I opened my mouth to speak, but Graham beat me to it. His tone was level, his annoyance tightly-leashed. “Like I said before, she asked you to leave. She did it nicely. You didn’t listen. That means it’s my turn and I’m not asking, I’m telling. You may think I’m doing it not-so-nicely but…” He paused and his grip tightened on the suit collar until the man’s tie knot was pulled up against his windpipe, constricting his flow of oxygen. The rest of Graham’s body stayed stock-still as he did this, but I watched the muscles in his extended forearm flex beneath the skin and knew he was applying considerable pressure.
“Trust me,” he continued lowly. “You don’t want to see my not-so-nice side.”
The customer, already pale, went even paler. I couldn’t tell if this was due to the lack of air in his lungs or the fact that this was no idle threat. Graham Graves didn’tdoidle threats. He didn’t do idle, period. He was a man of action. He was brawn and brash. (And bothersome, but that was neither here nor there at this particular juncture.)
“Um,” I whispered again, thinking I should probably interject.
Graham talked right over me. (See?Bothersome.) “You’re going to leave this establishment and you aren’t going to come back. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever. Am I clear?” he asked. His tone was still level, his control over his emotions as firm as his grip. But I knew, deep down, he was impatient because he gave the man a slight shake when he failed to agree instantly. “Nod if you understand.”
The man, who was beginning to panic, did as he was bidden, nodding a frantic assent. As soon as he did, Graham released him. The man fell forward, doubling over with his hands clutching the countertop for support — guaranteeing more Windex in my immediate future.
Fabulous.
I didn’t even have time to properly lament this eventuality aloud. The man gulped in three ragged breaths, straightened, shot me one last withering glare, skirted a wide path around Graham, and high-tailed it up the stairs toward the exit without another word.
Leaving me alone with Graham.
Precisely where I didnotwant to be.
Over the past few years, I’d made an art out of avoiding his existence, even when we crossed paths at one of Flo and Des’s dinner parties or found ourselves sitting in the same booth during a night out at The Witches Brew. I’d become a certified expert in ignoring him — even when I felt the weight of his piercing green eyes on my face across the table or the heat of his body pressing protectively close to mine in the crowd whenever Flo and I stumbled out onto the dance floor to scream the lyrics of our favorite cover songs after a few too many rounds, his broad frame blocking us from the tidal sweep of gyrating townies. (And trust me, those eyes were not always easy to ignore. The body was even harder, seeing as it had approximately zero percent body fat and more muscles than Michelangelo himself could feasibly sculpt.)
I wasn’t blind. Nor was I immune to the fact that Graham Graves was one seriously attractive man. But beneath the chiseled face and sculpted body lay a cruel heart and an even crueler tongue — one I’d felt the biting lash of two years ago, and had no desire to be on the receiving end of ever again, so long as I lived, thank you very much.
Bracing myself, I forced my eyes from the front door as it slammed shut behind the jerk-off, past the gathered crowd of curious onlookers — Hetti amongst them — and, finally, to the glowering man towering before me. Braced or not, it took effort not to physically react when our gazes met. His, as always, hit me like a sucker punch to the gut.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, pleased when my voice came out steady, instead of shaken.
“What am I doing here?”
“That’s what I asked.”
One dark brow arched upward. “Is there a thank you buried somewhere under all that ice you’re blasting my way?”
“Depends. Is there an explanation for your presence buried somewhere under all that entitlement you’re cloaked in?”
His eyes flashed. “Two words.”
“Pardon?”
“Two words,” he repeated, leaning forward an inch. “Thankandyou. Go on, try them out. You can even tack my name on at the end, if you feel like going for extra credit.”
“You’re joking.”
He said nothing.
“You must be joking.”
Still, nothing. After a moment, I realized he was waiting for his thank you. Waiting like it was a foregone conclusion. And the way he was waiting — brow arched, arms crossed, boots planted — dripped with so much arrogance, it made my teeth grind together.
Totally… freaking… bothersome!
“I didn’t ask for your help,” I declared in a haughty tone, not entirely sure why I was being so haughty but unable to stop myself. Honestly, I should be thanking him. He had saved my ass from the angry jerk. But when it came to Graham, things like logic and manners flew right out the window. “Therefore,” I continued, even haughtier than before, “I don’t owe you a thank you.”
“You don’t want to thank me verbally, that’s fine. We can work something else out. Clear your debt more creatively.”
I tilted my head, totally unsure what that meant. “Pardon?”
“Something wrong with your hearing?”