“Who the fuck are you?” I asked the man through my teeth, my anger rising and my chest heaving, the rose snapping.

The man tilted his head, giving me a once-over. He was dressed in jeans and a faded T-shirt, but he was good-looking. Was this Rosette’s type?

“And who are you?” he repeated my question.

I tried to stay calm, I really did, but these days, that wasn't my strong suit.

I grabbed him by the chest, pushing him inside with my fist raised, ready to rain down blows on him. I didn't care who he was anymore; what I cared about was what he was doing at my...