I roll my eyes at him. “Do you hear yourself? You really don’t see how ridiculous you sound, do you? If I did fuck him, which I haven’t, not that it is any of your business, why the hell would I tell you?”
“I’d say it is my business. I don’t want someone you’ve fucked touching my food.”
Oh my god.
How is this guy real? I have never heard so many ridiculous statements in one night.
My phone buzzes again, giving me the out I need to end this horrible date, but of course, Jared isn’t done. Without asking, he reaches across the table and stabs a chunk of the steak I precut and pops it into his mouth.
He wrinkles his nose. “It isn’t cooked enough.”
“I don’t remember saying you could eat my food. You welcomed yourself. It seems no one has been mean enough to you in your life so I’m going to be the first.” I press my elbows on the table and fold my hands. “You are a very rude man. In every sense. You think women owe you something, and we don’t. Whatever mommy issues you have, you should go to therapy for them, because it isn’t my job or any woman’s job to deal with your unsettled emotions. You will be alone for the rest of your life because no woman will deal with being spoken to in the manner you speak to us. This is what I’m going to do—I’m going to get up and pretend I’m going to the bathroom, when in reality, I’m going to leave you here. It seems you’d rather be on a date with yourself anyway. You’re very egotistical. You think you’re betterthan everyone else. You think you’re God’s gift to women when really, you are the biggest curse.”
He’s red in the face, anger palpable, a vein popping in the middle of his forehead.
I stand, placing my napkin on the table, then snag the strap of my purse that’s hanging on the chair. “I’m going to go, Jared. You’ve been…an educational experience.” I hike my purse up my shoulder, the chain cool against my heated skin.
I’m livid. I need to get out of here before I do something I regret.
Like stab his hand with a fork.
He stands next, using his height to try to scare me. I put on a brave face. I won’t ever let a man walk all over me. Jared is very tall, though. His arms are long, a bit gangly, so he easily reaches across the table and ensnares my wrist in his hand.
“You aren’t going anywhere. Do you know how rude that is? To leave in the middle of a date?” His grip strengthens, his fingers squeezing the delicate bone so hard it begins to hurt.
“Let. Me. Go,” I seethe under my breath, not wanting to draw more attention than we already have.
“I will once you sit back down,” he warns, his eyes darkening with violence.
I have no doubt in my mind that he would hit a woman. He’s dangerous.
A few people begin to turn their heads to our table and the waiter who tried to help me is on his way from the other side of the restaurant, zigzagging his way through the tables to get to me.
“What the hell are you doing? Let her go!” Another woman stands from her seat, bringing more attention to the drama.
This is so embarrassing.
“Shut up and mind your business,” Jared says. “This is between me and my date.”
I begin to panic. My eyes dart everywhere, searching for something to get him to let me go. With no other option in sight, I grab the wineglass, rear my arm back, and throw it. The liquid leaves the glass like a wave, splashing onto his face. It stuns him, forcing him to let me go. The crimson liquid pools on his button-up shirt, ruining it for any future dates he might wear it to.
That makes me happy.
He comes around the table, his hand raised in the air to hit me. But as he’s bringing his arm down, he’s tackled to the ground so hard, I hear the breath leave his lungs.
The restaurant is silent. There are no scrapes of silverware on the plates, no conversations murmuring, no clink of glasses. All eyes are on the scene unfolding. All I want to do is leave, go home, and forget this date even happened.
Do I keep trying after this? It’s only two dates, but I’m already sick of dating. Why is it so hard?
I step back, nearly tripping over the chair I was sitting in when the man who tackled him is on his feet first. He bends down, gripping Jared’s wet, wine-stained shirt to yank him to his feet. Jared is tall, but this man is taller.
Oh god.
It’s Dr. Carrington.
I hold my breath, watching anger stitch into his face as he shakes Jared.
“Who the fuck do you think you are, putting your hands on a woman?” he growls, the sound causing heat to pool between my legs. “Fuck you for thinking you even have the right to breathe the same air she does, and then you have the audacity to put your hands on her? Let’s go. Get the fuck out of here.”
