“I’m sure you are.”
“I can assure you?—”
Roman shakes his head, stopping him mid-sentence. “No.I’mgoing to tellyouwhat you can assureme of.”
The manager says nothing, smart enough to realize this is the part where he shuts the hell up and listens.
“First, that waiter is no longer our waiter—or yours.”
The manager nods, as if that’s simply a no-brainer.
“Next, you’re going to have an all-hands-on-deck meeting tomorrow morning. Everyone attends. You’re going to go over the basics of respect and hospitality. Then, we’re going to return in one week. If the service is not to my, or my companion’s, satisfaction, well, you might not have a restaurant to return to.”
The manager’s eyes flash. No doubt he understands the gravity of the situation. “Yes, sir,” he says. “Thank you for this opportunity to instruct the staff. We’ll make sure everything is in order for your return. Thank you for giving us another chance.”
I don’t know how to feel about this. Roman’s powerful, sure, but this man is all but asking Roman if he can kiss his feet.
“Now,” the manager says, trying to plaster a smile on his face. “Can I interest you in?—”
“No,” Roman says, cutting him off. “Nothing for tonight. As it stands, this place isn’t good enough. We’ll see how matters change in a week.” He slowly gets out of his chair, offering me his hand. “Shall we?”
Hand in hand, we walk out. The maître d’ doesn’t meet our eyes, as if looking at Roman the wrong way would get him fired on the spot. Maybe it would.
The cold hits my cheeks as soon as we step outside. Roman doesn’t slow until we’re halfway down the sidewalk, away from the warm glow of the restaurant.
I stop. “Roman.”
He turns. I slip my hand out of his grasp, crossing my arms over my chest.
“You can’t do that.”
He says nothing for a long moment. Then, “I did what needed to be done.”
“Roman, you can’t just threaten an entire business because a waiter made a comment.”
His eyes narrow slightly; he’s not used to being argued with.
“They will learn, and they will correct,” he says. “And you will know that there is no possibility of me standing idly by while you are insulted.”
I shift my weight from one foot to the other, my eyes drifting to a passing car. As extreme as he was, Roman did what he did to defend me. And I have to admit, it felt good to see that waiter put in his place.
“Listen. I appreciate you having my back. But I need you to understand something. I’m not fragile.”
Roman studies me for a long moment. The amber headlights of a passing car cast a sweeping illumination of his features—the silver at his temples, the hard line of his jaw, the severity in his eyes.
“I know you’re not fragile,” he says. “I saw it in the way you stuck up for yourself.”
“Then why?”
“Because you are mine,” he says simply. There’s no theatrics to his words, no hedging. Just truth, as he sees it. “And nobody disrespects what is mine.”
I don’t know how to react to his words. I’mhis? I hate the part of me that thrills at his possessiveness. I hate how quickly my heartturns it into something sexy right as my brain recognizes it as a warning.
“I’m not an object.”
His expression shifts, as if he realizes a little more precision is necessary. “No. You are not. But you are a woman I would burn cities for.”
I shift again. “That’s sweet.” I’m downplaying massively how much his words are affecting me.
