Page 13 of Uxpectedly Ever After

The guy swivels his attention to me, his bloodshot eyes narrowing into these squinty little slits. "Who the hell are you?"

"I'm the manager," I say, keeping my voice even. "And I think it's time for you to wrap it up and head out."

"I'm not finished with my drink."

"Yeah, you are." I nod my head toward Marco, our security guy who's built like a brick shithouse and probably bench presses small cars for fun. "You can either walk out on your own two feet, or Marco here can help you. Your choice, buddy."

The dude leans forward, getting all up in my personal space, and his breath smells like stale beer, making my eyes water. "Listen, you little bitch—"

"She said you need to leave." Banks's voice has dropped about ten octaves and is now this low, dangerous rumble that vibrates with barely leashed aggression. His whole body has gone rigid, shoulders squared, jaw tight. It's like watching Dr. Jekyll turn into Mr. Hyde, only so much hotter. "I suggest you get the fuck out of here before I make you."

But the drunk idiot doesn't seem to realize he's about to pick a fight he can't win. Instead, he just snorts dismissively and reaches out his giant paw to grab my wrist. "I just wanna talk to the pretty bartender—"

His words cut off in a strangled gasp as Banks moves faster than I've ever seen anyone move. One second he's leaning against the bar, the next he's got the guy's wrist in a grip so tight I can practically hear the bones grinding.

"Touch her again, and the only thing you'll be walking away with is a stump," Banks says, his voice eerily calm despite the murderous glint in his eyes. He's not yelling, not making a scene, but the absolute certainty in his tone makes every single hair onmy body stand on end. "That's not a goddamn threat. That's a promise."

The drunk guy's face goes completely white as Banks leans in close, his voice dropping so low I have to strain to hear his next words.

"She's not interested. She will never be interested. And the only reason you're still standing right now is because causing a scene in her bar would piss her off. Now get the fuck out before I decide her feelings on that matter less than teaching you some manners."

Banks releases the guy's wrist with a little shove, and the dude stumbles backward, clutching his arm and shooting Banks a look that's a mix of fear and pure, unadulterated rage.

"Whatever," he mutters under his breath. "This place is probably full of lesbians anyway."

He snatches his jacket off the back of his stool and storms out, nearly bowling over a group of women who are just walking in.

"You okay?" Banks asks, his intense gaze sweeping over my face like he's checking for damage. It makes my skin prickle in that weird way it does lately around him.

"Yeah, I'm fine," I say, irritation and this other, warmer feeling that I am absolutely not going to acknowledge right now bubbling up inside me. I turn to Navy, who's already back to wiping down the bar. "You good?"

She just nods, already moving to serve the next customer like nothing even happened. "Yeah. Thanks, you two."

Banks stays beside me for another tense moment, his large frame close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him. "I didn't mean to overstep, Freckles."

"Then why the hell did you?" I snap, keeping my voice low so the remaining customers don't get an extra dose of drama with their last call. "I had it handled."

"I know you did." His eyes are locked on mine, that intense gaze making it hard to breathe. "But I couldn't just stand there and watch him talk to you like that. And when he touched you—"

"Go sit down, Banks. I'm working."

He holds my gaze for one more beat, then finally nods and heads back to his stool. I immediately throw myself into serving the remaining customers, deliberately avoiding his end of the bar for the rest of the night as I silently fume over his whole knight-in-shining-armor thing. My body definitely appreciated it, but my brain? My brain is currently staging a full-blown revolt. Does he honestly think I'm incapable of handling some drunk idiot? That I need him to swoop in and rescue me like some damsel in distress?

I scoff out loud, earning a questioning look from a customer as I ring him up.

By the time last call is announced and the last stragglers are finally heading out, the tight knot of anger in my chest has solidified into something sharper and more uncomfortable.

It's after 2 AM when we finally lock up. Navy, bless her observant heart, takes one look at my face and offers to handle closing. "Go home, Clover. You look like you're about two seconds away from committing a felony."

Banks is waiting outside, leaning against the brick wall of the building with his hands shoved deep in his pockets. The streetlight catches on his jawline, highlighting the stubble that's somehow gotten even sexier throughout the night because he clearly didn't bother to shave this morning after interrupting my shower to get his razor. Which, for some reason, just pisses me off even more.

He straightens up when he sees me.

"I figured you might want some company on the walk home," he says.

"What I want," I say, starting down the street at a brisk, angry pace, "is to not be treated like I'm some fragile little thing who can't handle a drunk idiot."

He falls into step beside me, his longer legs easily matching my furious stride. "I never said you couldn’t handle it, Freckles."

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