Chapter 5 #2
“It was good.” Up close, her hair looks so soft, my hand itches to touch it. And shit, her eyes are so blue—like the Atlantic Ocean at mid-day. “I got back last night. This morning, I was taking care of some stuff at HQ, and then I thought I’d stop in to get some takeout for dinner.”
“That’s a good idea. We have some good soups today.” Her eyes are still fixed on mine. “There’s beef barley, loaded baked potato, and dill pickle cheese.” She makes a little face. “I thought the dill pickle one sounded weird. But I tried it, and it’s really good.”
When Angel purses her lips, my gaze slides to them.
And shit, they look ripe for kissing. Nibbling.
Teasing them open, then dipping inside to taste her honeyed warmth.
I would pull her into my arms, so close I could feel the racing of her heart.
Her cupcake scent would wrap around me, and I’d tunnel my fingers through her hair. Then I’d bend her over the bar, and—
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Think about something different. Security system schematics. The plumbing parts I need to repair the shower upstairs. The large wart on the nose of the receptionist who checked me into my hotel in Freeport. Anything to get my eager dick back under control.
“Ronan, are you okay?” Angel places her small hand on my forehead. “You look flushed. Are you getting sick? Traveling can really mess with your immune system. Although I’m sure you know that.”
Dammit, the feel of her hand on my skin doesn’t make things any better. Taking a step back to put some distance between us, I mutter, “I’m fine. It must just be hot in here.”
Hurt flashes across her face. And now I feel like an ass.
“Yeah,” she replies in a flatter tone. “One of the cooks is out, so food has been slower coming. And with ski season in full swing, we’ve been getting some overflow from that.” She hesitates. “If you’re not feeling up to doing a lesson this weekend, that’s okay. Haley will understand.”
“It’s not that.”
“Oh?” Her brow furrows. “Is it something—” But she’s interrupted by the pager on her hip going off. “Shoot. One of my table’s orders is ready. I’d better go.”
Angel starts to hurry off, but I grab her hand. “Sorry,” I tell her. “It’s been a long couple of days. That’s all.”
It hasn’t been. Not really. But I can’t exactly tell her the real reason I’m all twisted up inside.
Angel’s expression softens. “Of course. Not sleeping in your own bed, and all the driving…” Her pager buzzes again, and she makes a frustrated sound. “I have to go.”
“Maybe I’ll have something here,” I blurt. “Some of that dill pickle soup. And when things slow down, we can talk about this weekend.”
“Are you sure? Because if you’re tired from traveling—”
I give her hand a quick squeeze. “I’m sure. I’m looking forward to it.”
I’m just finishing the last of my soup when the hairs on my arms stand on end.
There’s no reason for it.
But my gut isn’t often wrong. So when it sounds an alert, I listen.
Flipping my phone over, I spin on my stool so I can survey the room.
The crowd has thinned out a little in the half hour or so I’ve been here, but two-thirds of the tables are still full. The few empty tables are waiting to be cleared, and as I’m watching, Maria comes rushing out from the kitchen with a plastic bus bin and starts cleaning one of them off.
From behind the swinging metal doors, the faint sound of Jimi Hendrix filters through. I wouldn’t have put Frank, the head chef slash owner, as a Hendrix fan—for some reason I had him pegged as country or folk.
Past the glass door that leads outside, a light snow spins in the wind. According to the weather forecast, it’s not supposed to stick, but I find myself hoping it does so Haley’s mountain can get a bit bigger.
Then, as my gaze continues traveling around the dining room, I spot Angel, standing beside one of the six-tops, a drink tray tucked beneath her arm.
I’ve been trying not to look for her too much, instead stealing quick glances in between watching videos on my phone.
But it’s been hard. Whenever I hear her lilting laugh or catch a whiff of something sweet, my body springs to attention.
It’s almost like she’s a magnet and I’m the complement being drawn irresistibly in.
As I watch Angel at the table, I quickly catalog everything.
There’s her smile, drooping slightly, but still hanging on.
More hair has escaped from her cute little ponytail so it frames her face like a halo.
The back of her T-shirt’s come untucked, likely from lifting all those heavy trays that I had to fight not to offer to carry myself.
Yes, I know it’s her job. But she’s so small, and those trays were obviously heavy. It would have been nothing for me to carry them for her.
