Page 100 of Falling Back to You

He refilled my glass and moved down the counter to take another order.

I sipped my soda. Whatever magic Marcel performed on it was beyond me, but I swear it was the best tasting stuff I’d ever had.

“Look who’s back. New York was good to you, pretty lady.” The smarmy tone made my skin crawl.

A blond man in a too-tight black T-shirt, like he was trying to emphasize his physique, smirked at me from across the counter as he crossed his arms, flexing his biceps. Really it just screamed “I don’t know how to shop for myself without my mom helping me.”

“Um . . . and you are?” Did I know who he was? Yes. Was I giving him that satisfaction? Not if I could help it.

The man slapped a hand to his chest. “You wound me. Denver Donovan. My family owns this place.”

I sighed and twisted my almost empty glass. “Denver. Right.” I had the urge to punch him all over again. It was petty, but the slight crookedness of his nose—courtesy of my right hook—filled me with a sense of pride. He’d been a slug in high school and apparently hadn’t outgrown the affliction.

“Let me buy you a drink.”

“No thanks.”

“Aw, c’mon,” Denver goaded, waggling his eyebrows. “Don’t be like that.”

I ignored him—and his overgrown hedge of a mustache—draining the last of my soda and setting the glass down.

“Have you seen what they say online about you, baby? In a town this size, you don’t have a lot of options.” His fuzzy-lipped smile sent chills down my spine. “I’m as good as you’ll get.” He leaned across the counter, encroaching on my space.

Ew, ew, ew. I slid off my stool, and Denver’s hand shot out towards me, grabbing my forearm. I yanked away, preparing to reacquaint him with my right hook, but a blur of movement shoved him against the wall.

“You’re fired,” Marcel said with a deadly frost coating his tone.

Whoa. Those were some seriously fancy moves straight out of a spy movie. Was Marcel a veteran? Maybe Special Forces? Navy SEAL?

“You can’t do that!” Denver shoved at the man, but Marcel didn’t even flinch. If anything, he only pressed harder. “My father—”

“Sold me this place last week.” Marcel stared him down. “Downto’n is mine. Get out. And don’t come back. You aren’t welcome here.”

Denver gaped like a guppy. Marcel motioned to his security guard to escort Denver from the premises. But the little guppy was a fighter. Shouting obscenities and slurs, he swung at the guard.

Marcel sighed. “Better call it in.”

Dallas, flanked by another officer, arrived three minutes later and took one look at Denver pinned to the ground with the guard’s knee in his back. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Do I want to know?”

Marcel grunted but said nothing.

I rubbed my forearm absently where Denver had grabbed me. What a night. A girl tried to avoid being the center of attention and landed up in the middle of a brawl. Just peachy.

Dallas caught sight of me and frowned. “You okay?”

I dropped my hand. “Of course. Marcel handled him.”

Murder filled Dallas’s eyes as he glared at Denver. “Get him out of here,” he barked at the second officer.

“C’mon, man,” Denver hissed, now handcuffed. “She was asking for it.”

Dallas grabbed Denver’s shirt, nearly hauling him off his feet. “Stop talking. And you won’t go anywhere near that woman, understand me? Or I’ll personally see to it that you don’t step back in this town.”

My hands shook as they escorted Denver, still running his mouth, out the door. But as they left, the DJ played the chorus of The Beatles “Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da.” And I mentally saluted him—an absolutely savage walkout song.

Chapter thirty-three

Cal