As Bronte walked away, I watched the swing of her hips and felt my dick stir. I’d been on high alert all night, ever since she’d come out of her apartment in a short, cobalt blue dress and a pair of sexy, strappy sandals. Damn. I scratched my jaw before turning to contemplate the punch bowl. Every day with her was new and exciting. And the nights—well, they were filled with her husky voice moaning my name, her hands clutching my hair, and hours spent between her thighs.

“Excuse me.” Someone tapped my shoulder from behind. A blond man stepped into my view. I knew who he was, even before I saw his name tag. Walt the Wanker. A prematurely receding hairline and thickened waist didn’t disguise the look of self-importance in his eyes, the same look he’d worn in his yearbook pictures. I knew guys like him from my own high school—privileged, arrogant, insensitive.

I lifted an eyebrow. “Something I can help you with?”

“That girl you’re with. Is that Bronte Hollander?”

Hearing her name on his lips caused my fingers to curl into fists. “Yes.” I turned back to the punch bowl and began filling two glasses, hoping he left before I punched him.

“Damn. I can’t believe it. She looks totally different.” He shook his head then extended a hand. “I’m Walt. Walt Hunter? I don’t suppose she mentioned me?”

I nodded, picking up the punch glasses, and his hand fell to his side. “Nope. Don’t think so.”

“Huh.” My answer seemed to wound his ego, giving me great internal satisfaction. Bastard. “We used to date, you know. Almost two years.”

“Funny she didn’t mention that.” Another jab at his ego. I smirked to myself. Served him right. I tried to push past him. He stepped in front of me, blocking my path.

He puffed out his chest. “I’m in insurance. Let me give you my card. Maybe we can get together sometime and I can help you reassess your needs.” He began to dig for his wallet.

I stopped him with an upheld palm. “I’m not interested. Is your wife here?”

His shoulders slumped a little. “She left me for my best friend. Six years together. Two kids. Alimony. Child support. Divorce is a bitch, you know?” For a wanker, he had no hesitation in airing his dirty laundry.

“I wouldn’t know. I’m widowed.” It was the first time I’d said the word without cringing inside. Over the past few weeks, the guilt and regret had eased. Amy would always be an important part of my past, but I was ready to let her go. I attributed the change to Bronte, her infectious smile, and her childlike joy in the little things of life.

“Sorry, man.” With a plate in hand, he snagged handfuls of appetizers, occasionally popping one in his mouth as he moved along the table. “So, Bronte fucking Hollander. Wow.”

“Actually, it’s Dr. Bronte Hollander,” I said, feeling pride swell in my chest. “She’s a biological engineer, about to receive an international award for her research.”

“No shit?” Walt scratched the top of his head, brow wrinkling. “What is it you do again?”

“I’m Rhett Easton, CFO at Ascension Corporation.”

The color drained from Walt’s face. If he didn’t recognize my name, he definitely recognized the name of my employer. “So, you’re with Bronte. Damn. She was always seemed kind of simple but gave the best damn blow jobs I ever had.” His words sent a shard of white-hot anger into my chest. He chuckled. “Back then we called her Hoover Hollander. She’d suck the chrome off a trailer hitch, if you know what I mean.”

I drew in a deep breath and counted to ten before setting the punch glasses on the table. I flexed my fingers, aching to give him a jab in the nose, but not wanting to cause a scene for Bronte. Instead, I straightened. I was a good four inches taller than him and twice as fit.

Over his shoulder, I caught a glimpse of Bronte’s face. She’d returned from the ladies room in time to catch his insult. Tears swam in her eyes. She bit her lower lip, drawing my gaze there. All I could see in my head was her pink pout wrapped around the wanker’s cock. I blinked and looked away, feeling sick to my stomach, angry, and confused.

I took a step forward, crowding Walt, until the tips of my shoes threatened to touch his. The grin slipped off his face. He cleared his throat. I tilted my head to catch his guilty gaze.

“You don’t talk about her that way. Not now. Not ever. Understand?” The lump of his Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. I nudged closer until our noses were a scant inch apart. “In fact, you don’t talk about any woman that way. Don’t be a douche, Walt.”

“Hey, hey. I don’t want any trouble.” He lifted his hands into the air, showing his palms, and began to inch backward, nearly treading on Bronte. Comprehension washed over his expression. “Bronte, you heard that.” She didn’t say anything, but her lips pressed into a hard line. “I apologize. I was out of line.”

“I see you’re still a dick,” she said. I would have laughed, but sourness lingered in my gut over Walt’s comment.

“Yeah, maybe, but as I recall you liked that about me.” A half smirk twisted his mouth. I shifted my weight to my toes, ready to throttle him if he so much as twitched a finger in her direction. Although my instinct was to protect her, I hung back, understanding this was her battle and not mine.

“You took advantage of my weaknesses and manipulated me.” Her shoulders straightened. The determination in her blue eyes took my breath away. Confidence looked good on her. “You were the most popular guy in school. I thought your approval would make me fit in with everyone else, but now I realize, I don’t want to fit in. A real man doesn’t undermine a girl’s confidence in order to lift himself up.”

A circle of people had gathered around us. While the men hung back, the women nodded in agreement.

Walt, catching sight of their expressions, lifted his chin, eyes narrowing. “You asked for it, Hollander. You know you did.”

“All I wanted was to belong. I didn’t ask to be humiliated or bullied.” Bronte’s eyes found mine. A connection stretched between us, the pull so powerful I felt my body shift in her direction.

“He did the same thing to me,” said a woman to my left. She broke out of the circle, her sleek blond bob bouncing with each step toward Bronte. “I’m Christie Marcus. We didn’t know each other, but I dated Walt, too.”

A red tide swept up Walt’s neck and into his face. He exhaled, his shoulders slumping, his gut protruding over his belt.

“I remember you,” Bronte said. “You and Walt were the prom king and queen.”

Christie nodded. “Yes, and it was the most miserable night of my life.”

“As I recall, you were more than satisfied,” Walt interjected.

“Oh, grow up, Walt,” Christie snapped. “The only thing smaller than your mind is your—” Her glance fell to his crotch. “Well, you know.” She hooked an arm through Bronte’s elbow. “I heard you’re in research at Vale Chemical. My father-in-law works there. Why don’t you come and meet my husband?”

“That’s not true,” said Walt. As if to prove the matter, he adjusted himself. The onlookers, losing interest, wandered away. “Come on, guys. You know me. I’m Walt.” Within a few seconds, he was alone. He sighed and turned his attention back to the food table, scratching his belly and mumbling to himself.

Christie led Bronte toward her table. I watched her go, a bubble of pride swelling inside my chest, so great I thought my ribs would burst. After a dozen steps, she stopped, turned to face me, and extended her hand. If I’d doubted my feelings before, that one simple gesture erased the last of my misgivings. This was my girl, and I’d go anywhere she cared to lead me.