hips and her legs down to her knees. Strappy sandals with a reasonable heel made her look… feminine. Not like the over-the-top, in-your-face, fuck-me-now women in the bar area who had eyed me as if I were a piece of meat or the MMA champ they knew me to be. They wanted me to take them to the restroom, lock the door and fuck their brains out. No names, no connection. Just a quick lay with the champ.
I was done with that shit.
But this woman, this woman, Emory, she was soft and lush. Mysterious. Intriguing.
I’d been pulled into another conversation about fighting and been forced to look away from her. I was able to get my sights on her again when I finally made my way over to Paul. She’d gotten cornered, talking to some asshole who’d been standing too close with his hand on her arm. From across the room, I had no idea what they spoke of, but it was obvious she hadn't been interested, especially when she’d moved out of his grasp. I'd watched the asshole closely; he definitely wasn’t her date. If he was, he sure as hell wasn’t getting lucky. Her gaze had kept darting out the large windows, and she took frequent deep breaths as if she’d been ready to flee or knee him in the balls. Something he'd said made her frown, a little crease forming in her smooth brow, and I’d been pissed. She shouldn’t be doing anything but smiling and not with that fucker.
If what he'd said offended her, I had no clue why she didn’t just toss her drink in his face and walk off. Paul must have noticed as well, told me the guy was his cousin—his very handsy dumb-as-rocks cousin—and asked me to step in and rescue her. Paul couldn’t tear himself away from the group we’d been with, but I didn’t mind, not in the least. He'd said the woman was a friend of Christy’s and was too nice to give an asshole—every family had an asshole cousin—much of a brush-off. Paul had no idea I’d been watching her, but it fucking made my night that he knew her and asked for my help. It was the perfect excuse to get her to turn that brilliant smile on me without coming across as another guy who tried to pick her up. The way she looked, the way she just glowed, the men would be hounding her.
As I'd made my way closer, I'd been able to see she wasn’t the most beautiful woman in the room. There were ladies in their twenties I’d passed who put their best assets to full advantage, trying to score. It wasn’t just the men trolling. The bar had been an equal-opportunity meat market. Cleavage, exposed thigh, stiletto heels, pouty red lips were on full display. Youth was also on their side, but youth lacked experience. Life. This mystery woman was definitely in her thirties, probably closer to forty. She wore her age well, as if she knew who she was, what she wanted from life, and told everyone else to fuck off. Except for Mr. Asshole. He’d made her frown. As I made my way across the room, the guy’s hand had moved to her waist, and I’d seen red. I'd wanted to storm over there and rip the man’s arm off for touching her. She'd stepped back, and I knew she wasn’t interested.
That’s right, baby. He’s not for you.
She wasn’t a quick lay. She was so much more.
The restaurant hadn’t been the fucking ring, and I couldn’t have just beat the shit out of him. I'd had to be civilized, so I didn’t get arrested, but more importantly, scare the crap out of the woman. I'd taken a few deep breaths and chilled the hell out and got the girl. At least for a little while.
Click. Click. Click.
I glanced up at the digital clock placed high above the wall mats. Fifteen minutes to go. Sweat soaked my T-shirt, and my legs were starting to tire. My breath came out in an even pant, but I pushed on and thought about the conversation with Emory to get me through to the end of my workout.
She’d actually considered that I’d drugged her water. Someone like Emory shouldn’t have those thoughts, shouldn’t have to watch out for predators. Men who were willing to treat her poorly or worse. Had some guy—perhaps her ex—been a dick and hurt her? Done shit like putting a Rufi