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Cash: Can I text you later?
Frowning, I hover my thumbs over the screen, remembering the last time we exchanged texts. The last time we spoke over the phone, when I came with his voice ringing through my ears.
Me: I don’t think that’s a good idea. We can’t keep doing this.
A full minute passes, but he doesn’t text back. I despise myself for the flood of disappointment rushing through me. Putting an end to this—whatever this is—is for the best. I lift my head and find Lesley watching me.
“You been holding out on me?” Her question lifts her dark brows.
My cell dings again, and I’m dying to glance down and read his message, but I don’t—not with Les giving me the eye the way she is.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean who’s the guy?”
The urge is too strong, and I lower my head and take in his words.
Cash: I know we shouldn’t be doing this.
And it’s as simple as that. He knows it, and I know it, yet here we are, continuously playing with fire. We might as well douse ourselves with lighter fluid at this rate.
“All right, Jules. Spill.”
Shit. She’s not going to let this drop. As I slip my cell into my purse, I consider confiding in her. It’s not that I don’t trust her. She’ll listen without judgment, and she won’t tell a soul. The problem is I’m ashamed of myself for being so weak. For jumping back onto the same dangerous ride I just got off of in Oklahoma.
The waitress stops at our table to take our orders, and I don’t know whether to thank her, or curse her timing. I order shrimp scampi, and Les goes for her usual.
“So, are you gonna make me play the guessing game?” Les asks after the waitress leaves with our menus and dinner orders.
“I’m not seeing anyone.” That much is true. The sexual tension between Cash and me is all-consuming, but we’ve never even kissed.
“Is it the hottie who owns the club?” she says, completely ignoring my denial.
I swallow hard, almost squirming at how close she is to the truth.
“It is him. I knew it.”
I’m already shaking my head, the truth sticking in my throat. Another swallow dislodges it, because she’s my best friend, and I need to tell someone. “It’s my boss.”
And just like that, the playfulness melts from her face. “Isn’t he married?”
It takes me five long seconds to answer. “Yes.”
“Jesus, Jules.” Her tone might be harsh, but sympathy underlies her expression. Because that’s who Les is. The most non-judgmental and caring person I know.
“I met him on the plane here. We had a…connection. But I didn’t know he was married.”
“You know I love you,” she says, leaning forward, “and I know you’re still hurting after what happened with Chris, but rebounding with your boss is the absolute worst thing you can do. There are so many other rebound-guys out there. Hell, I know Garen would help you take your mind off Chris, if you wanted him to. He’s a manwhore, sure, but he’s the most caring guy I’ve—”
“Les, it’s not rebound.”
In order to rebound, you still have to want your ex. The harsh truth is I barely think about Chris at all anymore.
“Then what is it? I mean, you’re not in love with the guy, right?”
I can’t answer. Because I can’t speak. Even worse, I can’t mask the truth washing over my face, turning my cheeks a deep shade of pink. A few rapid blinks of my eyes stave off the threat of shameful tears.
“Holy shit, Jules. You’re in love with him?”