It would have been weird, though. And bordering on—no, it would have been—inappropriate. Instead, I just sat here at the bar with my bowl of surprisingly good dill pickle soup, frustrated and guilty and annoyed at myself for feeling that way.
While I’m watching and trying to figure out where this sudden sense of alarm came from, Phil—of the DUIs—says something, and the rest of the men at the table burst into laughter.
Angel blushes. Then she moves the tray so it’s covering her chest. Her shoulders draw up and her chin lifts.
My muscles tense.
He’s making her uncomfortable. And I don’t like it.
I’ve been half-waiting for them to pull some kind of shit since I saw them, especially given how much beer they’ve had. In fact, Jeff told Angel not five minutes ago that they were cut off, and if they argued about ordering more drinks to have Frank go talk to them.
Is Phil giving her a hard time about it? Is Angel trying to take care of it herself instead of asking Frank for backup?
Just as I’m about to slide off my stool and head over, I stop myself.
Don’t interfere. This is Angel’s job. She doesn’t need your help to deal with her customers.
But, shit. I have a bad feeling about this.
Phil gestures for Angel to come closer, and she shakes her head. He scowls. Then he says something that turns her face from pink to fuchsia.
No longer smiling, she reaches into her apron and slaps a slip of paper on the table—their check, I’m guessing—in a clear invitation to leave.
Good. Get out of here. And don’t come back.
But instead of accepting the bill, Phil crumples it and tosses it aside. Then he taps his empty beer glass and angles his head at the bar.
Angel shakes her head again.
And despite common sense telling me to stay put, instinct is urging me forward.
I don’t like this, my gut insists. These guys are trouble at the best of times. And a few beers in? I don’t care that this is a public place or that Angel’s probably dealt with rude customers before. They’re making her uncomfortable, and I—
Phil lurches out of his seat, stumbling slightly before regaining his balance.
He yanks the tray from Angel’s hands and drops it on the floor.
Her voice rises enough for me to hear it across the room. “Stop it,” she snaps. “You need to leave. Now.”
And now I’m moving.
Hands balled into fists, jaw tight, blood running hot.
Not running, but not walking, either.
I’m halfway across the room when Phil slurs, “Who do you think you are, telling me how much I can drink?”
“You can drink however much you want,” she retorts. Her voice is firm at first, but by the end, there’s a nervous shake to it. “Just not here.”
Phil’s expression goes dark. “Who do you think you are? My fucking mom? Telling me what I can do?”
“Phil,” Bryan starts. “Leave her alone. She’s just doing her job.”
“Doing her job by being a bitch?” Phil snaps. Then he scowls at Angel. “You’re one to talk about drinking too much. We all know how you got knocked up. Do you even know who the father is, or were you too drunk?”
Angel’s shocked gasp is audible. Her expression shifts from shock to hurt, and then to anger.
And now I’m running. Weaving around tables. My pulse is pounding in my ears. The hundred or so ways I learned to kill a man race through my mind.
“Leave.” Angel points at the door. Her face is bright red, and her eyes flash with anger. “Now.”
“Don’t tell me what to do, you interfering bitch!” Phil shouts. And then he lunges forward and shoves Angel hard. She tries to catch herself as she stumbles back, but goes down hard with a yelp of pain.
A film of red drops over my vision.
Scalding rage roars through my body.
Sprinting the rest of the way there, I leap at Phil with a roar of anger. “Don’t you touch her!” I snarl. “Ever!”
Moving on instinct gained from decades of training, I grab Phil and put him into a chokehold. With my arm tight enough around his neck to scare him but not actually cut off his air—as much as I’d like to—I slam him against the wall hard enough for the lights on the ceiling to rattle.
Then I spin him around again and brace my forearm against his throat. Leaning over him so our faces are level, I growl, “Don’t you ever. Fucking. Touch. Her.”
“He’s drunk,” Bryan explains weakly. “I gave him my beer. Since I’m trying to cut back—”
“I don’t give a fuck,” I grit out while pinning Bryan with a dangerous glare. “No one touches her. No one.”
Then my gaze shifts to Angel, who’s just getting up from the floor. She’s pale. Her eyes are wide and startled. Once she’s standing, she hugs herself, looking smaller than I’ve ever seen her.
All at once, a surge of protectiveness rushes through me, more intense than anything I’ve felt before.
