2. Sadie
This isn’thow I saw my evening unfolding.
Every fiber of my being screams for me to flee, the urge to bolt as intense as can be. Even as indignation floods through me and I slap the pervert’s sweaty hand from my thigh, all I want is to escape.
AfterI knee him in the jewels, of course.
I rise, my head turned and gaze locked on the man behind me. More than ready to teach the jackal at my side a painful lesson before vanishing into the night, adrenaline surges through me. But then, my savior’s deep voice, firm and brimming with authority, halts me in my tracks.
“Sit.”
He appears to be solely focused on the creep, but I can tell he’s still watching me from the corner of his eye.
The fact is a toe-curling one.
Especially considering, for unfathomable reasons, I can’t stop looking over my shoulder at him. Tearing my gaze from his handsome face seems impossible. That captivating draw he possesses is irresistible.
I crave his gaze to meet mine.
Like, a lot.
Without hesitation, I obey his clipped command and drop back onto the wooden, leather-topped barstool. A ghost of a smile tugs at one side of his mouth in response, confirming my suspicions that he still has me in his sights.
Cheeks heating, I manage to look away.
It’s then I notice it again—an indented line on the perv’s ring finger, evidence of the wedding band he clearly removed before approaching me.
My stomach churns, a torrent of painful memories starring Maxwell and his dirty deceit rushing forward.
Acting as a freshly clipped hickory switch, the images lash my heart, adding more cuts to its already maimed surface. I close my eyes and take a breath, centering the chaos. When I reopen them, I steal another glance at the man behind me, unable to stop myself.
A whole new sensation takes over suddenly.
One I haven’t felt in… well, a long time.
With thoughts of Maxwell no longer plaguing me, butterflies take flight in my belly, their imagined wings fluttering against my insides as I take him in, studying every inch of his face.
There’s no denying he’s downright handsome, breathtakingly so.
With his angular jaw set, he exudes strength and determination. It frames his high cheekbones perfectly, and the softness of his skin starkly contrasts with his authoritative presence.
Then there’s his hair.
Cut on the shorter side and holding a slight wave that’s styled just right, its glossy, dark brown hue reminds me of fine chocolate, giving him a sophistication that Maxwell’s arrogant behind could never come close to achieving, no matter how hard he tried.
And believe me, he tried.
But it’s those eyes of his that truly lure me in. A captivating mix of mossy green, soft gold, and Kentucky bourbon, they’re flat-out intoxicating. I swear I could stare into them all day, my breath catching as I lose myself in their depths.
I freeze at the thought.
I’ve never met this man before, don’t even know his name. I’ve hardly even heard him speak, yet here I am, fantasizing about having a lust-driven staring contest with him. All the while my belly flips and my broken heart beats all wonky, threatening to fly right out of my chest.
Apparently, I’ve lost my mind.
“No harm, no foul,” the jerk beside me says to the man standing at my back as he rubs a sweaty palm down his ratlike face.
A face I’d like to see violently rearranged. What can I say? I’m a Winslow. I may not be hot-tempered like some of my male cousins, but regardless, we’re known for being a bloodthirsty bunch when one of us is wronged.
Maxwell can surely attest to that.
“I was just—”
“Harassing a woman?” My rescuer’s voice is like sharpened steel, slicing through the scumbag’s words with ease. “That’s a bloody foolish move to make in a place I own, particularly with me sitting less than ten meters away. Especially for someone in your current… predicament.”
Now hang on a second.
A place he owns? Does he mean the hotel? If so, goodness gracious. Talk about rich. And what predicament? I get the feeling there’s more going on between these two than meets the eye. The hate and disdain that radiates between them is unmissable, even for me, someone who doesn’t always see what’s happening right in front of her face.
Thanks for that lesson, Maxwell.
You too, Vanessa.
For heaven’s sake, after spending the past few hours exploring the West End and catching a show at the Apollo Victoria Theatre, all I wanted was a simple Peach Bellini.
Yet here I am, seated smack-dab in the fanciest bar I’ve ever dared step foot inside, an endless barrage of questions battering my mind as my right hand itches with the need to deck the slimeball right in his aristocratic nose.
