Page 124 of Anything But Lonely

And Jenkins is standing way too fucking close.

Even from a few feet away, I can see the tension in her posture. Her arms are crossed tightly over her chest. Her jaw is locked. Jenkins is leaning toward her, talking with that smug expression he always wears.

A surge of anger hits me so fast it nearly steals the air from my lungs. Every protective instinct I possess roars to life, and I lengthen my stride.

Jenkins says something.

Emerson's expression goes cold—the kind of look that should make any intelligent man take several steps backward.

But I think everyone knows Jenkins is not an intelligent man.

I take another step forward, already preparing to insert myself between them, but then Emerson is moving.

It's so fast I almost miss it.

One second she's standing there with her arms folded.

The next she's uncrossing them, planting her feet, and driving her fist straight into Jenkins's face.

The crack echoes down the alley as Jenkins's head snaps sideways, his body stumbling backwards with a startled grunt before crashing shoulder-first into the brick wall of the building behind him.

I stop dead in my tracks.

Jenkins is holding his face in his hands, and I can see the blood dripping through the cracks in his fingers. Emerson’s shaking out her hand, taking a step forward like she’s ready to swing again.

And despite the situation, despite the fact that I should probably be concerned about what the fuck just happened and what the fuck is going to happen next, I have never been more attracted to a woman in my entire life.

Emerson turns to me, and I come back to myself, closing the distance between us.

“Are you okay?” I ask, grabbing her hand.

Her fingers look okay, and I can’t help the pride I feel that my girl knows how to throw a punch, but I shake the thought away, filing it away for later to focus on making sure she’s alright.

“Someone got a little too close,” she says, shaking out her hand.

“What did he say to you?” I ask, looking over my shoulder to make sure Jenkins isn’t getting any ideas when our attention isn’t on him.

“It’s really not worth repeating,” she chuckles, but it’s free of humor. “Damn it,” she mutters.

“What? What’s wrong?” I grab her hand again, inspecting her fingers. That’s when I notice they’re already starting to look a little purple.

“I bruise like a peach.”

The way she says it with such a bored tone has some tension in the air—and my body—releasing. “I’m sure Emmett has a first-aid kit behind the bar. We can wrap your hand inside.”

Emerson’s eyes go wide. “I can’t have bruised knuckles at Crew’s orientation tomorrow. His teacher is going to think I’m insane.”

That’s what she’s concerned about right now.

“Well, you did just punch a grown man in the face.”

The words take me back to when my sister did the same thing a few years ago in a very similar situation—and leave it to me to have women in my life who take matters like this into their own hands.

Literally.

Emerson looks like she’s going to argue, but then her gaze goes behind me. That’s when I register some movement. She pushes me to the side, holding out her hand. “You stay,” she reprimands, like she’s talking to a dog.

And when I turn my gaze to Jenkins, he’s frozen to the spot.