Page 69 of Almost Enough

“Just one drink,” the guy insists, his hand still on Whitley’s hip. “I promise I’m more interesting than whoever you’re here with.”

Whitley’s voice is calm, but I know her well enough now to hear the edge beneath it. “Thanks, but I should really get back to my friends.”

She tries to step around him.

He blocks her. Again. “Don’t be like that, Red.”

Red. My nickname for her. In this fuckface’s mouth.

I cover the distance in three strides, every muscle tight with restraint. “Is there a problem?”

Whitley’s eyes snap to mine, wide with surprise before she schools her features into something neutral.

“No problem,” she says lightly. “I was just heading back to the table.”

The guy turns to look at me, sizing me up with a sneer. He’s cocky, drunk, and about to make a very stupid decision.

“We were having a conversation,” he says, his smile tight. “Private, you know?”

I take one step closer. “Conversation’s over.”

He doesn’t back down. Instead, he smirks, like he thinks this is funny. “Didn’t realize she came with a babysitter.”

I tilt my head, cracking the tension in my neck. “Didn’t realize you were the kind of guy who couldn’t take a hint.”

Whitley shifts between us, laying a gentle hand on my arm. “Beau,” she says, her voice low. It’s a warning. Or maybe a plea.

But it’s too late. I’m already itching with the need to act.

The guy’s smile turns sharp. “Look, man. She’s hot. I thought I’d shoot my shot. You don’t have to act like you own her.”

I step in, so close our chests almost touch. “She doesn’t belong to anyone, but she sure as hell doesn’t want you.”

His eyes narrow. “You got a problem?”

“Yeah. The kind that ends with you stepping the fuck away from her.”

Then the guy scoffs, throwing his hands up. “Jesus. Fine. Whatever.”

He turns and disappears into the crowd, the tension snapping as he vanishes. I don’t move until I’m sure he’s long gone.

Whitley exhales next to me. When I look down at her, there’s fire in her eyes, but not the kind that scorches. The kind that hurts because it doesn’t belong to me.

“Thanks,” she says, voice clipped.

I nod once. “You okay?”

“I was.” She turns toward the table without waiting for a response.

I watch her walk away, the rigid line of her shoulders telling me everything I need to know. She’s pissed. But what was I supposed to do? Let that asshole paw at her while she tried to politely extract herself?

“You didn’t need to do that,” she says when I finally make it back to the table. Her voice is low enough that only I can hear it.

“He wasn’t taking no for an answer,” I mutter.

“I can handle myself.”

“I know you can.”