The Ex Files (Ocean View #1)(49)

I just need to express to her a heads up would be nice, so I don’t walk into a restaurant and see my woman out with another man.

So I sit in the corner for ten minutes, watching her do her job elegantly and professionally, so fucking beautiful it takes everything in me not to interrupt, steal her, and bring her back to my place. The whole time she engages with him, questioning and interpreting, thoughts flashing past her face.

When Gina brings my sandwich, I know my cover is blown.

That’s fine; I’ve seen enough.

“Here you go, Luke,” she says as she sets down the turkey club in front of me and grazes her breasts against my arm in a way that makes me want to brush off my arm with my hand like it left residue. But instead, I smile big at her and then catch that Cassie’s eyes are now locked on me.

I should feel bad. Really, I should. To surprise her this way, to catch her off guard while she’s working, isn’t the best move, but to be honest, the guy is a fuckwad, and if she hasn’t flagged that already, I’m sure it won’t take much longer.

The ever professional matchmaker’s eyes get wide, almost comically so, and the look is so adorable I have to fight not walking over there to kiss her. But then she’s looking back at the man and apologizing because she didn’t hear what the asshat said.

Who the fuck cares.

For the last ten minutes, all he’s done is talk about himself and his achievements. There was not a single moment where he genuinely tried to ask her something, encourage conversation, and showcase he cares about anything but himself.

But again, this is her job. To go on these dates, figure out who the good ones are. To find love for anyone but herself.

So I sit there. I eat my sandwich, never moving my eyes from her as it continues, as she pretends I’m not there, watching the whole thing. Again, I probably should have taken it to go, said a quick hello before telling her to call me after to meet up. But like the ass I am, I stay and watch her as I eat. I don’t taste a bite. I could have been served something nasty or fuckin’ cardboard, and I wouldn’t have noticed. Instead, all of my attention is on my girl. The noise in the small bistro has increased as the dinner rush approaches, and it’s become more challenging to hear the conversations, but that’s fine. I just… I need to watch her. I need to see her and know she’s okay. My gut is urging me to do so in a way I can’t explain.

It happens in a split second.

Her face goes from open and interested to confused with an edge of concern.

His hand reaches across the table to grab hers, pulling it towards him. She gently fights it, still holding a polite smile, a professional demeanor.

His head tips to the left, towards the door in a ‘let’s go’ gesture, and in response, she shakes her head no, a small polite smile on her face.

His face goes hard and frustrated.

His jaw is tight with his next words, words I can’t hear.

She shakes her head again, confusion gone, taken over by concern.

My gut sinks, and my hands go to my knees to push up and stand, but her eyes flit to me, and her head shakes, the most subtle shake. She’s asking me to stop, to let her handle this.

I have to fight the urge to get up, instead staying in place and watching them like hawks, reminding myself this is her business, her job. I can’t interfere. I can’t—

Until she tries to pull her hand back and he tugs her towards him.

Hard.

Cassie tries to say something that looks like, “Please let go,” but he doesn’t. Instead, he tugs again.

It’s not the tug that snaps me.

It’s the flash of pain on her face.

Abso-fucking-lutely not.

No way.

She can be strong and independent and handle things on her own. I’ll deal with men dating her, coming on to her, daydreaming of her in their bed so long as it’s mine she’s sleeping at night. I’ll let her handle all of it until someone puts their fucking hands on her. Then the game is over.

I’m on my feet in moments and taking the few strides necessary until I’m at their table.

My hands go to the collar of his suit jacket, a cheap department store brand clashing with the undershirt he’s wearing. Not her type.

And that’s the problem, isn’t it? He’s not her type, not for her. He must know it, has to know a sweet, gorgeous, intelligent woman like Cassie would never willingly leave to go anywhere with him.

“What the fuck, man?” he shouts in my face as I pull him out of the chair and force him to face me. My hand grasps the lapel of his jacket until he’s close to my face.

“You put a fuckin’ hand on a woman?”

“Fuck off, man.” He tries to push at my chest, but he’s not just a douche in a cheap suit jacket—he’s weak. The shove barely even moves me.

“I asked you a question.” My voice has gone cold, and even in my state, I notice the sound around us has lowered, other customers quieting to watch what’s unfolding.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?”

“I’m the man who watched you put your hands on a woman more than once, then when she asked you not to, you tugged on her hand, causing her pain. Now, do you want to answer my question?” I don’t know if it’s fear or bravado, but his eyes roll before he opens his dumb fuckin’ mouth.

“Fuck off, man. She’s playing hard to get. You know how chicks can be.”