Page 122 of With a Cherry On Top

“What the fuck are you doing, kissing my date?”

I study the polished and familiar blond man in front of me, and the words register, but they don’t make sense. My brain lags, still hazy with the lingering taste of Charlotte on my tongue, with how I had her body melting against mine only seconds ago.

“What?” My voice comes out uneven, caught somewhere between disbelief and confusion. “I’m not?—”

“Peter, let him go! Are you serious?” Charlotte shouts.

Peter? The tight knot in my gut twists harder. Of course—that’s the guy who wanted me to get Charlotte drunk so he could take advantage of her. Did she come here withhim? Was she on a fucking date while she was letting me finger her?

I shake the thought away and refocus on Peter, who’s still got a death grip on my shirt.

“Wait—I know you, don’t I?”

I swallow, now actually nervous. Last time, he said he’d get me fired, and I just handed him ammunition. He just saw me kissing Charlotte.

“Yeah. Yeah—you’re the chef, aren’t you?”

“Look,” I say, raising both hands in the hope of placating him, “I didn’t know she was here with you, okay?”

He shoves me again, the force jarring. “Fucking prick—get out of my goddamn face.”

I try to unclench my jaw. Charlotte’s face is still flushed, her lips parted, her breath coming in quick, uneven bursts, and my mind flashes back to why she looks like that.

Something dark and possessive coils in my chest, and I meet Peter’s glare again. No matter how much trouble it’ll get me into, I won’t leave her here with this predator. “I don’t think so, all right?”

His eyes narrow. “Oh, you don’t think so?”

Jesus.Shoulders squared, fists flexing at his sides...this guy is spoiling for a fight.

“Not unless Charlotte comes with me.”

Peter’s lips curl like I just told the dumbest joke in the world. “Do I look like a fucking asshole?”

Yes, though it’s probably best I keep that to myself.

I glance around, hoping to spot one of my friends, but they’re nowhere to be found. Not that any of them would throw themselves into a fight. We’re grown-ass men, for fuck’s sake. What the hell am I doing?

“Charlotte,” I say, looking past him to where she’s still standing. “Let’s go.”

Before she can respond, Peter’s back in my space, chest brushing mine. “Excuse me?” He sneers before he shoves me a third time.

My first instinct is to swing, to push him back just as hard, to plant my knuckles into his stupid, arrogant face. But I force myself to breathe and push the anger down.

All I want is for Charlotte to come with me and get out of this place.

I look him dead in the eye, keeping my voice steady. “I’m not going to fight you, man. Okay?”

“Oh, you won’t?” He grins, like he’s been waiting for that answer, like he’s thrilled by the fact that I won’t hit him first. “You’re done, asshole. You can kiss your job goodbye.”

I don’t see it coming. One second I’m standing there, trying to keep my temper in check. The next, there’s a sharp, blinding crack as his fist slams into my eye.

The world tilts, pain exploding through my skull, white-hot and immediate, and my vision bursts with stars. My knees buckle, and then...

Nothing.

I shiftthe ice pack over my swollen eye, the cold biting into my skin. My fingers press lightly against the bruised flesh, testing the ache, before I lean back against the cinderblock wall of the holding cell.

The dim lighting does nothing to soften the harsh reality of where I am. A fuckingjail cell.