Three Broken Promises (One Week Girlfriend #3)(4)

Only one woman is off limits. I might be an ass**le, but I at least have a small amount of scruples left within me. Besides, there has to be something untouchable and holy in my world, right? She’s it. The sweet little girl I knew when we were kids. The pretty teenager who I tried my best not to look at for fear she’d know I was lusting after her.

The woman I deny myself from ever having. We’re friends, and that’s all it can be. I’m scared I’ll ruin our relationship if I take it further. I need her friendship more than I want her body.

Well. Just barely.

Thinking of her makes my heart and libido sink, and my interest in this woman in front of me withers up and blows away like a dead, dried-up leaf.

That’s all it takes. Think of Jen and I’m done for.

“Uh, I’m flattered, but . . .” I run a hand through my hair, wondering how I’m going to let her down easy. I’ve never had to do this before. When a woman’s interested, I usually let it happen. I let her in. Not all the way, but just enough so we both get what we want.

I let no one in all the way. Jen’s the only one who’s ever gotten close. I still keep her at arm’s length, though, for the most part. Except for those quiet, intimate moments in the dark, when the despair threatens to overwhelm me and she sneaks into my room to offer me comfort.

Those moments I keep to myself. We’ve never talked about them. They’re like our dirty little secret.

“So I guess you have a girlfriend?” The woman laughs, cocking her head. She has dark blond hair, with perfect curls that tumble past her shoulders. Her makeup is subtle, her outfit tempting. A few months ago, she would have been my type. I would have had her naked and been buried deep inside her within an hour of this meeting, if not sooner.

But anonymous sex doesn’t appeal to me anymore. And the woman I want, I can’t really have. Correction: I don’t let myself have her. So instead of having her naked and me buried deep inside her like I desperately want, I suffer. Like a true martyr.

Or try more like a true ass**le.

Clearing my throat, I decide to be honest. “I—”

“He does.” Jen appears beside me as if I conjured her up like a magical spell, made of smoke and mirrors and so much beauty it hurts to look at her. She curls a slender arm around mine, her fingers settling on my biceps, and my skin burns where she touches me. Nestling in close, that sexy lean body of hers is plastered to mine, making me sweat, making my skin tighten. She’s wearing a mysterious smile and a defiant glare in her dark brown eyes that would deter even the most aggressive female on the planet.

The look clearly says, Back the f**k off, he’s mine.

Hell, I wish.

“Sorry.” The girl doesn’t sound sorry at all as she pushes away from the counter and walks off, shaking her head. “Didn’t mean to step on any toes.”

“Keep walking. Nothing to see here,” Jen calls after her as the girl disappears back into the bar. Then she releases her hold on me immediately, stepping away, and I feel the loss keenly. “God. Don’t you ever get sick of that?”

“Sick of what? Women hitting on me?” I once lived for that shit every single night. Flirting, drinking, being surrounded by beautiful women—they all helped me forget what I’d done. How I disappointed an entire family. How I abandoned my best friend and he ended up dead. How I let this girl in front of me down most of all.

My fault. All of it.

“Yes.” She sounds irritated, but she looks hot. The simple black dress she wears accentuates her curves, stops about mid-thigh, and showcases those endless legs of hers. Legs I’d like to have naked. I imagine gripping her slender thighs and wrapping them around my hips. “She’s been circling you for the last twenty minutes like she’s a shark and you’re blood in the water.”

I hadn’t noticed. Am I a dick for liking that Jen had? This hint of a jealous streak is new. I wish I knew what spurred it on. “I would’ve taken care of her.”

“By what? Inviting her back to the house?”

Glancing around, I’m thankful no one’s left in the restaurant. The remaining customers have moved on into the bar. I don’t need anyone witnessing this exchange, especially my employees. The rumor mill at The District is bad enough. Jen and I don’t need to add fuel to the fire. They already talk about us. Wondering what the heck we’re doing, if we’re together, if we’re not. The constant speculation is exhausting.

“I don’t do that. Not when you’re there,” I finally say, my gaze meeting hers once more. “Since when do you care, anyway?”

Wrong thing to say. She looks ready to blow up—all over me. “So you would’ve brought her back to the house if I wasn’t there? Is that what you’re saying? God, you’re such an ass,” she mutters as she stalks off.

I follow her, my gaze zeroing in on the back of her head. Her long brown hair is down tonight, but when she tosses her head I see the edge of a white bandage peeking out between the thick, silky strands. “What happened to you?”

She glances over her shoulder with a withering stare. “What are you talking about?”

“The bandage.” I grab hold of her arm and stop her in her tracks. She almost stumbles, what with the high heels she’s wearing, and I grip her tighter to keep her upright. “Did you hurt yourself?”