nearly every piece of clothing she owned aside from what she had on. To top all that off, this afternoon she’d stumbled onto an accounting error at work that could mean her job if she didn’t figure out what amounts she’d added up wrong and quick.
She’d considered opting out of drinks with Craig altogether, fearing what else fate had in store for her that day. Instead, she’d figured things couldn’t get much worse.
Oh, how very wrong she’d been.
Quiet giggling from the club patrons penetrated Kyra’s distracted state. She blinked and stared up at Craig who was wearing an all too satisfied expression on his face.
Kyra twisted her lips in contemplation. You know something? Michael was right. Craig was a jerk. The only problem was, Michael was always right. Which was infinitely irritating.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the man in question moving in her direction. Dear, sweet, solid Michael. Good. Because she’d need him to help her get out of here with at least a modicum of dignity.
Kyra pushed away from the intimate table for two, her knees wobbling so hard she was afraid she might knock over her chair. Thankfully, she didn’t. She glanced at Michael’s thunderous face, then at Holsom’s smug expression, half tempted to let Michael have a go at her latest ex. But, strangely, she wasn’t all that upset that Craig had broken things off with her. In fact, she was…relieved.
What did that mean?
It meant she should have walked away when he’d compared her skin to a peach at the produce section of the local supermarket three weeks ago. What a lame come-on line, she thought now. And about as original as the guy himself. The loser probably hung out at the supermarket to pick up chicks.
Kyra glanced around the club, realizing that almost every pair of eyes was on her, waiting for her response to Craig’s comment.
She tilted her head and smiled at her ex, satisfied that he looked instantly afraid of what she might say. And he had good reason to be. “Yes, well, Craig, better a dead fish than a lost cause, even with Viagra.”
She shoved her chair under the table, which in turn hit his chair, knocking the back of it against one of Craig’s more strategic areas. He gasped and grabbed the vicinity in question with both hands, while one of Kyra’s own hands went to cover her mouth.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean—”
She felt fingers on her arm. “Let’s go,” Michael said in that deep baritone that always commanded her attention.
“You bitch!” Craig said, probably meaning to shout the insult, though it came out as a high-pitched wimper. Even with her genuine remorse, she felt the voice fit.
Michael slowed his step, and this time Kyra found herself tugging him toward the door.
“Call her that again and you’ll be eating your teeth,” she heard Michael tell Craig.
Thankfully there were no more exchanges in the few moments it took them to get from the table to the door. Once outside, Kyra blinked against the setting sun, then collapsed against the closed door, the thick late-summer Florida heat seeming to spray beads of sweat all over her skin. She blinked up into Michael’s glowering face. A lock of raven-black hair hung over his brow, his natural honey-colored skin looking darker yet in the waning light.
She glanced toward the door then found herself smiling. “I really didn’t mean to…well, you know, hit him with the chair.”
“That’s a shame, seeing as it was so fitting.”
She blinked and the side of Michael’s mouth budged up in a grin. He really was devastatingly handsome when he grinned.
“Have I told you lately that you really know how to pick ’em?” he asked, rolling the sleeves of his crisp white shirt up his hair-peppered forearms while his brightly colored tie flapped in the warm breeze.
“Every chance you get.”
“Yeah, well, I must not be telling you loudly enough.” He jabbed a thumb toward the club. “Why you let morons like Holsom get the better of you, I’ll never know.”
“Who said he got the better of me?” Kyra quirked a brow at him. She pushed away from the door and began walking toward the parking lot where they’d parked their cars, hers a thirty-year-old Mustang convertible, his a rugged late-model SUV with two air-conditioning units.
With each step Kyra took, she felt any amusement still lingering from the encounter seep from her muscles. On any other occasion she might blame the reaction on the intense late-summer Florida heat. But she knew that wasn’t the case now.
Her boyfriend had just broken up with her. Worse, he’d insulted her sexuality.
“Uh-oh. Here it comes. Phase two,” Michael said quietly beside her.
Kyra elbowed him in the ribs. He caught her when she might have tripped over her own feet. “Shut up.”
“Let’s see. First there’s amusement, because, well, let’s admit it, a breakup between you and one of your boyfriends is always a source for humor.”
“Glad you’re enjoying yourself.”
His grimace said the opposite was the case. “Then comes the grieving period. No matter how undeserving the jerk, you’re always hurt by his rejection.”
“Key word being rejection here, I think,” she pointed out.
Michael stopped next to her Mustang, accepted her keys, then opened the door for her. She instantly pushed the button to release the ragtop and pushed it back.
“Then after that comes the eating. Week-long binges filled with all the stuff you gripe at me for eating.”
She smiled at him. “As I recall, you do enjoy that phase.”
He gave her a partial grin. “Yeah, maybe that part’s not so bad.”
She climbed in and he closed the door after her. She turned the key and the sound of vintage Heart instantly filled the humid air. He arched a brow and she turned the volume down.
“They don’t deserve you, you know that?”
Kyra fastened her hair back with a ribbon she had draped around the rearview mirror. “I don’t give you this much hell when you break up with one of your girlfriends.”
He chuckled softly. “That’s because I’m not the one in need of consolation. They are.”
“Ah. I see.” She scanned his dark features, feeling better just talking to him. “While I, on the other hand, am nothing but a heap of sobbing female hormones in need of mopping up from the floor.”
“Uh-huh.”
She smiled, but even as she did, a damnable tear slid down her lower lash and splashed onto her blouse. She rubbed at her cheek in irritation. She knew Craig Holsom didn’t deserve a single look back. But she couldn’t seem to help herself. Rejection was rejection, no matter how you looked at it.
Michael was right. She was
