It’s irrational. I’m not professing my love to her, and I sure as hell ain’t asking her to be my girl. But I’m gonna get her away from another loser, and then I’m gonna make her feel good. Reynold Porter never made her feel good, of that, I’m fuckin’ sure. I’ll make her feel good, and I’ll set her loose. It’s a favor to her to end a date with a guy that gets phone numbers at job interviews.
Fuckin’ sleazeball.
Her car isn’t in the lot when I arrive. He picked her up, and somehow the idea of his seatbelt across her chest makes me want to rip his goddamn throat out. I slam my truck door, stomping across the parking lot and into the restaurant.
The bell hanging from the door rattles as I push inside.
“Mr. Winters,” the host greets. I know her name. She’s walked me to my favorite table countless times. And yet here I am, blanking, because the only name, the only words, the only reachable fuckin’ letters in my brain… Goldie.
I oughta be terrified of how consumed with her I am because if I were to think about it, I’d see that’s exactly what I am. Consumed.
“Dark hair, thin, here with a…” I don’t know what job interview phone number douche looks like, so I rake a hand up the back of my head, exasperated, as I pull at the ends of my hair. “I don’t fuckin’ know who she’s here with,” I grit out, trying as hard as I can not to lose my goddamn cool because it isn’therfault I’m coming unhinged.
It ain’t Goldie’s either, yet here I am… about to ruin her night.
It’s irrational. It’s fuckin’... unfair even. But I’m not sure who could stop me at this point.
“Umm,” she panders, her eyes darting from side to side, no doubt searching for an ally, looking for someone who can stop the wall of rage coming at her. “I think…” she trails off, side-eyeing their backroom curtain area.
I hook my thumb that way. “She back there?” I ask. I hold my hands up as I take a grounding breath. “I ain’t gonna cause a scene; I just need a word. Okay?” I hold her eyes to prove to her I’m not gonna get her in trouble if she lets me go back there.
Hell, I think we both know I’m going back there. I’d like to do it with her permission, but I don’t have to.
Luckily, she nods. “Okay, Mr. Winters.” Her face squeezes up as she brings her linked hands up under her chin, wordlessly begging me to be good. I give her a nod and aim to keep that promise, but as I stomp my way toward the back of the restaurant, I don’t honestly know what’s gonna happen.
Why am I here? What the actual fuck is my plan?
I keep seeing her fingers drummin’ next to that blue polish. Smelling her eager little cunt all over my face. Remembering the way she trembled around me, dripped onto me. The goofy-ass look on her face when she slipped off the chair at the cabin. The sound of her fingers playing with her hungry little cunt that morning in bed when she thought I couldn’t hear her.
Her salty attitude and broad smile, everything about Goldie has me fucked up.
I yank the curtain back, and the rings cling together loudly. Loud enough that everyone dining in the private room turns and faces me. I grunt, searching their faces until I spot her.
Emerald eyes wide, mouth agape, she just stares at me. Her hand falls from the top of the table to her lap, where I watch her fingers spread open along her satin dress. With a grunt, I move forward until I’m standing over her.
I ain’t even looked at him yet.
“Atticus,” she says, and the way she says it makes me hard. Or was I hard on the way over? I don’t fuckin’ know.
“We need to talk.”
“I’m on a date,” she says, motioning across the table with her other hand, a fork in it with asparagus dangling from the tines. “Can it wait?”
Finally, I turn to look at the dude who gets chicks at fuckin’ job interviews. He’s… traditionally good-looking, I guess. Blonde hair that’s all styled and shiny and shit. His jaw is clean shaven, his eyes are wide and clear, and his clothes look like they cost a lot of money. He just gives off the expensive, beach house owning, shops at the organic market, and wears loafers that cost the same as college tuition type of energy.
I fuckin’ hate him.
“No, it can’t wait. That’s why I’m here,” I reply to her through gritted teeth, but I don’t take my eyes off this Chris Evans-looking motherfucker. When she puts her hand in mine and tugs, I look away from him.
“Is everything okay?” she whispers up at me, but I notice the flush spreading across her chest, and I hope it’s not embarrassment.
“Outside,” I say, turning on my heel and barging out. By the time I’m outside the restaurant, heading across the parking lot toward my pickup, I’m breathing hard. So fuckin’ hard that I drop a palm to my chest and clutch it. Panic seizes in my veins, and the edges of my vision seem to be fogging. What the fuck is happening? Sweat trickles down my temple when she calls my name.
“Atticus.”
I turn to find her wearing a man’s coat, arms twisted around herself like she’s cold. The tip of her nose is pink, and her feet–tucked into some shiny nude high heels–are pulled together, her knees wobbling. Fuck. I dragged her out of a date into the fucking cold snow to do what?
Why am I here?