Page 11 of Texting My Valentine

He says something to her, then she stands, walking around the bar with him. They linger at the very end. I’m no lip reader and too far away to hear what they’re saying.

Their body language is tense. The man takes a red envelope from his pocket and offers it to the woman. She shakes her head, her gorgeous waves bouncing around her shoulders. He shoves the envelope at her. She takes a step back.

Then he shoves the envelope at her again. I’m on my feet before I realize it.

“Where are you going?” Julian says as he looks my way.

I ignore him, my heart pounding as I rush past him. Who does this guy think he is? Not her boyfriend, clearly, if she won’t accept a red envelope on Valentine’s Day.

“You’re not getting the hint, buddy,” I growl as I step behind the bar.

My tone even shocks me. Protective instincts swell in me, especially when the woman turns with gratitude on her face, but then her expression becomes guarded.

“No customers behind the bar.” The man is smiling, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“I’m not just going to stand here as you lay your fucking hands on her.”

“I wasn’t…”

“I watched you shove that letter at her. She’s clearly got no interest. So. Back. The. Fuck. Off.” My hands clench into fists as if I’m twenty years old and not a Chief of Surgery, a man with a career, a nephew, and a reputation to protect. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

“Are you serious, old man?” he snaps. “You’re trying to play the tough guy routine with me?”

“Damien, be quiet,” the woman says. “He’s telling the truth. I’ve tried to be nice, but you’re making it impossible. You were getting pushy.”

“I was gettingpassionate.”

“I’m not interested in your passion,” she says through clenched teeth.

“Can’t a man do a nice thing anymore?”

“You heard her,” I say. “Leave her alone.”

“What’s it to you?”

She’s beautiful and interesting. And she’s the only woman I’ve looked twice at in a very long time. Not that I’m going to tell him any of this.

“Huh?” He gets in my face, prodding me in the chest. The little shit. “You obviously don’t know who I am, tough guy. I’ve had three cage fights. I’ve got… friends. You understand what that means in Miami? Well?”

He prods my chest again. My hand moves on reflex, gripping his hand and squeezing tightly. He makes an annoying yelping noise. “I don’t care about your so-called connections. Just leave her alone.”

He grabs my shirt with his other hand. “I will choke you, old ma?—”

“What’s going on here?”

The owner—the woman who announced the texting event—strides around the bar. “Damien? Tori?”

“Damien tried to give me a Valentine’s card,” Tori jumps in. Learning her name feels far better than such a simple thing should. “He got aggressive when I refused it. This guy stepped in, and Damien threatened him.”

“Don’tlie about me,” Damien whines.

“Oh, Damien,” the owner says. “You need to leave. I won’t have this in my establishment. I’ve seen you looking at Tori before, and I’ve seen, far too clearly, that she is not interested. This has gone on for long enough.”

“But—”

“No. We’re done here.”

He slowly lets go of my shirt. I let go of his hand, though the urge to snap his fingers is there. The little prick. Making Tori feel threatened. He’s got no right.

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