If the stammering girl is worth getting his teeth knocked out.

The bag of crap decides she’s not, rolling his eyes at us and shoving his hands into the pockets of his khakis. Khakis—who wears those to the fucking bar anyway?

Wisely, he takes a step back. “Whatever dude.”

Then another, until he’s backing away. Vanishing into the crowd, out of sight.

Violet turns to me. “I-I can’t believe you almost hit him.”

“He would have had it coming.”

“I-I’m sorry you had to step in. Y-You know I-I didn’t come back here to g-get accosted. I j-just had to p-pee.”

Jesus. It sounds like her teeth are chattering, on top of her stutter.

I rest my hands on her slim shoulders. “Don’t apologize, Violet—you did nothing wrong. I watched him waiting for you when you were in the bathroom.”

She nods.

It’s then that I take a really hard, piercing look at her. My palms look enormous splayed on her petite shoulders. I squat, bending at the knees so I can gaze into her eyes.

“Jesus, I thought he was hurting you. Did he touch you?”

A shake of the head. “No, he was harmless. Just a little…mean.”

“Mean?” I’m mean. “What did he say to you, Vi?” I press, wanting to shake the words out of her. Rather than telling me, her lips press together in a thin line. “Violet, you can tell me. I’m mean, too, remember?”

I shoot her a wane smile.

“You’re not mean, you’re angry at the world. There’s a difference,” Violet reminds me softly. “He…he was making fun of me.”

“Yet he wanted to get in your pants?” The question just slips out, bitter and cold.

“I guess.” She shrugs, her shoulders moving up and down beneath my hands. “I don’t want to repeat anything he just said. It’s embarrassing.”

She doesn’t need to repeat a single thing that asshole said; I can use my imagination to figure that shit out on my own.

“I let that fucker off way too easy. No one talks to you that way, ever.” I balance on my heels, still squatting, to meet her eyes. “No one. Not even me, you got that?”

When her bottom lip quivers, I stand. With instincts I didn’t know I possessed, I tug her toward me, tucking her into my big body, wrapping my arms around her and resting my chin atop her pretty blonde head. Run my open palm down her back, stroking it gently.

Man, she’s so tiny.

“It’s okay Violet, it’s okay,” I’m murmuring into her hair. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? Now you’re starting to sound like me. It wasn’t your fault,” comes her muffled reply, her cheek pressed against my chest.

Her nearness feels…

Good.

Really fucking good.

“Text your friends and tell them what happened. Let me take you home. Let me get you out of here. I don’t trust any of the jackasses here.”

Grappling for her, we head toward my friends so I can let them know I’m leaving. I brought them here, but doubt I’ll be bringing them back—unless they all want to pile in my truck and leave with us now.

I don’t make it all the way over.

Oz sees me weaving toward them through the crowd, Violet in tow, and gives me the nod.

I raise my hand in acknowledgement, shift gears, head toward the exit.

Violet

Zeke is hugging me again.

Zeke Daniels is hugging me on my front porch.

No, not a hug—an actual embrace.

I’m enveloped in his strong arms and can feel the dense muscles flexing as he reaches around me to run his hands up and down my back, comforting me.

I lean back to look up at him, the tips of his fingers finding purchase on my cheekbone, tracing my skin, the pads of his thumbs running under my eyes, wiping away whatever tears haven’t been dried up by the cotton of his t-shirt.

Whisper-light touches. Soft.

“Zeke?”

“Hmm?”

“Why didn’t you hit that guy?”

He strokes the top of my head, fingers doing this massaging thing to my scalp. “I didn’t think you wanted me to.”

“Does that mean you would have punched him if I hadn’t been standing there?”

“Probably.” His fingers stop for a few seconds. “I really wanted to knock him on his fucking ass.”

His fingers resume their circular motions.

“W-what are you doing to my hair?” I sigh, voice wistful.

“Comforting you? I think. Obviously I’m drunk.”

He doesn’t seem drunk to me, not in the slightest, and if I’d thought for one second he was, I wouldn’t have gotten in his truck.

“You are?”

“No. But I wish I was shitfaced. Hammered.” He doesn’t crack a smile. Not even the hint of one as his lips hover near my ear. “You always smell so good, Vi. Like sunshine and shampoo and flowers. Violets.”

I take my own whiff of him, inhaling his masculinity. Inhaling the strength he exudes. It permeates, rolling off of him when he walks.

“Are you sure you’re okay, Violet?”

I nod into his chest. “I am now.”

Zeke pushes the hair out of my eyes, fingers the coronet braid cascading over my right shoulder. Rubbing the ends of it between the pads of his fingertips, he leans in and lifts it to his nose. Inhales.

“Violets,” he says, repeating his earlier sentiment.