I want to take her in my arms. Pick her up and carry her out of here. Take her home where I can take care of her and make sure no asshole ever touches her again.
“She started it,” bleats Phil. “She—”
“Shut. Up.” Conscious that everyone in the room is watching, I only just stop myself from punching him. “Just shut up.” Glancing back at Angel, I gentle my tone. “Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”
A small shudder shakes her body, which makes me feel like punching Phil all over again. “I’m okay,” she replies quietly. “He didn’t hurt me.”
But he must have. I didn’t imagine her cry of pain as she hit the floor.
“What’s going on?” Frank comes jogging out of the kitchen, holding a baseball bat. “I heard yelling. What happened?” Then he spots Angel hugging herself, and his expression shifts from worry to fatherly concern. “Angel, honey, what happened? Did you—”
“He pushed her,” I interrupt. “This asshole”—I shove Phil against the wall—“pushed Angel, and she fell.”
“What?” His voice dips. With an angry glare at Phil, he asks, “You pushed her? Touched her? One of my employees? A woman, no less? And you pushed her? Hurt her?”
Phil flinches. “I…”
“Jeff!” Frank turns to Jeff, who finally got his ass out from behind the bar to help. “Call the police.”
“I didn’t want to get in the way,” Jeff replies. “Ronan looked like he had it under control—”
Frank cuts him off. “I don’t care. Just call the cops. And you guys—” He casts an angry look at Phil’s buddies. “This isn’t the first time you’ve caused trouble. But it ends today. You’re not welcome here anymore.”
“Hey, what happened?” Max Ellicott, a good friend and owner of the car repair shop in town, comes jogging over. “I heard shouting as I was walking by.” He glances at Phil, then Angel, and anger suffuses his face. “Did he hurt her?”
“He pushed her,” I tell him. And I’m desperate to see if she’s really okay. “Can you watch him? Until the police come?” I tilt my chin at Angel. “I want to check—”
Max straightens to his full height of six-six. “Of course I can.”
Once Max has taken over—and I’m not worried about Phil trying anything with Max, since Max has at least fifty pounds of muscle on him—I hurry over to Angel.
She’s still standing against the wall, hugging herself.
And shit. The urge to hold her is almost irresistible.
“Are you okay?” I ask. “Shit. Of course you’re not okay. Where are you hurt? Your back? Your legs? Did you hit your arm?”
“I’m fine,” she replies. But she’s clearly not fine. Her complexion is still far too pale. Her pulse is fluttering at the base of her neck. And her pupils are dilated.
“You’re not fine.” Emotion makes my voice rougher than I intended. Looping an arm around her shoulder, I lead her away from Phil and his asshole friends. “He touched you. Scared you. He hurt you, Angel. None of that is okay.”
She tilts her head back to look up at me. “He scared me a little,” she admits. “But I was more surprised than anything else. My butt—” A touch of pink colors her cheeks. “I’ve got some padding. So I didn’t really get hurt.”
“It’s not okay,” I repeat stubbornly. “And.. shit. I’m sorry. I should have done something sooner. I knew they were trouble. I just… Fuck.”
I’m mad at Phil. I’m mad at his friends. I’m mad at Jeff for continuing to serve them beer. I’m mad at Frank for allowing Angel to be in this kind of situation. And I’m mad at myself for not stepping in sooner.
Angel touches my hand. “I’m really okay, Ronan. Don’t worry.”
Don’t worry.
That’s the crux of it, isn’t it?
I can’t stop.
Not worrying. Not thinking about her. Not wanting to touch her. Not wanting…
Shit.
The last of my self-control snaps, and I pull Angel into my arms.
She’s stiff for a second, but then she leans into me. Her arms snake around my waist. The top of her head brushes my chin.
She smells like cupcakes.
Her hair is softer than silk.
When another shudder grabs hold of her body, I rub my hand up and down her back until she settles.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur. My heart aches with regret. “I should have stopped him.”
“You did,” Angel whispers. Her breath is a whisper against my skin. “You helped me again.” She tips her head back to meet my gaze. “You keep doing that. Helping me. You must be tired of it by now.”
Something yanks hard in my chest.
“I’ll never get tired of it,” I tell her as I hug her again. “Anytime you need me, I’ll be there. That’s a promise.”
But what about keeping your distance? the cowardly part of me asks.
Screw distance, I tell it. Not when Angel needs me. And not when this feels so right.