With a crisp nod, she turned her head away, but not before he saw the tear streak down her cheek.
Turn away, too, Marsh. She made her bed two years ago…and it wasn’t yours.
He turned and stormed down the length of the bar, jaw tight enough to bite through steel and muscles coiled in a battle not to spin and call her back.
A battle he was losing.
His head dipped of its own accord, turning slightly to glimpse her in his peripheral. One of her hands shook as she moved away from the bar, and Marshall whipped his focus away, angry at himself for the protective feelings surfacing so easily.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this; he’d hardened himself the day he left, and pushed those feelings for Amy deep down into a cast-iron box with a cast-iron lock on it.
Yet one visit, one look from those smoky eyes and his stupid body was begging for her again.
He couldn’t, wouldn’t do it. That moment she’d turned toward him with the ring of another man on her finger was the equivalent of a bull horn rammed through his chest. How was a man supposed to get over something like tha—
A guttural cry of pain crashed into him from behind, hauling him back around in time to see Amy double over, a white-knuckled grip on an old wooden chair the only thing keeping her upright.
What the hell? Vaulting over the bar, Marshall was at her side before the nearest patron could react.
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