"The tiramisu for him," he tells the waiter, not looking at me. "And I'll have the crème brûlée."
"I actually don't want dessert," I say.
"Come on. You're a pastry chef. You have to try the tiramisu."
"I've had better tiramisu than this restaurant has ever produced. And I didn't ask for it."
His smile goes tight. "I'm just being nice."
"Then you can be nice by letting me order for myself."
The table goes cold. Brett leans back, crosses his arms, and looks at me with an expression I've seen before. The one that saysI've been buying this dinner and you owe me something for it.
"You know," he says, "you're kind of difficult."
"I've been told that too."
"Most guys would appreciate someone taking charge."
"Most guys aren't me."
He reaches across the table and grabs my wrist. Not my hand — my wrist. His fingers wrap all the way around, tight enough to press bone, and he holds on. "I think we got off on the wrong foot. Let me take you home. We can start over."
I look at his fingers on my wrist. I'm not scared — not exactly. I've been grabbed before. I've dated men who thought dinner was a transaction and my body was the receipt. But I'm tired. Bone-deep tired of men who see "flirty" and hear "available." Who see "friendly" and hear "easy." Who buy me salmon and think that means they own my evening.
"Let go of my wrist."
"Robin—"
"Now."
He lets go. Holds up both hands, the picture of innocence. "Sorry. Got carried away."
"I need to use the restroom."
I walk to the bathroom with steady legs and shaking hands. Lock the stall door. Sit on the toilet lid and pull out my phone.
The calculus takes about three seconds. Not Ash — Ash will put Brett through a wall and I'll spend the rest of the night explaining to police why a retired Special Forces operative just hospitalized a finance bro. Not Toby — Toby would call Knox, Knox would bring the pride, and I'd have five lions descending on this restaurant like a leather-clad SWAT team.
Vaughn.
Because Vaughn will come. He won't ask questions. He won't make it a production. He'll just show up, handle it, and drive me home. Quiet and steady and exactly what I need.
I need help. Bad date. Can you come get me?
Three dots appear instantly. He was already on his phone. Or he keeps it close. Either way, the response takes four seconds.
Address? Do you need me to kill him?
I almost laugh. Almost cry.
No murder. Just extraction please.I text the restaurant name and address.
5 minutes.
It takes eight. I know because I'm counting, sitting in the bathroom stall staring at the ceiling tiles, listening to the muffled clatter of the kitchen through the wall. My wrist aches where Brett grabbed it. Not badly — no bruise, probably — but the phantom pressure of his fingers lingers.
When I hear his voice through the bathroom door, the relief hits me so hard my knees buckle.