Chapter 3
Tor
My patience is at its limit.
Caroline is a non-stop deluge of complaints about everything, from the kind of ice cubes in her water to the uneven sear marks on her ahi tuna. I’m about to lose my fucking mind.
The girl from the bar with the retro vibe and body built for sin is sitting two tables away.
In the span of an hour, she’s fucked up my entire life program. And all I want to do is end this nightmare and take her back to my place to cook her fucking pancakes.
That’s not all I want to do, but there’s something about her that makes me want to do something simple for her. Sweet. Syrup and chocolate chips. Whipped cream and strawberries.
And not all necessarily on the pancakes.
“Can I clear your plate?” the waitress asks the nightmare sitting across from me, and our server deserves a fucking medal for the restraint she’s shown dealing with Caroline.
I nod a silent thank you for her calm politeness.
“Does it look like I’m done eating?” Caroline snaps, then rolls her eyes, and her fake lashes do this weird tug on her upper lids. Creepy as fuck.
“Is that a yes?” the waitress replies as I rub my hands on the napkin in my lap, feeling the half-hard thickness of my johnson that is focused on the way-too-young-for-me morsel two tables over.
And the lukewarm piece of shit sitting with her.
“How rude are you?” Caroline flutters a dismissive hand toward the waitress, then purses her lips and leans toward me. “I know it’s, like, impossible to find good help these days, but, like, where did they find this one? IHOP? Give me a break.”
She’s the full pain in the ass package. I mean, on top of everything else, she insults IHOP. I won’t be making her any pancakes, that’s for sure.
I wave off the waitress before I lose my cool and tear into this outrageous bitch.
“I mean,” she goes on, “am I right, or am I right? She’s, like, the worst. I eat in the best places in this city and—”
“Like… Shut the fuck up,” I snarl, my insides feeling like they’re being compressed under high pressure. I slam my palm into the table, making the flat wear clatter on the porcelain plates and poor, dear Caroline jumps like a fucking tit mouse. “She’s been nothing but fucking polite with you.”
And you’re fuckinginsufferable, I want to say. But it’s not just that. I’ve dealt with assholes before. I deal with them pretty much every day. I am a professional asshole wrangler. But right now, she’s keeping me from doing what I want to do, which is to drag the dark-haired, red dress-wearing pinup princess from her table and have my way with her.
And her fucking pancakes.
Caroline looks like I just slapped her. She blinks three times in quick succession. “Excuse me?”
I click my tongue against my teeth and throw down my napkin, pushing back my chair.
“You’re excused.”
Caroline has split, and I’m at the bar now, eavesdropping hard core, watching Sweet Cheeks eat a panna cotta so slowly that there’s a real possibility I’m going to panna-fucking-cotta in my pants.
The khaki wearing monotone guy she’s with has done 98% of the talking. I know two things: it’s a first date and he’s a total dud.
It’s gonna be the last date as well, whether she knows it yet or not, because the idea of her on a date with anyone other than me has me ready to yank this guy’s testicles from his body and shove them up his ass.
That is, if he has testicles. I have my doubts, and if he does, he doesn’t deserve them.
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.
And a hard-on that won’t quit.
“You okay?” I set my jaw and fight the urge to throw her over my shoulder, march us out the door, and get my first taste of her in the back of my Mercedes.
“I mean...” She raises her head, narrowing her eyes. “I signed up for a date with an insurance salesman. What I got was a side show starring some retired MMA fighter with a white-knight complex. But yeah, you know. Doing fine.”
Retired? Is she digging at my age?
She gives me a sexy little glare and an a-okay sign with her cute fingers.
She was laughing earlier, true. But she’s not really laughing now. And I can’t blame her. Because she looks like the kind of woman who can and does fight her own battles.
Not that she’ll ever have to again.
Her temper only makes me harder. The tent in my pants must be visible from space, but I don’t give a shit. Let people look.
But, more importantly, let her look. She should know what’s coming for her very soon. Pun intended.
The room calms as I drop into the chair across from her in full man spread, licking my lips as I take in her soft sweet strawberry scent.
“I know how to fix this,” I offer as she raises her wide eyes to meet mine. Her long lashes flutter a few times as she takes a breath, her cheeks ripe and glowing pink.
“Not sure there’s a fix for this.” She smirks, looking around the room, her tongue slipping over her lush bottom lip.
Christ. My dick weeps in pain. “You’re going to let me try.”
“That doesn’t sound like a question.”
I lean my forearms on the table. “It’s not.”
Then I smile, reaching across and slipping her fingers into mine. I want to know what it will feel like holding her hand when we’re standing at the front of the church saying our vows.
It feels perfect.