“And,” he continued, totally clueless about how close to death he was, “I’m only rating you as a three because your face is nice and your tits are fucking fantastic.”
That was it. She was going to have to kill a man in the middle of a cop bar. They better have chocolate cake in prison, but even if they didn’t it would probably be worth it.
“There you are, honey,” a man said just as a very large shadow fell across her table.
She looked up—way up—into the beyond-handsome face of Frankie Hartigan, who was built like a redwood tree and, rumor had it, had one between his legs.
“I’m sorry I was late for our date.” He glanced over at the dipshit veggie pusher. “Is this guy giving you a hard time?”
…