Page 2 of Fated to Him

“It’s nice.” If a little handsy. “If there’s nothing else.” I’m walking away as Jerry stretches a long-fingered hand toward my ass.

My self-regulated clumsiness kicks in.

I bump the corner of his table with my hip. Jerry, who was more focused on grabbing my ass than picking up his bottle, finds himself wearing the contents instead of drinking it.

“Shit! Sorry,” I mutter as he seizes the bottle with a curse before it can keep foaming all over his white t-shirt. “I tripped.”

His thin lips tighten. The corners of his brown eyes pinch as he shoves himself to his feet. “Fucking?—”

“Leave.”

Jerry halts, and his mouth gapes open.

We both turn to the small, scarred round table where Malakhi Gabriel always sits.

“Now.” His head is lowered, his longish walnut brown hair brushing a square, stubbled jaw with a dimpled chin.

When Malakhi doesn’t move, Jerry steps around the table, fingers clenched in a tight fist as he glares at me.

I inch back as I prepare to defend myself with my small black tray. It’s not the first time I’ve had to do it, and I doubt it’ll be the last.

“Or die,” continues Malakhi in a deep baritone so authoritative I believe him. “Your choice.”

Conversation dies. The rock music playing overhead continues as everyone turns to stare at the man who hasn’t spoken one word until now. And only to threaten to kill a man who tried to touch me.

Jerry takes one look into his gray-green eyes that promise death, slams his bottle down on the table, and stalks out.

I watch him go and release a quiet sigh of relief, even if I’ll be spending the next several minutes cleaning foaming beer from the table and floor.

I’m still watching Jerry when footsteps rush toward me. Turning, I observe Clint, my blond and bearded bar manager, hurrying over. He must have been in the back for him not to have intervened.

Clint glances at the door Jerry slammed shut on his way out and, frowning, turns back to me. “Are you okay?”

I shrug, grabbing the now-empty bottle since most of its contents are all over the floor. “Fine.”

“You should be more careful. Jerry can be trouble,” he warns me.

“I will.” For the short time I’ll be here.

After what just happened, I’m thinking tonight will be my last shift.

“Get back to serving, and I’ll deal with this mess.” He nods at the spill.

“Are you sure?” I ask. “It’s my mess.”

“I’ve got it, and I’d say it was Jerry’s mess. Not to worry. I’ll stick that beer on his tab,” he says with a smile as he holds his hand for the bottle. “You have tables waiting on you.”

I pass him the bottle gratefully.

As Clint heads to the bar to grab cleaning supplies, I glance over at the man who only comes to this bar to watch me.

His table is empty.

When did he leave?

And why does he order a beer from the bar, sit at one of the tables that offers waitress service, and not drink or say one word to me?

Unlike the times he’s come before, he’s left a napkin on his table. A folded one.

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