Page 42 of Bedding Rose
Ms. Dalton has obviously seen us and heads our way, winding through the crowd, a look of fear clear on her face.
“Come on, dear. I don’t think this is the right place for us,” Mr. Garcia intones, offering his wife his elbow and leading her away from Ms. Dalton, but more importantly, away from me. Thank fuck.
By the time Rose’s mom is in front of me, they’re gone, lost in the crowd.
Ms. Dalton turns blazing eyes on me, as if she intimidates me at all. In the scheme of things, she’s a gnat. “What did you say to them?”
“Nothing,” I tell her. It’s the truth. I didn’t say anything I wanted to, didn’t break my beer bottle and shove it up Jorge’s gut so he could feel the same shit my dad had to deal with in prison.
Ms. Dalton doesn’t believe me. Her lips thin and one eye twitches slightly, but she can’t rage at me in public. I give her one of Quique’s patented ‘well shucks’ shrugs and she stomps off.
I sigh before sitting back down. It takes a few minutes for my pulse to return to normal. I use a pitcher on the table and pour myself a glass as I search for Rose.
I spot her just as one younger guy puts his dirty hand on Rose’s arm. Before I can blink, I’m standing again. Rage swells my chest as I move around the table only to watch my girl deftly step back out of this guy’s clutches. Her eyes immediately dart to mine—because she knows who she belongs to.
That’s fucking right, Rose. You’re mine.
I let my expression do the talking, but it’s one hundred percent clear.
She mutters something before she weaves a few steps away from him and then she shoots me a hard look. I can read her expression perfectly. It says “stand down.” But I’m definitely not going to take any orders when it comes to other men touching her so I stride over anyway.
When I reach her, the little prick has already melted into the crowd—lucky for him because I’m feeling just as wild as a bull who’s seen a red flag. Rose brings out something in me that’s akin to the violence I embrace when I take out someone who deserves it. She makes my heart beat just as quickly, and the same adrenaline pound through my veins.
Her back immediately stiffens at my approach and I imagine her nipples do too based on the exasperated but lusty look she’s giving me—one not too dissimilar from the night of our first kiss. The air around us practically vibrates with delicious chemistry—the best I’ve ever experienced. I let my eyes trace over her cold-kissed cheeks, glowing pink, before smirking into her pale green eyes.
“Thought I’d check in. See if I needed to break his hand for you.”
She rolls her eyes. “You overprotective gorilla.”
I just thump my chest in response, earning a tiny little grin.
God, she’s fucking cute.
I wish I could slide my arm around her waist right now, but I watch her stiffen and her demeanor change from my version of Rose to formal, polite, always-has-the-perfect-answer Rose as an older couple approaches us.
“Mr. and Mrs. Jimenez! It’s so good to see you! How’s your puppy doing?”
The older woman’s eyes light up as she goes on and on about some dog she just got at the shelter Daisy volunteers for. Her husband and I both quickly check out of the conversation and he excuses himself to go grab a drink.
I don’t leave, not because I’m interested in anything having to do with potty pads or puppy teething problems, but because I find myself studying the girl at my side, wondering what she’d be like if she didn’t feel as if she had to suck up to all these people. Would she still be having this conversation?
Maybe. Sometimes that smile seems genuine, especially when Mrs. Jimenez pulls up a quick video on her phone of the puppy tripping over its own feet.
But then her mom will come by and it’s like someone flicks on a switch. Rosie becomes stiff as a porcelain doll, her expression placid and fixed, deferring to or agreeing with her mother on every goddamned thing. It’s infuriating to watch.
What’s even more infuriating is how Ms. Dalton snubs me, deliberately conversing with all the other people who rotate through her circle. She doesn’t make eye contact, but I can feel it, the waves of disapproval radiating from her.
That’s the kind of pathetic bullshit I won’t put up with.
So I don’t.
I slide my arm around Rose’s back only to find out she’s as cold as a sheet of ice right now.
What the fuck? Why hasn’t she slipped away to go warm herself up?
Smoothly, belying the anger I feel about the fact that she’s not even taking care of herself, I say, “We’re going to grab a drink and warm up inside.”
I steer Rose away from her mother and the rest of her little group of lemmings and ignore Ms. Dalton’s glare.
