“Been busy.”
Her brows draw closer, expression pouty. Somehow she manages to fold her arms and emphasize her generously sized breasts, the top she’s wearing V-neck and very low cut. “So you’ve been too busy for me? I missed you, tough guy. Just feels like we’ve been on opposite schedules lately.”
“I come by when I come by,” I answer stiffly. “It’s nothing personal, Bridget.”
“I know. I just hate that it seems like every time you come by, I’m not working. And every time I’m working, you don’t come by. And then tonight, when you finally do show up,shegets your table.”
The way she says she leaves no doubt who Bridget means.
“Just how it worked out.”
“Mmhmm,” she hums, unconvinced. She reaches out and squeezes at my bicep, softening her tone again. “I’ve been thinking about our date. The one at Gallagher’s. You said we’d do it again sometime.”
I glance down at her hand but don’t pull away like the last time she touched me.
That was out of instinct—I was preoccupied after learning Jhene was missing and my head had filled up with a number of different scenarios.
Finding Jhene was crucial.
More important than letting Bridget grope my junk and talk about how badly she wanted to see my studio apartment.
But I’d be liar if I said that, as my gaze lowers to her hand on my bicep, I don’t notice how good her tits look in the top she’s got on.
I’m not blind, and it’s been six weeks for me.
But I won’t be fucking anything except Darnell “TheTank” Thompson when I fuck him up in the ring at our next match.
That doesn’t mean my blood doesn’t heat up when an attractive woman like Bridget touches me and makes kissy, pouty faces.
The temptation’s there… for a second.
Then it fades as quickly as it arrived as I look back up and pick Jhene out on the bar floor. She’s returned to our table with our drinks, setting them down.
The urge to go to her strikes me. For me to return to the table so I could intercept her before she gets flagged by other customers.
I’m staring for so long Bridget gives a clear of her throat.
“A little distracted?” she asks irritably.
“More like I should get back. Drinks’ve been brought over.”
It’s as I turn away from Bridget that I catch Jhene’s gaze. She’s departing the table I’m sharing with Sean, obviously aware I was off on the sidelines with Bridget.
Her face is impassive. Damn near impossible to read.
But it’s enough to tell me all I need to know; she’s about as agitated as Bridget.
What the fuck did I do now?
The rest of the night passes with me nursing the whiskey I ordered and Sean ranting about his favorite rugby team losing the championships. The highlights on the nearby TV playing ESPN turn to professional boxing and then that occupies our conversation for the rest of the night.
The entire time I’m more distracted by the fact that Jhene avoids our table.
There’s no more banter. No more playful spark in her eyes.
Just distance and cool indifference.
When Tom finally calls last orders andthe crowd starts to thin, I’m still sitting in the same booth, waiting for her shift to be over.
