Page 5 of Ruined By Protection
The drunk turns, sizing Matteo up. "Mind your own business, asshole."
Matteo doesn't raise his voice. He doesn't need to. "I'm making it my business."
There is a hint in his tone—the quiet certainty of a man who doesn't make empty threats—that makes the drunk hesitate. His grip on my wrist loosens.
"The lady asked you to let go," Matteo continues. "I suggest you do it. Now."
The man releases me but his alcohol-fueled bravado hasn't completely deserted him. "Whatever. Drinks are overpriced anyway."
He stands unsteadily, reaching for his wallet. He throws some bills on the bar. "Keep the change, sweetheart. You're not worth the trouble."
As he turns to leave he bumps into Matteo, who doesn't move an inch. For a tense moment they lock eyes. The drunk seems to finally register that Matteo's gaze holds an edge that cuts through his alcohol haze and triggers a survival instinct.
He mutters something under his breath and staggers toward the exit.
I rub my wrist where the drunk's fingers left red marks. The skin stings but it's my pride that hurts more. I've handled difficult customers before but this one caught me off guard.
"Thank you," I say to Matteo, who's returned to his seat at the bar. "You didn't have to step in, but I appreciate it."
He takes a slow sip of his whiskey, those dark eyes watching me over the rim of his glass. "Does that happen often?" he asks.
"Often enough." I shrug. "Part of the job."
"Shouldn't be."
I grab a clean cloth and wipe down the bar where the drunk spilled his drink. "Welcome to the service industry. Some men think buying drinks entitles them to the pourer as well as the pour."
I busy myself organizing bottles, trying to ignore the feeling of being merchandise. When I glance back he's checking his watch—an understated but clearly expensive timepiece that catches the light as he moves.
"I should get going," he says, finishing his whiskey in one smooth swallow.
"I'll get your check."
I print his tab and slide it across the bar. He barely glances at it before pulling out a sleek leather wallet and placing several bills on top—way more than necessary.
"Keep the change," he says, standing up.
"This is too much." I push some of the money back toward him.
He gently slides it back. "You earned it. Dealing with idiots like that guy deserves hazard pay."
Our fingers brush and the brief contact sends a ripple of warmth up my arm. I pull my hand away quickly, suddenly conscious of how close we are, leaning toward each other across the bartop.
"Thank you," I say, tucking the bills into my apron pocket. "For the tip and the rescue."
"Maybe I'll see you around, Hazel." The way he says my name makes it sound like something precious.
He holds my gaze for a moment longer, then turns and walks away. I watch him leave, his confident stride carrying him through the thinning crowd and out the door.
What the hell was that?
I shake my head, trying to clear it.
I slice lime with more force than necessary, annoyed at myself. This is ridiculous. I don't even know the man. He's clearly wealthy, probably used to getting whatever and whoever he wants. The definition of a one-night stand guy.
And I am definitely not a one-night stand girl. I'm a relationship person. Always have been. The few times I tried casual, it ended with me getting hurt while the guy moved on without a backward glance.
Besides, I don't have time for relationships, let alone meaningless hookups. Between my shifts here, my morning job at the café, and sending money home to help with Dad's medical bills, my life is already overbooked.
