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By the time I stride up beside her, ready to fight or flee or both, her face has shifted into a mask of confusion with an adorably pinched freckled nose and puckered lips.
I peek at the phone screen in her hand. “Is that Tomer?”
The big, blond funless fuck is stomping up the walkway toward the front door.
My hands ball at my sides involuntarily so hard that my joints burn. The sight of him— here in Mia’s space— unleashes irrational anger that’s quickly becoming all too familiar. My newly acquired green jealousy monster reminds me of the Hulk, since I’ll certainly smash anyone who comes after Mia.
Why does Tomer think it’s okay to show up here uninvited? Why does he know where she lives? Has he been here before?
“I have no clue what he’s doing here,” she mutters, answering my unspoken question.
He bangs on the door a few seconds later. And I do meanbangs. The mirror hanging beside the door goes askew from the force.
It’s probably for the best he didn’t use the doorbell, or his finger would have gone right through the button.
She pads toward the door. “I’ll get it.”
Shaking off my confusion, I draw her back by the arm, locking her feet in place.
“Excuse me?” she huffs, tugging herself from my grasp.
“Put a damn bra on before you get the door. In fact, go fix yourself up, and I’ll let him in.”
Her hands dart to her hair and face as a look of bewilderment scampers over her features.
Grinning at how damn cute she is, I explain, “Tiger, your hair is a mess, and there’s mascara running down your face. He’s going to think I beat the shit out of you.”
She cups her mouth with her hand, her eyes wide with shock.
Before she runs off, she rises to her tiptoes, rests her hands on my shoulders, and places a soft kiss on my cheek. “Thank you.”
I choke back the emotions that her simple gesture evokes. My heart constricts, and my stomach does a cartwheel as she retreats to her bedroom. Hearts sparkle in my eyes like I’m a twitter-pated fool.
Easy, pal. Don’t let this dame make a Harvey out of ya.
The loud thumping at the door is accompanied by the angry bellow of our coworker. “Mia, it’s Tomer. Open up. Now. I know you’re in there.”
Out of habit, I check the peephole before opening the door. He barges in past me without a greeting or any reaction to seeing me here.
“Where is she?”
After locking the door, I double-time it to the living room to stop him from trashing the place in whatever freaking angry rage he’s in. I’ve never—never— seen him this emotional.
Not in battle.
Not in any of the dozens of life-or-death situations we’ve been in since leaving the military for Redleg.
Not even when we’ve teased him mercilessly.
Never.
He’s not an emotional man.
Except for now.
“Mia!” he bellows, voice booming and dripping in manic energy.
I dive in front of him with my palms facing out, shushing him. “Shh. Easy.”
