Burn My Hart (The Notorious Harts 2)

‘You know him?’

‘I’ve met him a few times. I must say, I presumed you had better taste.’

I roll my eyes. ‘What’s wrong with him?’

‘Nothing. He’s very sensible. You’ll be married with two point five kids in a year’s time.’

A smile twitches on my lips. ‘Apart from the fact that’s biologically impossible, it’s just drinks at the Four Seasons. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.’

‘But you want to meet someone? Like him?’

For six months we’ve been sleeping together and not once have we needed to have a conversation like this. I guess it was inevitable that at some point we’d have to pop the naïve bubble we’ve been enjoying and address our situation, but now that we’re doing that I’m startlingly reluctant to alter any of the parameters of what we are.

‘I guess so.’ I drink from the beer and lift up onto the bench, sitting on its edge, angling my body to take in the view of Manhattan. My shoulders lift into a small shrug of their own volition. ‘I’m twenty-eight. I feel like, if I’m not careful, I’m going to wake up in a decade and realise I don’t have a life outside of Fleurs Sauvages.’

I glance at him; he looks terrified, like I’m about to try to wrangle a ring onto his finger. ‘I get why you’re not into the “happily ever after” thing. I respect that. We’re just...different.’

He nods, his eyes holding mine for so long I feel almost as though he’s lancing me with his gaze. ‘I’m disappointed,’ he says at length. ‘But I was never going to find it easy to let this go.’

His words have a contradictory impact on me. On the one hand, panic tears me apart at his implication that he’s letting this—me—go; on the other, there’s delight that he’s admitted such a prospect isn’t easy. Neither emotion sits well with me.

‘You’re not proposing we end this?’

His expression shows bemusement. ‘I don’t see an alternative.’

‘Because I’m catching up with a guy for a drink?’

‘Because I’m not going to sleep with a woman who’s sleeping with someone else.’

That’s right. We discussed monogamy ages ago. I didn’t remember until now because Theo is more than enough for my appetites. It never occurred to me that either of us would be sleeping with someone else on the side.

‘It’s just a drink,’ I say quietly. ‘I’m not about to go home with him.’

He lifts a brow. ‘Given how we met...’

‘Come on, Theo, I’m giving you my word. I’m not going to disrespect you like that. We’ve been sleeping together for six months and, while this isn’t exactly a conventional situation, it still means something to me. I have no intention of being with the two of you at once.’

Silence falls as he mulls this over. ‘So what do you suggest?’ he asks after several beats have passed, my nerves stretching.

‘Things between us stay the same until I say otherwise. Or you do,’ I hasten to add. ‘If it gets serious with Angus, or any other guy, I’ll tell you.’

I don’t realise I’m holding my breath until he nods and pulls me towards him. ‘I know we’re just fucking, but I don’t share well, Asha.’ His kiss robs me of the ability to think and a minute later I’m naked again, welcoming his body back to mine, knowing in that moment I’m just precisely where I want to be most in the world.

CHAPTER THREE

SHE HAS EVERY right to date another guy. Not to sleep with him while we’re sleeping together but to date, sure. I know this and in fact I completely support that decision. After all, she’s a great woman, a serious catch. Any guy would be lucky to have her. She deserves every good thing in life and I have no interest in giving it to her.

But Angus Fienes is just...not Asha. He’s so pretty, always with his hair styled and his collar popped, his dimples showing in an artfully shaved face. The idea of Asha ending up with a guy like

him feels completely wrong.

I tell myself that it’s simple friendly concern that leads to this: me, sitting at the bar of the Four Seasons on Friday night cradling a glass of eighteen-year-old Macallan, my eyes lifting to the door every few minutes.

Plus, I kind of like the idea of screwing up their date. There, I admitted it. I’m a bastard. But, knowing he’s not right for her, I don’t even feel a hint of remorse for this. If she wants to date, she should at least choose guys who are in the ballpark of being worthy of her.

They arrive just after eight. She’s come straight from the office—I recognise the navy blue suit she’s wearing. I know it well. The lining is pale grey, like silver. She’s teamed it with a camisole that drapes to reveal her cleavage. She takes the jacket off and places it over the back of the chair, which he holds out for her. She’s not wearing a bra. Fuck. My body tightens with desire, a need to hold her close and be with her. Angus’s eyes linger on her breasts and I want to punch him. As if he has any right to even occupy the same airspace as Asha.

Her hair is styled into a bun at the nape of her neck. I love it when she wears it loose, long red curls falling down her back like a waterfall made of flame. Angus lifts his hand imperiously and a waiter appears at their table. Angus presumably cracks a joke because Asha laughs and my eyes narrow. She can’t seriously be into this guy? He’s wearing skinny jeans that finish about an inch higher than his ankle with brogues and no socks. Hipster alert.