Page 2 of Tice’s Kind of Trouble (Obsessive Protectors #2)

TWO

Bethany

What?!?

There’s a collective gasp as everyone in the place realizes at the same time there’s a truck racing toward the front of the building.

Chaos immediately follows.

Plants fly everywhere, red blossoms sailing, the wooden planter exploding like toothpicks out of a cannon, as the gigantic murder-black Ford lurches to a stop.

Oh my god. What. Is. Happening?

The driver’s door flies open and a man—no, not a man, a chiseled warrior hell-bent on battle—leaps out.

Decked in dark cargo pants, a snug ink-black T-shirt hugging monstrous biceps, he strides toward the door. Laser-focused.

The phone, forgotten in my hand, is silent. The man who asked if he could buy me a cup of tea is staring mutely as the door is flung open so hard the doorknob falls off, clanking to the painted concrete floor.

“Bethany.”

That single growled word causes me to drop the phone.

“Tice?”

“You know him?”

The other man—the guy who wanted to buy me tea—now has a voice like Mickey Mouse.

“Not yet,” I reply breathlessly, “but I’m about to.”

Tice shoves a table out of the way, knocking it over with a loud crash, stalking toward me. But instead of looking at me, he’s got the man in his sights. Locked on his target.

“Who the fuck are you?”

“Me?” the guy squeaks. “I’m nobody.”

In a blur of motion, Tice snatches the man’s shirt collar into his fist, drawing his much smaller body up until the guy’s Crocs dangle and fall from his feet.

“Produce your ID.”

“My?… Okay, okay.” With shaking hands, he frantically fishes in his back pocket, trembling violently as he holds a small wallet out to Tice. “Take it. Take everything. I don’t need it. I’ll just leave.”

“No.”

With a fierce scowl, Tice carries the man by his shirt to a table far away from me, and deposits him in a chair. Technically tosses him.

The chair legs scrape the floor like a horror movie soundtrack.

Leaning down, the gigantic former SEAL gets in the guy’s face to say something in a low growl that I can’t decipher.

It must be violent. The reaction is visceral.

Whatever Tice conveys, between his words and you’ve-fucked-up body language, leaves the other man ghostly, slumping back in the chair. Paralyzed.

Partly fascinated, partly in shock, I can’t look away.

This is crazy.

This is over… me.

Tice pulls his phone out, holds it to his ear, his lips moving with clipped words. All while watching me with ferocious intensity.

I don’t even realize I’m holding my breath until my head swims.

Wow. What happened to my quiet, busy, lonely days?

Routine. That’s my life. Work. Dream about the things I want to accomplish, and work some more. Usually by myself.

But here I am, my life topsy-turvy with a practical stranger looking at me like… I’m his.

Eeep.

And there is definitely nothing routine about Tice. Every muscle in his arm cords as he puts his phone back in his cargo-pants pocket with an air of finality.

Then he’s walking toward me, and I’m flushing hot.

The table seems to tilt beneath my braced arms.

God. I don’t know why, but I’m suddenly VERY hot for this alpha.

Tice is stoic. Ripped. Tall. Lean-hipped, long-legged, and wears confidence like a lion. He’s overwhelming and utterly irresistible.

When he reaches my table, he gently lays a hand on my head, stroking my hair, tilting my face up to look at him.

Heavens.

His warm, callused finger rests against my pulse. Eyes the color of strong coffee search my face.

My head swims for a different reason. Him.

For a beat we just stare at each other.

Weird sensations spring up all over my body—tingles, prickles, warmth, and sensations I don’t have words for.

Did I just fall in love at first sight? Impossible.

“Did he hurt you?” Tice asks in a low, husky tone that does very bad things to my nipples.

When did my breasts become antenna?

I’m consumed with physical signals so swiftly that it becomes hard to think. It takes a violent mental shake to get real words to come out of my mouth.

“That guy? No. He offered to buy me a cup of tea.”

“I heard that over the phone,” Tice bites out each seething word, his attention burning hotter. “The cops are on the way to run his background.”

It hits me then in a fresh wave of panic—I have no idea who broke into my house. It could be anyone. Even the wimpish-looking guy that’s now sitting, stunned into open-mouthed silence in the chair near the muffin case.

Nausea churns through me, an oily wave, making me cold and hot at once.

Bad people don’t always look like bad people. You’ve got to remember they could be a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

My brother’s words echo over and over in my mind.

A flood of hot tears claw up toward my eyes. “I think I’m going to cry now.”

Tice makes a jagged sound as he pulls me into his arms. Scooped completely off the ground, cradling me against his hard chest, he strides out of the coffee shop.

Over his shoulder, I meet the customers’ boggled expressions before I bury my face in his warm, muscular neck and let myself cry. Really cry.