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“It’s okay. It’s not your fault,” Tate reassures, remaining calm, which is impressive.
I’m guessing the Tate of old might’ve blown up and thrown a fit. I’m not sure.
“Thank you, sir. We can also pack your food up to go and call your car up. Whatever the both of you are more comfortable with.” The man offers me another apologetic smile, and I pull myself out of Tate’s hold, turning toward him.
“What would you rather do?” Tate asks, his voice low.
I release a trembling breath, tucking a few strands of hair behind my ear with shaky fingers. “I’d rather leave, if you don’t mind.”
I’m too rattled to stay here, too wary that she’ll pop up again. I don’t want to risk it.
“We’ll take the food to go,” Tate tells the manager, who smiles and nods, just before he moves deeper into the kitchen, shouting orders to the kitchen staff.
Tate pulls me back into him, his arm going around my waist, his hand resting possessively on my hip. “Are you all right?”
I shake my head, on the verge of tears just from the concern in his voice, the way he’s looking at me. Like he cares about my well-being. “Not really.”
“Shit, Scarlett, I told you not to go in there—” He clamps his lips together, cutting himself off, gazing at the kitchen door like he’s imagining that woman busting in here too. “It doesn’t matter what I told you. I didn’t think someone would come for you that aggressively. It’s clear that from now on, we’re going to need security with us wherever we go.”
I didn’t like the idea of those two big guys trailing us everywhere earlier, but now I wish they’d accompanied us to dinner. “All right,” I say with a nod, trying to pull away from him yet again, but he doesn’t let me go.
“Come here.” He wraps me up in a big hug, and I cling to him, breathing in his spicy male scent, closing my eyes and savoring the warmth of his chest. How firm he is. How strong.
I’m in over my head here. Not just with Tate and my newfound feelings for him but with all the craziness that surrounds him too.
I wanted a different life. I was desperate for people to pay attention to me, but now?
Now I’m not too sure if this is what I want.
Or if it’s even worth it.
CHAPTER26
TATE
After we wait a few minutes and I text the driver to come meet us, I escort Scarlett out the back door of the restaurant, my arm around her shoulders as I guide her to the waiting vehicle. She presses herself against me, hiding her face like someone is going to spot us. I try my best to ignore the fury coursing through my blood, but it’s difficult.
I’m pissed that the confrontation happened. Mad at myself for not insisting that the security team accompany us. I didn’t think it would be that big of a deal, showing up unannounced at a restaurant known for celebrity clientele.
Looks like I was wrong.
Once I’ve gotten Scarlett into the car, I glance around the parking lot, making sure no one is nearby, before I crawl into the back seat with her. The moment I shut the door, the driver pulls away from the building, maneuvering his way through the parking lot with a few sharp turns that have the brakes squealing, causing Scarlett to practically fall into me. Within minutes we’re back on the freeway, the traffic a lot lighter than it was when we drove here.
Our dinners are in to-go boxes sitting on the passenger seat by the driver, but I’m so furious my appetite has completely left me. I knew Scarlett shouldn’t have gone to the bathroom by herself, but damn it, I’m not her daddy. I can’t tell her what to do. I also couldn’t trail after her and stay in there to make sure she was safe. She would’ve told me I was overreacting, and I would’ve agreed with her.
But something felt off from the moment she left the table. I noticed a woman—thewoman—heading for the restroom soon after Scarlett did, and just seeing her gave me an uneasy feeling.
It felt like Scarlett took too long. Or maybe she didn’t. All I know is that I had this sensation I couldn’t ignore that something was wrong, and I needed to go investigate.
Only to find Scarlett being cornered by some thirty-year-old former Five Car Pileup fangirl slinging insults at her.
Okay, maybe it’s a stretch that the woman was a former FCP fan, but she was definitely at least thirty. And rude as fuck, practically screaming in Scarlett’s face, demanding that she answer her questions. About me. About us. The look of pure panic and terror I glimpsed in Scarlett’s expression—shit.
I scrub a hand over my face, trying to push it out of my mind. She was scared.
And it’s all my fault.
It’s always my fault. Everywhere I go, something happens. Something big. Something bad. I’m destructive. My dad told me that when I was a kid. Mom always called me impulsive. I realized later that was a nice way to say that sometimes I do really dumb shit.
