“Does humiliating a woman make you feel like a big man, little boy?”
“What did you say to me?” I tilt my head, annoyed and intrigued that the tiny thing has the balls to insult me. She frowns, and I’m irritated to find I like her frown. She repeats herself slowly, likely for emphasis.
“You have no idea who the fuck I am, do you?”
She scoffs at me. “Just ‘cause your daddy thinks he owns this town and donated some money to get a school named after him doesn’t make you special, Ryder Rothwell.”
Oh, the girl has no fucking idea how many lines she’s crossing. I close the short distance between us in a few strides. The closer I get, the more frustrated I become. The girl doesn’t flinch. She just stands with her hands on her small hips, chin jutted out in defiance. My eyes roam down to the slim column of her neck, and my fingers ache to reach down and wrap around it.
She cocks a brow. “Boys like you don’t scare me, never have, and never fucking will.”
“You sure about that, sweetheart?”
“Oh, I’m all kinds of sure.” She stares me down, shoulders past me, and walks toward Cassandra, who stands watching our exchange with a stunned expression.
“You alright?” Marcella’s cousin, A — something, asks Cassandra. I didn’t even catch the girl’s name when Dylan was begging me to invite her to my party, but now I want to know, so I can make her regret ever talking to me the way she did.
“I don’t need you to stand up for me,” Cassandra snaps.
“See there, kitten. Some girls know their place.”
She turns toward me. “Where’s that?”
“At my feet.”
Her cheeks redden, and I turn away, climbing into my Wrangler. Oh, she’s going to be sorry. Nobody crosses me and gets away with it.