“He put his hands on you, sugar. No one puts their hands on you.” “This is the real world, Brooks, not a fucking romance novel. I don’t need you to rescue me from a creep in a bar. I can handle myself.” Emmy stared me down. Her eyes were burning—just the way I liked them. “Obviously, you can handle yourself.” “Then why did you swoop in and physically assault one of your paying customers like some sort of cowboy vigilante?”
