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I tap him on the shoulder. “Excuse me.”
The man looks over his shoulder. Dark eyes lower to me as his lip curls.
I hold up my ticket. “I’m next!”
“No. She called my number,” he snarls in a not to be questioned tone.
“No!” I stand my ground, not letting the jerk intimidate me, which he’s trying to do. I see it in his ruthless glare.
“Listen, bitch—”
“Bitch!” I blink. Did he really just call me a bitch?
Is this how people in Florida treat each other now in line at cafés?
His massive body twists to face me. He’s enormous—way over six feet. Okay, perhaps I’ve bitten off more than I can chew here.
“Yeah, bitch,” he emphasizes the last word spoken from his curling lips. “What’s your fucking problem?”
“They called my number, and you cut in front of me.” I lift my chin. “That’s my problem.”
Asshole!
The man’s hand curls and starts to lift.
Oh! My! God! Is he going to hit me?
Really?
Right here in the café?
Dirty-hands man slips in front of me and grabs the jerk’s wrist. “Hey, asshole. You have a problem?”
While he addressed the jerk appropriately, I don’t need to be saved. I can handle myself. I’ve dealt with assholes like this guy before.
“I got a problem with that bitch. Not you.” The jerk sneers at Dirty-hands.
“Well, it seems you have a problem with me, then.”
Dirty-hands’s shoulders roll and lift. Damn, he’s hot!
No! Don’t think that. You know what happens when that shit gets going in your head. Bad things. Like losing your virginity to Nick Bailey kind of things.
I can’t see Dirty-hands, but whatever he’s doing, the jerk’s face changes like he just saw a bear or got a diagnosis of testicular cancer. He looks terrified. He backs down when Dirty-hands releases his wrist.
“It was just a misunderstanding.” Dirty-hands turns around and grabs my elbow. “The lady thought they called number eleven.”
“Didn’t they?” My eyes flash to Dirty-hands as I try to dismiss the heat soaring through me from his touch.
“No.” His glitter-speckled gray eyes look down at me as he escorts my stunned and humiliated body out of the café by the elbow. “They called seven,” he informs me.
“Oh!” My cheeks heat again when we get out to the sidewalk.
Seven. Eleven. Okay, to be fair, they kind of sound the same.
“Well.” I yank my elbow from his grip. “I didn’t need you to rescue me. I was fine in there.”
He leans in, bringing his ripe and kissable lips closer to mine. “It wasn’t you I was worried about,” he rasps.
