Page 89 of Catching Sparks

“You ever been with a welder before? Or do I get to pop your cherry?”

“My cherry has long since been popped, sweetheart,” I grit out. “And I’ve never had the absolute honour of being with a welder before.”

Where did Bryce find this guy? A gutter?

I glance around the small restaurant in search of the waitress. If I don’t get another drink in front of me in the next ten minutes, this guy is going to need to weld himself back together.

“What do you do for work, anyway? Part-time, I assume?” he asks, ignoring my clear distaste for him.

It would be easy enough to get up and leave right now, but I didn’t spend hours of my day finding an outfit, putting makeup on, and doing my hair just to skip out before I’ve gotten to fill my growling stomach. If that means I have to suffer through this terrible company for just long enough to get my burger in front of me and inhale it, then so be it.

With the waitress nowhere in sight and the entire space empty besides us, I settle back into the booth and clear my throat. “No. Not part-time. I own a pole studio.”

A dirty gleam twinkles in his eyes. “Shit, a strip club, eh? Are all the dancers built like you? If so, you can put me down for one VIP ticket. Well, as long as I’m not back on the grind yet.”

I swallow my rage as it tries to claw its way up. “No. Not a strip club. And what does that mean? Built like me?”

“Chill, babe. I just mean that you’re thick as fuck. That ain’t a bad thing. A bit of meat on the bones turns me all the way on.” He licks his lips. “Not gonna lie, I have a raging stiffy right now.”

My stomach rolls, hunger disappearing in a blink. No burger is worth being subjected to this asshole’s presence for a millisecond longer.

What on earth was Bryce thinking setting me up with him? Good God.

“Your Tinder photos didn’t even do you justice. I wasn’t expecting all of this to show up here, but now . . .” He groans, his eyes perusing my body with a greedy tinge that has me wishing I had brought a jacket to cover myself with. “Shit. We can get out of here now. Whatcha say?”

Tinder. Oh, she’s so, so fucking dead.

“There’s not a chance in hell that I’m leaving with you, Kyle,” I say boldly, my head shaking, curled hair bobbing.

The appallingly expensive, deep red lip gloss I got from my parents for Christmas last year that I stupidly chose to wear tonight has been wasted. A not-so-new dress, but one I’ve only worn a handful of times, wasted on a guy who doesn’t appreciate the beauty of it but only the way it shows my cleavage and sucks in my stomach. The ache in my toes from my pointed-toe heels, again, wasted. All of it for nothing.

Feeling let down, it’s hard to keep my thoughts of Garrison from breaking free of the box I shoved them into this week. It’s like open season as everything comes running free, doubts and hurt snapping at one another, fighting for dominance. My eyes burn, tears springing to life before dripping down my cheek. I don’t even know if I’m sad, angry, or both as I swipe them away.

Kyle notices my tears and cringes, reeling back in the booth. “Woah. None of that.”

I don’t have anything to say to him. If I managed a single word without breaking out in sobs, it would be a miracle. So I don’t try. Dropping my head in my hands, I watch him with one eye open.

He darts his eyes around the restaurant before shoving to his feet, flashing me a tight-lipped grimace, and jabbing his thumb over his shoulder toward the door. “I’m just gonna . . .”

“No, you’re fucking not.”

The growl comes from behind Kyle. I snap my head up, both eyes searching behind his lanky body for a glimpse of the owner of that rigid voice. Hope tears through me, and I hate it as much as I love it.

“Feel free to take my place, bud, but I’m out of here,” Kyle says, looking over his shoulder.

The laugh that follows is dark, deep, and powerful. I shiver, anticipation bubbling beneath my skin.

“Sit down. Now.”

Kyle goes rigid. I hold my breath, waiting for him to move.

He slowly comes back to the table, and I watch out of my peripheral vision as he slides into the booth across from me once again. It’s all the attention he gets from me. I can’t tear my eyes from the man standing back a few steps from the table, his hands in the pockets of a pair of black slacks and eyes greener than I’ve ever seen them.

“What are you doing here?” I ask tightly, praying he can’t see the rapid thump of my pulse in my throat.

Garrison continues to stare at me, eyes drifting slow and steady over every inch of my face. His mouth opens, but no words come out. He’s calm, appearing more settled than I’ve seen him outside of those two days in bed when he was half out of his mind on cold medicine.

My heart flutters, expanding too big. Every second of silence is a test of my patience.

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