“Oh, hell, no,” I shout before I can stop myself, thrusting a finger toward Steven’s stupid fat head. “Get out! Get out right now!”
Chapter Three
Colin
I get mixed up trying to find the firehouse, but luck is on my side. I don’t spy a single fire engine, but I do spot Savannah dashing into an establishment covered in brightly colored beer signs as I’m spinning in circles trying to orient myself in this town.
My heart leaps, and before my brain can engage, my feet are in motion. I have no idea what I’ll say when I catch up with her, but I need to be at her side. The very sight of her fills me with bone-melting relief, joy, and a peace I took for granted while she was living in my house. I can’t wait another moment to tell her how I feel.
I have to confess everything and beg her to give me a chance at her heart.
I swing through the door practically on her heels and then stutter to a stop as her shriek fills my ears.
There’s a man in a cowboy hat seated at the bar beside a woman in a fluffy jacket that makes her resemble one of Bea’s stuffed animals, and the bartender is vaulting across the counter to push between them.
“Van! You’re home,” the bartender says. “Hey. Come sit down. Over here. Way over here. You want a Savanny Sunshine? You loved it so much the last time you were in town, we named it after you and put it on the menu.”
“Don’t patronize me!” Van shouts.
The bartender lifts his arms in the air. “I’m not, I just—”
“You’re just serving the sheep-poker and his latest sheep!”
Well.
This is suddenly awkward.
While Savannah and I have never talked openly about her ex-husband and his proclivities, I did a thorough background investigation on her before hiring her to be Beatrice’s nanny three years ago, and I have far more knowledge of this situation than I’d like.
I also have unexpected rage and the urge to strangle a complete stranger.
“That man is supposed to be in prison,” I announce.
Savannah spins, gasps, and goes sheet-white. “Colin?”
Those gorgeous bright eyes sweep over me, and I’m unable to determine if that’s joy, shock, or horror making her body sway uneasily.
Please be joy. Please, please be joy…
The bartender slips an arm around her, doing the very thing I ache to do myself, and I experience another surge of rage, but this one is mostly inspired by jealousy. White-hot, green-eyed monster-fueled jealousy.
Who the devil does he think he is? Laying hands on my Savannah?
“He’s out on a technicality,” the bartender says quietly, widening his eyes pointedly at me over Savannah’s shoulder. “None of us are happy about it.”
“You don’t bloody well have to serve him though, do you?” I snap, widening my eyes back at him in return.
“According to anti-discrimination policies around here, yeah, I do. And who, exactly, are you to tell me how to run my bar?” he throws back.
“Yeah, ninnypants,” the cowboy sheep-fucker says. “Who exactly are you?”
“He’s my gorgeous English lover!” Savannah proclaims. “And he gives me so many orgasms. And he cares that I come first. And he goes down on me all the time. He goes down on me like it’s his reason for living, and it’s so good that I go blind. Seven times a night!”
The bartender shifts uncomfortably.
My shaft also shifts, though if we weren’t in public, it would not be uncomfortable.
And my heart—my heart sees this for what it is. I’m not the man Savannah loves, but I am the man who can play her hero in this moment.
I clear my throat and utter a sentence I never dreamed I would be saying in public today.
“Quite right. I do rather enjoy a good pussy-licking.”
Van’s jaw drops.
The bartender shifts away from her even more, awkwardly rubbing his neck and looking to the bar as though it can save him from this infernally embarrassing conversation.
And the man in the cowboy hat—Savannah’s ex-husband, Steve, the cheating bastard who tried to kill her sister and got out of prison on a technicality—sneers at me.
And I find that’s the very last bloody straw.
I clear my throat again. “And I do mean her fanny. Not an actual cat. Unlike some people, I don’t fornicate with animals.”
“Ew, he licks her butt?” the wooly-jacketed woman whispers.
Americans. Honestly, I don’t know how Savannah survived growing up here.
But whatever her origins, she found her way into my life, and the only thing that matters now is protecting her from this awful situation. “Savannah, love, would you like to join me for a cup of tea?”
“No!” She blinks, then cringes, looks back at her ex-husband and his sheep-woman, then steps closer to hiss in a softer voice, “We need to finish the treasure hunt. I have to sing.”
“Fuck me,” her ex mutters. “Can this day get any worse? She sounds like a feral hyena being humped by a whale when she sings.”