Page 36 of The Rogue and His Flower

“I’m a receptionist, you?” I ask, taking another sip from my drink.

“I work in logistics.”

“Logistics?” I ask, acutely aware of how his gaze keeps dropping to my chest. Prickles of awareness, and not the good kind, scatter down my spine.

“Yeah,” he replies, his countenance changing as he stares at me. “Okay, so let’s cut to the chase.”

“Cut to the chase?” I question, trying to shift my legs between the table as his thighs cage mine, my hackles rising.

“My friends and I have a little wager going, and right now I’m the only one here who hasn’t managed to pull,” he says, lowering his voice and licking his lips.

A wager? Really? I’msodone with men.

“Can’t imagine why that might be,” I reply, not bothering to hide my disdain as the atmosphere shifts, tainted now with an uncomfortable tension. I subtly inch my chair back, creating some physical space between us as I try to formulate an exit strategy in my mind.

Paul leans in closer, dropping any kind of pretence now as his eyes narrow. “Come on, you must be picking up what I’m putting down.”

“Oh, I’m very aware of what you’re doing,” I reply, pressing my palm against the table as I move to stand. “And I’m not interested.”

He reaches out and wraps his fingers around my wrist, squeezing tightly. “You’re here alone, I’m here alone. Why don’t we make the most of it?”

“You can’t be serious?” I retort, trying to tug my wrist free. “Ben is my friend, and the second he sees what you’re doing he’ll be over here.”

“Ben is very distracted right now,” Paul replies, smiling lasciviously. “Just a quick kiss, yeah? Then I’ll leave you alone.”

“Not a chance!” I hiss back.

“Listen, I’ll buy you a drink. Stay and talk some more,” he says, attempting to make himself look less of a dick with an offer of a drink, as if that somehow makes his behaviour okay.

“Paul,” I say, bending over so that my face is just inches from his.

“Yes,” he smirks, dropping his gaze to my lips.

“FUCK OFF!” I shout, before lifting my handbag and smacking it into the side of his head.

Paul’s smirk fades as he’s shoved sideways from the force, the sound smothered by his friends whooping and hollering.

“You bitch!” he snarls, his fingers still wrapped tightly around my wrist as he pushes back his chair and stands.

“The fuck you just say to my fiance?”

Three things happen at once. I stiffen, Paul’s eyes widen, and Dalton’s fist meets the arsehole’s jaw in a sickening thud. Releasing me, Paul stumbles backwards from the impact of Dalton’s punch, and I grip my wrist, rubbing it.

“Daisy, are you okay?” Dalton growls, his eyes dropping to my hand wrapped around my wrist.

“I’m fine. Let’s just go,” I whisper, heat flooding my cheeks as the men Paul came in with all fall silent.

“Not until I’ve dealt with this prick, we’re not,” he says, twisting on his feet.

“He’s with a lot of people,” I hiss, reaching for Dalton’s arm, but he just throws me a glare.

“I don’t give a fuck. If they want a fucking brawl, then I'm more than willing to give them one,” he says, his voice rising with every word as his attention focuses on the crowd, then back at Paul who he stalks towards. “You, arsehole, touched what’s mine, and now you have to pay.”

“Mate, it was a misunderstanding,” Paul says, holding his hands up as he backs away.

“Dalton. Just leave it!” I protest, catching Ben’s eye who has now come out from behind the bar and is holding a baseball bat. The other regular’s stand, moving towards the pair in support of Dalton and Ben, and in warning to the group of drunken men.

“You thought you could come on to my woman and get away with it, did you?” Dalton snarls.

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