“I asked you a question.” He took a step forward, just one, but it was enough.
“It’s mine, asshole.”
Patch loomed behind Stefan. Her ex was almost six feet, but Patch looked down on him.
Stefan turned, and she could see where she’d gone wrong. When they’d first met, she’d thought he had a boyishly cute charm, like a Slater from theSaved by the Bellreruns. Conceited but cute.
The cute part turned out to be an act, while the conceited bit was genuine. Stefan thought he was God’s gift, especially in the bedroom. His ego was the size of West Texas. But that cockiness hid some serious flaws. He once stopped sex mid-doggy-style to mention that she’d missed a spot shaving on the back of her thigh. Then there was the whole thing where he treated her vagina like a chew toy. Oh and don’t forget how he had a habit of high-fiving himself in the bathroom mirror postsex.
Plus he hated—hated—the idea she’d ever been with anyone else.
He tried to make her feel dirty for it. Acted like it was something to be forgiven for.
Then he started talking about getting the baby in her and...
Yeah. No.
And yet here he was, puffing himself up like a rooster in a cockfight.
Patch didn’t do anything. He didn’t even look at him.
Instead, his gaze locked on her face.
“This fool bothering you?”
“Yes.” Margot folded her arms. “He is.”
“Come on, pal.” Patch stepped to one side. “Exit’s this way.” His voice was quiet, almost mild, but the intensity held the real power. A controlled fury. A subdued thunder.
“Do I know you?” Stefan seemed to shrink, even though he didn’t move. A rat caught ferreting around the kitchen when a light came on.
“No.” Patch’s voice was a husky rasp, flint grinding down a steel bar. “Now get the hell out.”
Stefan opened his mouth to say something, but quickly thought the better of it. He scuttled out of the apartment without a backward glance.
“Good riddance,” Margot said with a lightness she didn’t feel.
“That guy try and fuck with you?”
“Try is the right word. But he didn’t get very far. You were pretty tough back there.”
“Yeah, that’s me. Wicked tough.” Patch kicked at the doorjamb, hesitating. “So... mind if I come back in?”
Margot smothered a smile at his deferential tone. Thirty seconds ago this guy had been primed and ready to crack skulls. Now he waited on her word.
“You don’t have to ask,” she said lightly.
“Yes I do.” His tone was grave. “This is your home, and I respect that. You don’t have to let me in, especially after the way I went out.”
“What made you change your mind?”
“Forgot my hat.”
The expectation that had been slowly expanding in the pit of her belly released with a slowwoosh.
“Oh. Right. Of course. I just had it.” She glanced around, careful to avoid glancing anywhere in the vicinity of his package.
“It’s right here.” He plucked it off the top of her head in a deft gesture.
