“Now? Not later?” I tease.
Her eyes flare with lust. And then they go quizzical.
“Why do you call me that?” she asks.
“You taste like berries. I see something wild in those eyes sometimes. Something you hold back most of the time. Maybe I’m tryin’ to call it out. Looks like I just did.”
She bites her lip.
I lean in, but my ears and nose are assaulted at once. Faint noise. A car. Scent. What scent is that beyond the car scent? I straighten and inhale deep. And when I do, I want to roar out in rage.
“What’s wrong?” she asks.
Fuck. Not him. How?
“What’s wrong, Mason?” she repeats, panicked.
“Stay here,” I command, leaving her on the couch, rushing up the stairs and to the door, ripping it wide, finding myself face-to-face with Amelia’s ex.
His eyes narrow as he looks me over. “I need to speak to my fiancée,” he states.
My lip curls with disgust. This weasel reeks of entitlement. And sex. He fucked whoever he fucked the other night again, just a few hours ago. And despite that he’s somebody I’d like to crush for the fact he’s touched and hurt my mate, I also know instinctively that even under other circumstances I’d feel the same. There’s something about this fucker that I just immediately dislike.
“Not your fiancée anymore and I do not fuckin’ think so,” I say, staring down my nose at this little puke.
“Are you tryin’ to say she’s not here? Because that’s her car.” He gestures. “And phone location services have her here. So, produce her. I’m not leaving until I talk to her.”
And now she’s coming up behind me. My mate needs a spanking for constantly disregarding my instructions.
“What are you doing here?” she demands.
“Honey. Thank God. I’ve been worried sick,” he calls out, trying to peer around me to see her. I move slightly to block his view.
“What are you doing here?” she demands again. “How are you even here?”
I make no move, just stare him down.
“I got desperate after not hearing from you,” he says, “so I tracked your phone.” His eyes intermittently bounce between me and my woman. I want his eyes off her.
“Grr, fuck,” she mutters.
“We need to talk, Amelia,” he states.
“I don’t wanna talk to you. I’ll come get my stuff in a couple days. You shouldn’t have come.”
“I can’t even see her. Move, will ya?” he clips.
I bare my teeth and say nothing.
“Go home, Rick,” she says, “I’ll call you when I’m ready to come get my things.”
“The wedding is in eight days, Amelia. A week from now is our rehearsal and rehearsal dinner. We need to talk this out. What happened the other night… I wanna explain. I… I didn’t screw around.”
“Lie,” I spit.
He glares at me. “Where do you get off? I don’t know you, man. And you, Amelia, accusing me of fucking around and yet you’re at some guy’s house? Who is this guy?”
“None of your business,” she states. “And I didn’t accuse you. He did.”
He huffs and gets a determined look on his face. “This guy knows nothing; he sure as hell doesn’t know me. We can work this out, Amelia. We have a good thing, you and me. You owe it to me to at least talk to me.”
“She owes you nothing. You got more from her than you deserved, and you’ll get no more of it. Get the fuck off my property.”
“Amelia… we have stuff to talk about,” Rick pushes.
“Mase,” Amelia says softly.
And I flinch. This is the first time she’s called me that.
I look over my shoulder and see her eyes are soft and on me. Me, not him.
She swallows and then her gaze bounces to him and then back to me.
“Okay, baby,” I say and drop one arm so she can step ahead of me.
And as she moves, my eyes land on the joker in front of me. Ugly energy rolls off the red-faced fake-tanned asshole with his puffed out-chest. And it takes control to stop myself from knocking his veneers out.
For how he mistreated her. For how he makes her feel. For the fact that he’s touched her at all. Touched my woman.
A growl rolls up from my gut before I can stop it. And I see a flash of surprise combined with fear in his expression. He must see the near feral look in my eyes because he flinches and then his eyes turn to my mate who has stepped off the porch and is now leaned against the hood of her car, arms folded across her chest, eyes on me with an unreadable expression.
She turns to him. She’s in a tank top and jeans, barefoot. Make-up free. Nails painted the color of candy apples. Smelling like me. She’s beautiful. And she’s all mine.
She smells like me, not him. She wears my mark, not his. I remind myself that he doesn’t matter. This guy will soon be a distant memory. He’s not a threat, not remotely. She doesn’t love him, didn’t even carry his scent when she got here and now finds the idea of being with him unfathomable. She knows he’s not the man for her. She might not yet be admitting that I am that man, but she will.