The guy—whoever the hell he is—says something else, and she laughs again, but this time, I see the strain behind it.
His hand lands on her arm again, and she shifts immediately, stepping sideways, putting the table between them. That tight, restless feeling in my chest sharpens.
A cardiologist I recognize, only because I chatted with him earlier, joins them, and says something that makes Carina laugh, and for half a second, I think maybe that’s it. Maybe the moment will pass.
But the other guy steps closer again, and his hand slides to the small of her back.
It’s the way she stills that gets me. The way her spine straightens, and her shoulders draw in. She tries to shift again,but she’s cornered now—table behind her, the men in front of her.
His palm starts to move downward, over her ass. It’s a deliberate slide that assumes she won’t stop him, and he rests it there. Like he has the goddamnright.
And no one does a fuckingthing.
The room drops out, and I don’t remember deciding to move. I’m already there, already stepping into their space.
“Evening,” I say as calmly as I can, pointedly looking to where his hand still rests on her ass. “Hope I’m not interrupting.”
He looks startled, his hand snapping back like he’s just realized it’s attached to him.
“Hutchison,” he says, forcing a smile. “Great event. Your doing, right? The mascots?”
“Part of it.” I don’t look at him when I answer. I’m looking at Carina. “We need to grab a quick debrief before the event ends.”
It’s not a lie, but it’s not the whole truth either—it’s merely an out for her, if she wants it. Her eyes hold mine, then she nods.
“Of course,” she says, already stepping forward.
The guy raises his hand as though he’ll try to stop her. “I was just about to—”
I cut him off by moving again, reaching past him and blocking his hand as I grab a bottle of water from the table beside them, pressing it into her hand before the guy can say another word.
“You haven’t had one of these in a while,” I say softly.
Her fingers curl around it, and momentarily around mine, then her shoulders drop a fraction.
“Thanks.”
She steps closer to me, finally clear of this piece of shit.
“You good?” I ask, my voice pitched just loud enough for her.
She nods, then tips her head slightly toward the doors. “I think I’m ready to go.”
“Me too. I’ll walk you out.” Only then do I look back at the guy with a flat, assessing glance that makes it clear I fucking hate his guts. “Good luck with the rest of the night.”
Asshole.
I guide her with nothing more than my presence at her back, unsure she’d want another man’s hand on the small of her back after that douchebag’s, and we make our way through the crowd, throwing out friendly goodbyes and thank yous as we go.
The doors shut behind us, the city’s hum muting the noise of the gala, the cold air of the parking lot biting while my pulse still ticks too fast. We stand there for a moment, neither of us speaking.
Carina clears her throat and folds her arms, squinting as she looks out over the parking lot.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she says eventually.
“I know,” I reply, shoving my hands in my pockets.
Her breath is visible in the night as she exhales. “I was handling it.”
