“No, you’re not.”
Something dark settles in Weston’s expression. Final.
He steps up beside me, close enough that his shoulder nearly brushes mine, and the difference between the two men is so absurd it would be funny if it were not so satisfying.
“You’re talking to my woman.”
Darren notices it too.
“Lex,” he says, trying again, “come on. You can’t be serious. He’s joking, right? It’s not true.”
I look him dead in the eye.
“It is.”
His face blanks.
I reach for Weston’s hand.
His fingers close around mine instantly.
And that, more than anything, seems to land the blow.
“I’m staying,” I say. “Here. With him.”
Darren actually scoffs. “You’ve known him for, what, a day? Two days?”
Weston steps forward then, putting just enough weight into the movement that Darren takes a step back before he can stop himself.
Good.
Weston’s voice stays quiet.
“You need to leave.”
Something primal and deeply feminine in me thrills at that.
Darren tries to recover. “Or what?”
Weston looks at him for a long second.
Then says, very calmly, “Or you can find out how patient I’m not.”
Silence drops over the porch.
Even Darren is not stupid enough to miss the promise in that.
His gaze flicks from Weston to me and back again, calculating. Angry. Embarrassed.
Then he sneers because men like him always do when they are losing.
“This is insane,” he mutters.
“No,” I say. “This is over.”
His nostrils flare.
But then he turns and heads down the steps, shoulders tight with temper.
