He chuckles, shaking his head. “Did I hit onyourgirl? Didn’t see a ring.” He looks down at Dallas, and he fuckingwinks.
Sam steps up beside me, clearly waiting to see how I’m going to handle this and support me as needed.
I know it’s wrong. I know he couldn’t have known that she’s mine. I know I shouldn’t do it.
But I just fucking want to hit him.
So, I do.
I shove my beer into Sam’s hands before I pop my knuckles and rear back, throwing a punch straight into Briggs’s face. When I make contact with his jaw, pain shoots up my hand. Dallas screams from beside me.
Briggs rights himself, shaking his head and smiling as blood drips from his mouth.
His expression of shock and amusement reminds me of myself. Anytime another woman has been the object of my flirtation and attention and a man or even one of my brothers has been pissed off at me for hitting on her, I was the one in Briggs’s shoes.
He returns the punch, grazing the side of my jaw.
“Man, you’re sensitive. She never said yes!” He’s laughing as he says it, and all it does is anger me.
I glance around at my brothers, who are all watching with various levels of smirks on their faces.
Great. They’re enjoying this shit.
I grip his shirt, jerking him toward me. “What did you say?”
“She never said she was coming over. Probably because you’re cockblocking her.” He looks over at Dallas.
“Don’t look at her. Look at me.” I grab his shoulders and slam my head down into his.
He stumbles back, groaning in pain. “Fuck!”
He shoves me off him and takes a step back. That’s when I realize we’ve drawn a crowd of bystanders around us, all watching the show.
He raises his hands. “I didn’t realize she was taken, all right? We’re good here.” He rubs the back of his hand over his bleeding jaw. “I’ve got a photo shoot tomorrow, man.”
He turns away, back toward the crowd of bystanders. He’s immediately swarmed by three women, all cooing over his wounds.
When I slowly turn toward Dallas, her face is pale. She gnaws on her lower lip as I approach.
“Are you okay?”
“Are you?” Her gaze trails over me, her expression unreadable.
“Yeah. I’m good.” I rub my hand over her arm, needing to touch her. It falls down near her hand, and I’m surprised when she interlaces her fingers with mine. Holding her hand makes me feel like a teenager again.
A smile ghosts across her lips. “You just punched a celebrity for hitting on me.”
I search her eyes, relief coursing through me when I see that she’s not mad at me.
“Yeah, well, you were thinking about going to his hotel for a party.”
She blinks at me innocently. “I never said yes.”
“You were thinking about it.”
“Well, you said it yourself. I’m not your girlfriend. This is … nothing. We’re just friends.”
I look down at her, seeing the flash of vulnerability in her eyes. I remember the reckless abandon I felt in her touch lastnight when we had sex in the alley. The conversation I had with Dolly and Rosie about leaving her alone, letting her heal and enjoy her single life while navigating motherhood alone, has been at the forefront of my mind.
