My Always One - Aleatha Romig Page 0,53

like him. A grin comes to my lips as I recall one time in college that I was so certain this arrogant asshole—I can’t recall his name—was going to try to get to her, I kept guard all night.

In reality, I slept, but I did it while keeping her beside me.

It was the first time I willingly slept next to a woman. It was also the time I did it with no thoughts of sex on my mind. I was too consumed with kicking the guy’s ass if he showed up.

Times have changed.

It would have been easy for me to take care of Jackson the way I handled that guy in college. After I woke to Sami’s tears as she looked at his photo collection, I was willing. I’m definitely able. And I’d do jail time for her.

That isn’t what she wants or needs.

One of the parts of friendship that can be difficult is not stepping in, not taking care of shit for her, and allowing her to handle it in her own way. Yes, I encouraged her. Yes, I was beside her and ready to be her muscle if needed. And it worked. By simply being at her side, I had a ringside view of her knockout punch.

As we walked around Holland, going to the shops, eating ice cream, and having dinner, I kept watching her, wondering if she would be upset that tiny-dick was with Ellen or about the photographs. She had been, but Saturday afternoon she looked and acted exactly as she said.

She was liberated.

I adore seeing her happy and carefree.

After dinner, we drove west until we reached the shore of Lake Michigan, and sitting on the light-colored sand, we watched the sun set.

There’s no doubt that I’m getting too used to waking next to her. It’s not only waking. I’m getting used to the whole package.

Crawling into bed beside her and enticing her to put away the Kindle and concentrate on something a bit more strenuous and much more fulfilling.

After three weeks of off-and-on togetherness, I’m surprised by how fucking ready I am to be inside her. I’d been wrong. Being with the same woman isn’t mundane or boring. Hell no. Each time with her there is something new, something better than the time before.

We’ve been going at this now for nearly three weeks.

That thought reminds me of the date.

Shit.

In two days, it’ll be her wedding date.

I scramble to think of something to help her get through that date.

Of course, my first thought is more sex.

I mean, it’s a cure-all for what ails you, right?

It always works for me.

But for once, I’m not thinking about me. I’m thinking about her. It’s funny how just thinking about Sami reroutes my circulation.

My treadmill begins to slow for my cooldown. I’m twenty-five minutes into my thirty-minute run when a piercing scream shatters my bubble and scatters my thoughts. I turn just in time to see Miss Tits and Ass in mid-air, before landing herself half on the floor and half on the treadmill.

Jumping off my treadmill, I offer her my sweaty hand. “Are you all right?”

She brushes herself off and takes my hand. Her hold lingers as she stands. “I guess you’re my hero. You saved me.”

I pull the earbuds from my ears, not positive of what she said. I mostly noticed the way her puffy lips moved. It’s a revelation I hadn’t realized was even possible. With this woman’s hand in mine, I see her as I never have.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not judging; I’m assessing.

I’m seeing her bleached blonde hair, Botox-enhanced lips, and fake tits.

Is she pretty?

I suppose.

No matter how pretty she is, she’s fake; she’s emblematic of all the women I’ve been involved with. No wonder in the past I haven’t wanted anything permanent. The women weren’t permanent. They were all similar to this woman, an illusion of what is supposed to be sexy.

“You know,” she says, “since you saved my life, I owe you three wishes.”

Freeing my hand, I reach for my shirt and wipe the sweat from my eyes. As I do, her gaze goes to my abs.

Shit.

This is my move except it’s not.

It’s only sweat.

When I don’t speak, she says, “I’m still available for drinks.”

“I’m still—”

“You said you were kind of seeing someone,” she interrupts. “It’s been a few weeks. Are you still only kind of?”

“It’s complicated.”

She lifts a painted and manicured finger to my chest. “I’m not complicated, Marshal. I know what I like, and I’m a no-strings-attached kind of gal.