Three burly foreign men staggered over.
One slammed into the table edge, jostling the wine glass. Amber liquid splashed onto Rita Johnson’s hand.
She instinctively recoiled, but another man rudely lifted her chin. “What’s the rush? Hey, pretty thing.”
Rita frowned and wrenched free.
The man’s gaze lingered on her face, his smile turning predatory.
Nathan Wilson shot up, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. “Back off! I’m calling the cops!”
His neck stiffened, face pale. White–knuckled hands gripped the table edge.
“Relax, buddy. Just wanna buy your lady friend a drink.”
The man’s hand landed heavily on Rita’s shoulder.
She jerked away, voice icy. “Keep your hands to yourself.”
“Let her go!”
Nathan lunged forward but got shoved hard. He stumbled into the table, sending plates crashing.
The other two foreigners closed in, cursing. Nathan fell silent, only glaring.
Nearby diners either looked down or quietly gathered their things to leave.
Seeing Nathan’s evasive eyes, Rita’s heart sank. She drew a sharp breath and grabbed a steak knife–but a warm hand clamped over her wrist.
Thwack! Glass shattered, liquor spraying.
The man beside her howled, clutching his bleeding head. His grip on Rita vanished.
The other two snatched chairs, swinging at Timothy Taylor’s head.
Timothy dodged sideways, retaliating with a vicious punch. His usual gentlemanly demeanor vanished, replaced by feral rage–like an enraged beast.
Glass crunched. Chairs overturned. Screams and shouts fused. No one intervened except Rita’s voice cutting through chaos: “Timothy, stop!”
Her cry made him hesitate. Half a second. Enough time for the tallest man to smash a beer bottle against his back.
Timothy didn’t flinch. He took the blow, agony exploding through him. Then he seized the attacker’s collar and
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Chapter 20
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slammed him to the floor.
Sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder. The three men scrambled up and fled.
Timothy stood panting, back burning. He didn’t check his wound, just stared intensely at Rita.
She stood amid the wreckage, eyes locked on him.
His throat moved. He wanted to speak, but only managed a grimace that looked worse than tears. He turned to leave.
A hand caught his wrist.
Rita trembled. Her fingertips brushed the torn flesh on his arm. Her eyes reddened.
“Have you lost your mind? You promised me you’d stop playing hero!”
He didn’t turn. Didn’t pull away.
Blood seeped through his white shirt, staining it crimson. Yet beneath her touch, his heart raced feverishly.
All those days of “accidental” meetings. All that forced indifference. None of it mattered now–not against her teary rebuke.
He simply couldn’t bear to see her wronged.
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Chapter 21
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Chapter 21
The smell of disinfectant filled the cramped living room. Rita tightened her grip on the tweezers, gaze fixed on Timo- thy’s bleeding arm.
The young man leaned back against the sofa, sweat–drenched white shirt clinging to his collarbones. Droplets trailed down his jawline, disappearing into his collar as his Adam’s apple bobbed.
“Tell me if it hurts.”
When the alcohol–soaked cotton swab touched his wound, he indeed muffled a groan, his warm breath brushing her
wrist.
Rita pressed her lips together. “Every time you throw yourself in front of me like you’ve got a death wish, I thought pain didn’t faze you.”
“I’m not made of bronze,” he chuckled, eyes locked on hers. “Seeing you hurt bothers me more than my own in- juries.”
“Then I realized,” he leaned closer, voice laced with half–feigned accusation, “you’re heartless.”
“Hold still.”
Her voice came out husky, deliberately avoiding his eyes.
Warm lamplight illuminated his face, revealing faint blue veins beneath his skin.
As she bent forward, strands of her hair accidentally grazed his neck. His body tensed instantly, breath hitching.
“Hold still.”
She repeated the warning, focusing on his bleeding brow.
Timothy swallowed hard, his gaze dropping to her lips–a heated hook tearing at his composure.
“Rita,” he murmured, voice low as a sigh. “Are you… afraid of me?”
After applying the bandage, she jerked her hand back, spilling disinfectant onto Timothy’s shirt, staining it dark.
“Done.” She retreated half a step, turning to pack the medical kit. “Keep the wound dry these days.”
Fabric rustled behind her. Timothy had straightened up, his damp body nearly pressing against her back.
“Afraid of what?” His humid breath brushed her ear. “Afraid I’ll notice how you look at me isn’t how one looks at a younger brother?”
The medical kit lid clanged shut, her knuckles whitening around the handle.
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Since meeting Timothy, she’d only known him as docile and considerate–all soft edges, no temper.
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Yet now he advanced step by step, pausing just short of contact. “Rita, I won’t push you. But could you… not push me away either?”
Their overlapping reflections shimmered in the window. He dipped his head, nose inches from her hairline, the ban- dage on his brow blooming crimson like a vivid flower in snow.
“Timothy,” she finally turned, plunging into his fathomless gaze. “I’m four years older. Divorced. Miscarried a child. Likely can’t conceive again.”
He smiled, reaching to tuck stray hair behind her ear, fingertips brushing her cool earlobe.
“So what?”
He hadn’t told her–he’d waited ten whole years for this.
