“It’s okay,” I reply immediately.
“It’s not. I’ll make it right. Now, why don’t you head down to the lunchroom? I’ll meet you there in a minute.”
I nod.
And I go.
Because the truth is—I’m really confused.
And I hate confrontation.
Loud voices still make me jump.
And anger hurled like a weapon scares the shit out of me.
Most of all, I hate men who think verbal abuse is acceptable, who use volume and intimidation to make themselves feel big.
It’s not the cursing.
I don’t mind curses.
It’s the yelling. The menace.
Thatcher isn’t like that.
He didn’t tell me to toughen up.
Didn’t mock me or roll his eyes or tell me to grow a spine.
He stepped in without hesitation.
Took control without taking anything from me.
He didn’t belittle me for my involuntary reaction to the stranger’s ire.
He respected me.
And that might be the sexiest thing about him.
Well.
That and the way his thighs fill out his jeans when he walks away.
CHAPTER 13
THATCHER
After I’m done telling my biggest customer exactly where I’ll shove his next lumber delivery if he ever calls my office and speaks to Baby Girl like that again, I’m wound tight as a cable.
Anger is still humming under my skin when I head for the lunchroom, boots heavy on concrete, jaw locked.
The second I open the door, it hits me.
The smell.
Warm. Rich. Delicious.
My stomach growls—actually fucking growls—and I freeze for half a second, caught off guard by my own reaction.
