and need.
