She blinks. “I’m working.”
“Not anymore.”
Her jaw ticks. “You don’t get to decide that.”
“I do when you’re being cornered by assholes with delusions.”
She exhales hard through her nose, biting back something she clearly wants to say. But I see it in her eyes—she’s shaken. That guy got too close. Said too much. Reminded her of something I don’t understand yet.
I’ll figure it out.
But not here.
Not with eyes on us.
“We’re leaving,” I say again, quieter this time. “Please.”
She hesitates.
And then she nods.
Only once.
But it’s enough.
We’re halfway to the door before I realize I left my damn phone in the booth.
Sabrina glares up at me. “I’m not your property.”
I breathe through my nose, jaw tight. “I didn’t say you were.”
She snorts. “You didn’t have to.”
Before I can respond, I turn back toward the table to grab my phone—and walk straight into an ambush.
“Well, that was… not subtle,” Dean says, brows raised so high they’re about to launch off his face.
“I give it a nine out of ten,” Nathan mutters, sipping his bourbon. “Docking a point because he didn’t throw the guy across the room.”
Harvey just grunts. “Should’ve hit him.”
Coleman leans back in his chair, arms crossed. “So. That’s your wife?”
I grab my phone off the table, muttering, “Yeah.”
Dean chokes on his drink. “Wait—wife wife?”
Nathan whistles. “Damn, Lang. You don’t waste time, do you?”
“She starting working here two months ago,” Coleman adds, grinning like a smug bastard. “And now she’s your wife?”
I shoot him a look. “Didn’t we agree you were done meddling in my life?”
He just shrugs, clearly not sorry in the least.
Sabrina drifts a little closer, her body half behind mine like she’s debating whether to bolt or stay. I curl my arm around her waist again, more possessive than I mean to be.
“Guys,” I say, turning toward them. “This is Sabrina. My wife.”
