Page 5

"See? That." Mark points at me with the neck of his beer bottle. His eyes drag over the red dress, slow and deliberate, then settle on my face. "You're too much, Isabella. Too much mouth. Too much attitude. Too much of everything except what a man actually needs."

The couple beside us goes quiet.

Heat crawls up my neck.

One of Mom's boyfriends once told me I had stolen my sisters' curves and kept them for myself. Mom laughed like it was a grand joke.

I was fourteen.

I still hear it every time I zip up a dress.

Mark's complaints had started smaller. He'd never used my body against me before.

I hate that a small, wounded part of me still wonders whether Mark is right. Whether I'm too guarded, too sharp, too much myself for anyone to want all of me.

I set my glass down carefully.

My voice is perfectly pleasant when I speak. It's the voice I use on executives who mistake intimidation for intelligence.

"You wanted a finish line. I didn't give you one on your schedule. Now you want me to feel bad about my body so you can feel better about breaking up with me."

His mouth opens.

Then closes.

"I'm not asking you to feel bad."

"Good, because I don't."

The woman at the next table coughs into her cocktail.

It sounds suspiciously like a laugh.

Mark's face goes red. "You know what? Maybe I should have ended this months ago."

"Probably. You would have done us both a favor." I nod toward the elevator. "You can leave now. Get the check on your way out. And tip the bartender."

Mark stands so fast his chair scrapes against the wet tile.

As he does, the handsome man from the puddle sets down his whiskey.

He doesn't slam it. He sets it down carefully, and the glass touches the bar without a sound.

Somehow that's worse.

"The check's handled," he says.

Mark stops. "Who the hell are you?"

The stranger rises without hurrying and steps between Mark and me.

I've never thought of Mark as small. He's six feet and spends four mornings a week at the gym, and he makes sure everyone knows it.

Next to this man, he looks like a rough draft.

The stranger has a good four inches on him, maybe more. His shoulders are broad enough to block Mark from my view. Mark's strength is the kind that comes from mirrors. His looks like it comes from something harder.

Mark has to tip his chin up to hold his gaze. I can see him hating every second of it.