I’m startled when Ham’s fist slams down on the table as he leans forward and glares at me. “Listen up, Bucktooth Betty,” he snarls, “I don’t know who the fuck you think you’re talking to, but you’re goddamn lucky that I even sat down once I saw that ass and those teeth.”
Whatever show this is must air on Netflix or something because there's no way cursing like he just did would fly on network TV. That’s probably better for me, actually. Less of an audience for my worst nightmare—although, this is the kind of thing that could become YouTube gold, and if that happens I’ll never live it down.
“See.” I laugh. “This is how I know you’re kidding. There is nothing wrong with my teeth.”
The angry shade of red his face is turning brings me up short. My stomach starts to churn as a horrible, god-awful thought takes hold.
Oh.
My.
God.
Have I read this whole thing wrong?
Is this all happening for real?
“Yeah, well, here’s a wake-up call for you,” he bellows. “Your lateral incisor isn’t perfectly straight and it makes your smile look almost as shitty as the rest of your face—”
“You have ten seconds to get the hell out of here on your own two feet,” a harsh voice announces. “If you’re not out by then, I’m picking you up and dragging you out. Believe me when I tell you that isn’t what you want.”
I gasp as a shiver races up my spine. Even if he’d only uttered one syllable, I’d have known that sexy-as-hell voice anywhere. Everything halts as I look up to confirm the identity of the speaker. Sure enough, the god of a man towering over the table is no stranger.
This horrific date takes a back seat in the face of this new development. Mason Cleary is here and he’s still hotter than a barbecue in Australia—which accounts for the fact that I’m suddenly all hot and bothered down under.
“Who in the fuck are you?” Ham thunders.
“I’m the motherfucker counting down your last few seconds of having a face that isn’t bleeding,” Mason answers menacingly.
The fuck-hot timbre of his voice is my weakness.
“Ten, nine, eight—”
“Fuck it,” Ham squeaks as he shoves his chair back and stands. “Bucktooth isn’t worth—”
“One.”
Mason cheated and skipped a few numbers, not that I’m surprised. The sexy son-of-a-bitch has always hated having his time wasted. His arm is a blur as he reaches out and grabs Ham by the collar of his shirt, which he then uses to drag him toward the door of the restaurant.
“What the hell, bro? You’re stretching my shirt and it’s a Hugo Boss,” Ham wails.
I snicker and roll my eyes. Mason is pissed—being told the designer of Ham’s shirt isn’t going to change that.
Meanwhile, I can’t lie—I’m fascinated by the turn this date just took and I don't want to miss what's about to happen. Rising from the table, I grab my purse, toss a five down to cover the sodas we got, and give a mental thank-you to the universe that the waitress never came to the table to take our order. I knew the second I walked in that I wouldn’t risk my health by eating anything, but Ham had been gung-ho about how good everything on the menu sounded. I would be seriously annoyed if I had to pay for his meal. After pushing in my chair, I hurry along behind Mason. I can’t help the way my gaze keeps going to his perfect ass as I walk.
The sight of it clothed is ah-mazing, but it’s only half as good as the view when he’s naked. Nothing beats feeling it clenching beneath my hands as he thrust into me like a battering ram. Christ, the orgasms this man has given me make up the entire highlight reel in my spank bank. With Mason I’d learned that sex could be so much more than robotic missionary in a darkened bedroom. I’d only ever known bland, plain-Jane sex before he came along, but he changed that for me. Too bad he’s commitment-phobic.
I push away thoughts of our past to focus on the spectacle before me—the one the four other customers in the restaurant are watching with blatant curiosity. Ham curses and carries on like a teenage punk when Mason uses his face to push the door open before he shoves him outside. I’m not even through the door behind them before Mason has let go of Ham’s collar, leaving his fist free to do what I can tell he wanted to do from the moment he arrived at our table. Ham’s dumb ass doesn’t even attempt to block the incoming punch, which is a mistake since he’s nowhere near being a match for Mason.
Mason is a six-foot-one muscle machine. He works out nearly every single morning, and it shows. I’m not normally into fights, but I’m viewing Mason’s fist as an extension of karma—which is sexy as hell. Now that I know this isn’t a reality TV setup, there’s no doubt in my mind that Ham has subjected other women to his put-downs on the regular. That being the case, he more than deserves the punch Mason just delivered.