Spitfire in Love (Chasing Red 3)

“Kar, he’s asking you a question!”

Surprised, my eyes shifted to look behind her.

“Hey there! I’m Dylan.” He waved, smiling widely as if he’d been my long-lost best friend. “Her brother.”

The smile on my face disappeared. So this was the asshole who hit my motorcycle and fucked off. I pushed away from the doorjamb and fixed my gaze on him.

The memories of yesterday morning when I found my damaged motorcycle came crashing back. The scratches, the cracks, the pain of seeing something you’d been taking care of so painstakingly disregarded so blatantly by someone who didn’t even have the guts to own up to the crime.

The lack of remorse on his face—as if he were entitled to everything—warranted a good punch in the mug. Maybe I’d knock out a few of his teeth. That would be punishment enough.

And then I looked at her. And held off.

It would scare her off if she saw how angry I was. I needed a moment to cool off. “Gimme a minute, will you?” I gritted out.

I clenched my jaw, turned my back on them, but left the door open. Frustrated, I rubbed my hands over my face as I walked to my bedroom.

“Hey! I’m talking to you. Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

I heard her voice catching up to me. I slammed my bedroom door closed and dropped my towel.

She barged in.

“Holy fuck!” she screamed.

Shit.

I expected her to avert her eyes, like a normal person would do, but she was still staring.

I reached for the towel for cover just as she slapped her hands to her face, spinning around so fast she almost lost her balance.

She’d sure had an eyeful.

I let out a frustrated sigh, hiked up my pants, zipped them closed. Staring at her back, I pulled a shirt out of my closet, put that on.

“I need to talk to your brother,” I said between clenched teeth. “Alone.”

Pissed, I walked past her. All I’d wanted was some damn peace and quiet tonight.

“No, you’re not.”

“Oh, yes, I am.”

“Not alone, you’re not.”

I stopped abruptly. She almost crashed into me, but her hands flattened on my back before her body did.

I turned around, looked at her quietly, waiting for her to calm down. Her face was red, her eyes glittered—from anger or embarrassment, I wasn’t sure. Maybe both.

“You don’t see anything wrong with this scenario?” I asked.

She placed her hands on her waist. “The only thing that’s wrong here is you trying to bully my brother. I’m not letting you or anyone do that to him again. You hear me?”

My anger was fading. Why did she look so cute when she was telling me what to do?

But when she defended the people she cared about and put herself before them to take the blows, she was irresistible.

I softened. “You’re aware,” I started, wanting to erase the dark circles under her eyes, “that you’re only making it worse for him, right?”