Confusion and disgust race through me.
The sicko’s face pales, the mention of his predicament—whatever it may be—seeming to strike a nerve the size of Alaska. “Don’t forget I have connections, Kensington.” His face remains devoid of color, and he sneers in a way that reminds me of Cornelia. “You can’t just threaten me.”
Kensington, as the degenerate called him, steps impossibly closer, his heat bleeding into my back. Despite his thinly veiled wrath not being directed at me, I still sit up straight.
His presence is that commanding.
“Connections?” He laughs softly, but there’s no warmth. It’s purely antagonistic. “In this city, I am the connection. That’s a lesson I thought you’d learned, but clearly, you need a reminder.” Yeah, there’s definitely more going on here than meets the eye. “I also don’t take kindly to those who disrespect guests under my roof, especially women. Consider this your final visit to The Opulence.”
The threat in each of his words is unmistakable, a promise of the power and influence he clearly wields. And if I’m being honest, it’s one heck of a turn-on.
If the situation were different, I’d fan myself.
A weak, stammered protest I can’t decipher is all Mr. Handsy offers in return. If he had a tail, it would be tucked firmly between his legs as he clambers off the barstool like a scolded child and hoofs it toward the exit.
But he isn’t getting away that easily.
I may not have followed through with the ball punch I was set to deliver when Kensington interrupted, but I have every intention of saying my piece. I spent too many years staying silent as Maxwell verbally unleashed tirade after tirade on me, chipping away at my self-esteem.
The emotional torment was terrible enough.
I won’t be touched without consent too.
Latching on to every shred of outrage I possess, I jump off the barstool and turn. Kensington towers before me, mimicking a statue, our bodies still nearly touching.
Only now, his front faces mine.
And the thing is, even when my skin is scalding with fury, his warmth is inconceivably comforting, the sandalwood and bergamot notes of his rich cologne heady.
Being this close to him makes my head spin, growing light, like when I’m riding the Tilt-A-Whirl back home at the county fair with Weston screaming like a little girl next to me.
Despite wanting nothing more than to peer up into his enthralling eyes, I do my best to ignore him, my focus homed in on the fleeing trash nearing the exit, each of his steps quicker than the last.
And let me tell you, it’s hard.
Leaning to the side, I look around my unexpected protector, my fisted hands close to shaking from the rage that heats my blood, nearing the point of boiling.
“Hey, asshole!” I call out, uncaring of the uppity crowd watching.
I knew the moment I stepped foot in this place I didn’t belong. Underdressed and lacking the designer labels surrounding me, I stick out more than a mud-slicked pig at a fancy, big-city ballet.
But right now, I’m too hot under the collar to care.
The deviant slows, looking back at me over his shoulder. Eyes narrowed to slits, he ping-pongs his focus from me to Kensington, then back to me, his own fury evident.
“Next time you think about laying your hands on me, remember this…” My Southern twang drips with saccharine sweetness and a whole lot of venom. “I’m not one to shy away from turning a rooster into a hen in one quick, clean move. And believe me, when I strike, I don’t miss.”
The lounge falls dead silent, the weight of my words hanging in the air like a warning shot. Without saying a word in reply, the gutter rat scurries out of the bar and into the lobby, disappearing from my sight for what I hope is forever.
If we cross paths again, he’ll regret it.
Satisfied with his departure and ready to hightail it back to my hotel, where room service and a hot shower await, I turn at the waist and grab my clutch off the bar. But like the klutz my cousins often accuse me of being, I instantly drop it, my fumbling fingers losing their grip.
Its few contents scatter on impact.
Good job, Sadie.
As if things couldn’t get any worse.
Growing more flustered by the second, I lower myself to the floor, mindful of my dress, and hastily gather everything before standing again. A certified hot mess, I have every intention of blowing this joint ASAP, a move that’ll hopefully help ease the embarrassment prickling my skin.
But it seems Kensington has other plans.
I spin back around, and suddenly, he’s right there, blocking my exit. Having stepped farther into my space, his heated stare holds mine, the intensity in his eyes sending shivers down my spine. And now I know for sure…
He doesn’t plan to let me leave.