Can we get like a mini story reaction to one of Toms “friends” hitting Parker
"What was that?"
"What was what?"
Tom, a frown and furrowed brows marring his features, swept a hand across the bar to the recently vacated space next to Parker. An abandoned beer sat on a damp napkin, and the bar stool was still warm from the previous occupant.
"Who—Richie?" she echoed, furrowing her own brows in confusion. "I thought he was your friend?"
Tom clearly didn't seem pleased with that information, and as Parker attempted to catch the straw of her strawberry daiquiri between her teeth, he twisted against the bar so he could glare at everyone that walked by. "Yeah, he is," he said.
But he certainly didn't seem too pleased by that information, and she could only furrow her brows further.
"Don't you want me talking to your friends?" she asked, trying to be both mindful of whatever was bothering him and trying not to sound too put out by the whole situation. Afterall, she had just suffered through fifteen minutes of conversation with a male model who didn't know his left from his right all for Tom. "We were just talking."
"He wasn't just talking," Tom corrected her.
But that made even less sense to Parker, and so she set her glass down on the counter with a miserable frown. Half between pulling out her hair and crying, she used a hand to gently tilt his attention back to her. "Babe, I'm struggling to see what the big problem is here. Don't you want me to get along with your friends?"
He ground his jaw for a moment, eyes raking across her features in a burning path, before Tom spit out, "of course I want you to get along with my friends."
"Then—"
"He was hitting on you, Parker."
She blinked, before stupidly asking, "what?"
Tom rolled his eyes with a huff, but when Parker scowled at his reaction, he took a moment to take a deep calming breath. "Babe," he said, slowly, as if talking to a child. "He didn't care about what you did for work, he was flirting with you."
"But," she started, only to pause and rethink through their entire conversation. She supposed now it made sense why he kept moving closer to her, but Parker had only thought the bar was packed, and so she had offered him her bar stool so he didn't have to keep getting pushed around. She supposed the incredulous look he had given her made sense now. "Oh. But I..."
Tom shook his head, his hand trailed along her waist protectively. "Do you really not notice all the guys that stare at you?"
"At me?" she echoed, blustering. "You're the hot one! You're the—you know—famous movie star. Why would anyone be looking at me?"
It was such a ridiculous question that Parker turned to sweep her gaze over the bar. Heads turned away as she looked, men stooped in conversation, eyes darting between her and Tom surreptitiously. Yet, she just couldn't believe it. They were only looking because she was with Tom Ryder.
Right?
When she looked back at him, however, he no longer seemed upset. Instead, there was something so fond in his eyes that Parker felt herself melting into his touch. "You really don't notice?"
"Well," she hedged, "why would I care about them when I have you?"
Tom stared at her for a long moment before planting a heated kiss on her. It frazzled Parker even more, and it took shaking her head to come to her senses. Grabbing her daquiri, she nudged him off the bar. "Now, come on."
"Where are we going?"
"To spill my daquiri on the next guy that looks at me," she grinned, and when Tom tilted his head back and laughed, Parker had to remind herself that there were other people in the room. People that needed to be taught a lesson. "I guarantee no one is going to flirt with me after I ruin their Gucci shoes."
"You know what Gucci looks like?"
"Oh, shut up."












