Page 38 of Texting My Valentine

She puts her phone down to serve another customer, leaving the message unfinished but I know where she was going. I watch her with a smile, barely touching my food. I’m like a moth to the flame; I just can’t help myself.

However, when she asked me about Elliot, that was awkward. I don’t know why, exactly. Or maybe I do. Maybe I want to avoid it like I have for the last two years since the crash.

He’s a good kid. It’s not his fault he reminds me so much of Robin, who was not just my brother but also one of my best friends, a person I thought would never betray me.

I push the negativity away and type a message.

Alex:Tell her that the outcome is me spending as much time at her establishment as possible as long as it means I get to watch you with that gorgeous, magnetic smile on your face.

Another lull, and she walks to the end of the bar, smiling as she heads to the back.

Tori:You make taking out the trash much more interesting than usual.

Alex:I wish I could stay here all day. I need to get back to work soon.

Before I can send the message, she calls me. I quickly answer it.

A voice snarls, “Give me the fucking phone.”

I leap from my chair, causing several people to turn and look at me. I don’t give a damn. I know that voice, even crackling through the phone.

Running behind the bar, I dart through the kitchen, not caring when people yell at me that I can’t be back here. Let them shout.

Nobody gets to threaten her. Not at work, not anywhere.

I burst out of the rear exit to find her boxed in against the wall, three wannabe tough guys standing around her. One of them is Damien, the jerk from Valentine’s night.

“Get the fuck away from her,” I growl. When they don’t turn to face me quickly enough, I slam my hand against the trashcan.“Now!”

Damien turns, sneering at me. He looks mighty fucking pleased with himself. The other two are covered in tattoos on their faces, necks, and hands. They have a strung-out look that makes me think of what Damien said about having connections in Miami.

If Tori’s safety weren’t a concern, maybe I’d think about my job, my patients, and Elliot. What’s he going to do without me?

Instead, I step forward, glaring at the men. “She turned you down, dumbass. What sad game is this?”

“You just said it,” Damien snaps. “She turned me down. That’s the issue right there, you old bastard. Nobody turns me down. That’s the wholepoint.”

“Damien, just stop,” Tori says, her hands raised in a defensive position.

He turns to her, yelling in her face. “Quiet, bitch!”

I snap without thinking. No one talks to her like that.

My fist catches him across the mouth. He stumbles back. One of the tattooed men immediately takes out a gun and aims it at me.

I freeze, staring at the barrel. Tori has tears in her eyes. Damien wipes blood from his lip and then grabs the pistol from his buddy, pointing it at me. “That wasn’t very smart, was it?”

“Scaring Tori wasn’t very smart, you twisted fuck,” I growl, unable to control my rage. It boils up from something primal inside me: the urge to protect my woman.

Maybe that will seem crazy later. Or I’ll second guess it, but not now, not here. It feels like the most genuine thing I’ve ever experienced.

The other two scumbags exchange a look. When Tori steps forward, they move toward her, and she freezes. She seems annoyed with herself, her eyebrows furrowing almost like they did when she discussed her poetry.

“What if I just clipped you here, old man? Then what? Would you feel big and brave and fucking impressive then?”

“You need to take a breath and think about what you’re doing.”

He pushes the barrel of the gun against my head, the cold metal grinding into my skin. Perhaps there’s a world where I’d let fear dictate my actions here, but all I care about is that sobbing noise Tori is making. That’s the only thing that matters right now.

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