Page 83 of Wrong Pucking Player

“Meow!”

I’m staring at the man in question, standing behind me with his ‘Don’t bother me’ demeanor that only makes him look more unapproachable to anyone who dares looks his way.

Muffin is in the cutest kitten raincoat, sitting on his shoulder with the hood up to cover her little black ears. She looks so happy, her eyes seemingly bright despite the darkness surrounding us.

Yet Armani is soaking wet in a black t-shirt that hugs every line of his muscled build just like his drenched grey sweatpants that don’t even hide the outline of his length and the chiseled lines of his thick muscled thighs.

Despite how fucking hot he looks at this moment, I’m unable to deny the ultimate truth as to why he’s here.

“You… came…”

Since I texted him hours ago, drunkenly stating I’d walk home.

He came all the way here on my behalf. Waited for me to leave this place.

I could have left with Wyatt, and he wouldn’t have approached. He just would have watched to ensure I got home.

Something no one has ever done for me in my entire life.

“You called,” he replies and slightly shakes his phone to emphasize I’m still on the line. “It’s four in the morning, Andrews. What makes you think it’s safe for you to walk these parts alone?”

“I…” I have no defensive statement to combat his words because it’s true.

Despite the fact I feel unattractive or think I’m too much of a tomboy for anyone to notice when reality sinks in, I’m still a woman. Still have a female reproductive system.

An individual who can be out beaten in strength facing another man with ill intentions. Despite my weight training and my constant efforts to defend myself, I was going to walk into a situation that could put me in a vulnerable circumstance.

That could get me raped.

Or worse.

“I… don’t… have… money,” I quietly confess.

We stare at one another as the rain keeps pouring down, to the point he sighs and takes the three large steps that land him before me.

“You forgot what I told you years ago, didn’t you?”

I didn’t.

Didn’t forget what he’d always quietly mutter whenever I was in situations that made me feel like a trapped mouse with no way out.

“If things get suffocating, rely on me for a gasp of air,” I repeat those very words he first told me when I was fifteen.

“At least your memory is still sharp,” he mutters annoyingly, and yet his touch to my cheek is so tender. “Stop crying, Andrews.”

That only makes me want to cry harder.

“It’s raining, Armani,” I huff in an effort to cover up a sob. “Why would I be crying, anyway? As if I’d cry in front of you?”

His hand moves through my wet locks, enough to gently wrap around the back of my head and pull me forward until I’m pressed against him.

“You’re right,” he mutters quietly as his hand leaves my hair to move down my back. “You’re too much of a badass bitch to dare do such a thing.”

“Damn pucking right,” I sob.

“Fucking,” he corrects and holds me tightly. “Uber should be here in two minutes.”

This man is a saint.

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