Page 2 of The Holiday Hookup

Instead, I drop my purse and walk up to him, grab him by the shoulders, and knee him right in the dick before he can process what I’m doing.

“Ahhh!” Gillian’s exaggerated shriek demands the attention of the bar, and all eyes are on us as I step back and retrieve my purse from the ground. I dust it off as I fix it back on my shoulder, placing a sweet smile on my face that opposes the hatred and shock I feel inside.

I’m about to give that one-line response when an arm wraps around my waist, pulling me into a firm, warm body. I snap my head back and find a man I’ve never met before, dressed in all black, planted next to me.

“There you are, baby. I was wondering where you’d run off to.” He glowers at Trent, who straightens at his words.

“I—erm—uh—” The shock of this random guy coupled with my actions renders me speechless.

“I’m sure whatever Mr. Asshole did to deserve your fist—and knee—was well-earned.” His voice is all silk, goosebumps erupting over my skin. He places a kiss on my head and my breath hitches when I catch a glimpse of his face. “Saves me the trouble of having to scuff him up myself.”

The physical attack on Trent was about all I’m capable of in terms of spontaneous action. The adrenaline coursing through my veins is begging for more, but my brain is trying to catch up to what’s going on. Luckily, this guy seems to pick up on that fact, rushing us towards the exit before Trent, Gillian, or anyone else can speak.

The cold wind whips the exposed skin of my legs as we walk out, but the slight warmth from his tight grip on my hip is all I can focus on. The temperature in our town, Azalea Pines, never drops below forty. I didn’t bother bringing a jacket, thinking I wouldn’t spend much time outside, but I’m now chastising myself for not planning properly.

The moment we’re down the street, I peel myself off of mystery man and gawk at him. “Who the hell are you?!” The absence of his hand on my hip is strangely pronounced, and I find myself wishing it was still there. It must be an effect of the adrenaline. Or the cold.

“A thanks would suffice,” he replies with a smirk. It’s not like the one Trent wore, though. His is teasing and confident in a pleasant way, not in an ‘I’m better than you’ way. Now that we’re away from that whole… whatever the fuck that run-in was, because Irefuseto process that now, I take in his appearance.

I knew he was taller than me, and sturdy, but now I find that he’s attractive, too. Okay, not just attractive, straight-up edible. It’s as if he was drawn up by my own imagination, hitting every check mark on what I find hot as hell on a guy. Well, except for the eyebrow piercing. But it’s totally working for him.

Stop checking him out.

His twinkling eyes force me back to earth. My frustration builds again, because here I am with this sexy guy who just pulled me away from assaulting my ex. My cheeks redden with mortification, sending me on the defense.

“I was handling things fine on my own, I didn’t need—”

“Oh, I know. It was awesome.” I blink and he continues. “I wanted to throw more gas on the fire. I thought it could be fun.” He shrugs, as if that’s really all it was. And I should have no reasonnotto believe him.

But my trust in men is shit. Cases in point— asshole, cheating Trent and no-show, fuckboy Brad.

“Well—” Unable to finish that sentence with anything coherent, I settle on learning who he is. “Who are you?”

“Lorenzo.”

“Kate,” I respond automatically, as if he cares who I am.

“For Katherine or Caitlin?”

“Just Kate.” No one calls me by my full name, Katherine, and I’d like to keep it that way.

“Well, it’s a pleasure.” That grin hasn’t left his face, his eyebrows arched in amusement.

“I’m not going to say thank you because I didn’taskfor your help.”

“Come on. You gotta admit, that was the cherry on top of a badass sundae.”

As much as I hate to admit it, he’s not wrong. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel… exhilarated from what just happened.

“I just… I haven’t been able to process any of this.”

“What is there to process? You hit some douchebag right in his shit and crotch-splotched him for—what?”

I’m cackling, unable to control myself. I’m not sure what’s come over me. Maybe that gingerbread drink had something other than alcohol in it.

“I’m—sorry,” I choke out between laughs. “Crotch-splotched?”

I wipe the tears that have formed in my crinkled eyes and he frowns.

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