“The fuck is your problem, man?” he shouts, shoving me back.
“Back the fuck off,” I growl. Rose’s eyes cut to mine—wide, furious, her perfect lips parting in shock. “She’s mine,” I hear myself saying.
“She doesn’t look taken, buddy,” he sneers, stepping closer. My fist curls into his shirt before my mind can stop me.
I’m a surgeon, for fuck’s sake. I don’t fight. Ethics aside, my hands can’t get fucked up. But I can’t seem to think straight when it comes to Rose.
His answering laugh and sour beer breath rattle my skull. My fist tightens in his shirt. I watch his smirk falter until his friends materialize behind him.
I ignore them, and we stand chest-to-chest, but when I turn to tell him exactly who Rose came here with, she’s not there. Just the crowd closing in where she stood just a second ago. The cowboy clocks it before I do, and his smirk returns. I let go of him.
“She still don’t look taken,” he jokes, and he and his friends saunter off.
I find Rose at our table, third cider already at her lips.
“Come on. Talk to me.”
She sets the glass down and looks at me for the first time since she went cold, and there’s something in her expression I can’t quite read—not anger, exactly. Hurt. But I can’t place where it’s coming from.
“What’s your problem, anyway?” she snaps.
“Myproblem?” I shout over the noise of the band.
Her eyes water. Then, “I’m getting another drink.”
I grab her forearm, but she rips it out of my grasp. I hold my hands up. “We have a long day tomorrow.”
She opens her mouth to argue, but I take her hand, tugging her through the bar, then out into the downpour. Rain hammers down, cold and frantic. I try to keep my arm around her, but she twists free and bolts ahead.
My heart stutters. She’s too drunk for this. I go after her, rain lashing my face. Just as we hurry across the parking lot to the motel, her foot catches on a stray lawn chair that had been blown into the walkway by the wind. I reach out, grab her around the waist, and pull her back towards me, stopping her from tumbling into the pool.
She gasps against my chest, hair and clothes soaked through, her jagged breaths mixing with the storm. I cradle her, relief crashing through me.
She shoves me off. “I’m fine!”
“You almost fell in!” The storm swallows half my words.
“Like you care!”
“What are you, twelve? The fuck is wrong with you?” I grab her elbow and steer her toward the room. She jerks free and hurries ahead of me. I get the key out and open the door. “Get inside.”
She shoves through, a gust of damp air following her in. She makes straight for the bathroom. A second later she’s back out, snatching her bag off the floor, crouching to scrape her scattered things back into it—clothes, toiletry bags—before retreating again. The bathroom door closes with a soft, deliberate click. I’m surprised she doesn’t slam it.
Fuckingpetulant.We were having a good night—a genuinely good night—and then something happened, and she gets drunk and acts like a childish asshole for no goddamn reason. Whatever. Apparently, I dodged a bullet.
Letting out a frustrated grunt, I take a seat at the edge of the bed and pull out my phone. There’s an unread message from Pearl. The screen lights up the dark room.
Pearl: You promised you’d tell me what you thought of my dress before the rehearsal dinner tomorrow!!
Jesus, Pearl. I remember her asking, but I didn’t think much of it at the time. Tommy’s going to lose his mind regardless of what she wears—she’s a beautiful woman.
But the picture is… a lot.
The dress is cut so low that the straps are doing most of the work. She’s not particularly busty, but the dress makes the most of what’s there. It’s not unlike things she’s worn before.
But the pose.
One hand cupping her breast, fingers hooked into the neckline, fabric pulled just to the edge, exposing a partial nipple. The other hand raised to her mouth, one finger hooked between her parted lips, like she’s sucking on it. She’s looking directly into the camera.
