“I swear,” he defends himself, looking a tad embarrassed. “I just want to make sure you have a reason to come back and not ditch me.”
My gaze travels, admiring him in silence, from head to toe. “Don’t worry I don’t plan on running away.”
“Good, because if you do, I’m man enough to admit that I have no problem chasing after you.”
CHAPTER 4
SARINA
I’m not sure what transpired in the less than five minutes I was in the restroom freshening up that lead to the scene in front of me, but my curiosity is piqued.
“I’m not going to tell you again. Get up,” Mr. Armani —as I’ve decided to call him since we agreed on no names— warns. My purse he was holding as collateral is bunched in his palm as he points to a random guy occupying the barstool I was sitting on.
“Why should I?” the man who has made himself at home in my spot says, slurring his words.
“I told you already.” He shifts his hand, still squeezing my poor purse toward me. “She was sitting there.”
The man looks down at the ground, mumbling to himself before he shifts his attention to where I stand.
“Oh, hey, pretty lady.” He makes a gesture to his lap. “You can sit right here if you like.”
Mr. Armani rises to his feet. As I move closer, the look in his eyes is transporting me back to Luxe. He’s going to do it again. He’s going to swoop in and try to save me. It’s admirable —sexy, even— the way he wants to protectme,a woman he knows nothing about. But I’ve gone this long without having someonecare enough to do so, and I certainly don’t need to get myself used to this sort of treatment now. Especially when our fun together will end once we say goodbye and part ways.
I motion for Mr. Armani to give me my purse. I can tell he’s fuming. If anything, his taut jawline looks even tighter now, but without a fuss he stops himself from whatever he was about to do and hands it to me.
“Thank you, I got it from here,” I whisper.
“I don’t doubt that you do, but I’ll be right here waiting. In case you need me.”
I mouth a ‘Thank you’, bringing my attention to the man sitting on the barstool.
“I was sitting there,” I reiterate.
Again, he gestures to his lap, suggesting I sit on it.
“No thank you.”
“Aww, c’mon now, miss. How do you know unless you try it first?”
As if his whiskey drenched breath isn’t repulsive enough, he makes the grave mistake of lifting his hand to slap my ass.
My heart skips in my chest. Not from shock or even anger that he put his disgusting hands on me, but from the growl that just erupted from Mr. Armani as he leaps from where he’s been standing reluctantly idle.
Before he can step in, I lunge forward, blocking him from an opportunity to punch the guy.
I have a better idea.
“I know you said you have it handled, but I can’t sit back and watch someone put their unwanted hands on you and do nothing about it,” he says, chest noticeably heaving.
“Trust me on this. I know what to do.” I expect him to argue with me on it since I’m well aware of how stubborn I’m being, but he doesn’t.
“Fine, but if he lifts another finger, I swear to fucking god, I’ll?—”
“Oh, I know. You don’t have to tell me.” I look him up and down, not bothering to hide the hunger in my stare. “Did you close out our tab yet?”
“Not yet.”
“Perfect.”
