Four Years Later (One Week Girlfriend #4)(3)
Author: Monica Murphy

I’m the one left who has to pick up the pieces. Glue her back together and tell her she’s strong. She’s tough. She doesn’t need him. We both don’t need him.

But I’m lying. I think she does need him. And I need him, too, only to keep her together more than anything else. I don’t love him, not anymore. He stomped all over that love until he made me resentful.

Seeing what he does to Mom makes me really wish I’d stuck to that lesbian deal. Or maybe I should just become asexual. That would work, too. I like it here in my little world that makes sense, with school and tutoring and plans to go on to get my master’s degree. I can be whatever I want. I don’t need a man to define me. Kari’s afraid I’ll never want to graduate college because I like school too much. She thinks something’s wrong with that.

It’s hard to confess to her how scared I am of the real world.

A creak sounds, startling me out of my thoughts, and the classroom door swings open. A boy struts in—there’s no other way to describe his walk. It’s all effortless grace and smooth movement. He’s tall and broad, and with a menacing glower on his face. A face that is … holy wow, it’s beautiful.

All thoughts of returning to my so-called lesbian ways are thrown right out the window. If I’m as smart as I claim to be, I’ll go chasing after them and snatch them back up. Pretend this gorgeous boy doesn’t exist.

“You my tutor?” He stops just in front of the table that I’m sitting behind and I leap to my feet, pushing the chair back with so much force it falls to the side with a loud clatter.

My cheeks are hot, but I ignore the fallen chair as though I didn’t knock it over. I am the biggest dork on the planet. “Yeah. You’re Owen?” I wince. Yeah. I’m supposed to bring up his English grade and I can’t even utter a proper yes.

“Yeah.” He flicks his chin at me. It’s a firm chin and jaw that’s covered in golden stubble that doesn’t match the color of the hair on his head. That’s brown. A rich, golden brown, though, that hints he could almost be a blond if he sat in the sun long enough. “I don’t have time for this shit, though. I gotta go to work.”

Oh. Not even a minute in and he’s blowing me off and cursing at me. Jerk. “You’re late.”

“I know. Told you I don’t have time.”

“I don’t think you have a choice.” Turning, I bend over and grab my chair, righting it. When I turn back to face him, his gaze quickly lifts to my face, as if he’d been checking out my butt, and I swear my cheeks are on fire.

More over the fact that I actually liked catching him most likely checking out my butt.

What is wrong with me?

“I really don’t need your help,” he says, his gaze locking with mine. “I’m usually pretty good at English.”

I’m at a loss for words just looking at him, which is pitiful. His eyes are green. A deep, intense green that is so beautiful, they’re almost painful to stare into. A girl could get lost in eyes like those. I bet a thousand girls before me already have. “Really?” I ask, my voice full of contempt. “Because according to your teacher, you’re failing.”

His generous mouth sets into a hard line, the lush fullness that could be considered almost feminine if he didn’t have all those harsh angles in his face to offset it disappearing in an instant. “This is such bullshit,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair, messing it up completely.

It’s a good look for him. That I’m even thinking this makes me want to punch myself. Where did my lesbian plans go? My asexual plans? Shoved aside because of a good-looking guy sauntering into a room full of attitude and doing his best to get away from me?

I’m not one of those girls. I’m smart. Boys don’t interest me and I’m okay with that. I have a protective shell that’s surrounded me for years, but I had no idea it was so thin.

He’s shattered through it with one look of his too green eyes and he doesn’t even know it. I refuse to hand over the power.

“Why don’t we sit down and go over everything,” I suggest, settling in my chair and scooting it close to the table.

He doesn’t follow my lead. Still standing above me, he’s so tall, his shoulders so broad, he’s all I can see. I tilt my head back, hating how it feels like he has the upper hand. Hating more how he looks down at me like I’m nothing. Like he could walk away right now and forget I even exist.

Which he probably could.

“Can’t we just say I come and see you every week and you get paid and we pretend everything’s fine? You turn in your little reports and I turn in my assignments, take my barely passing grade and call it good?” he asks as he reaches out and grips the back of the chair he’s standing in front of. His fingers are long; they curl around the edge of the chair so tightly his knuckles turn white. He’s tense.

Great. So am I. “Um, that would be lying. And cheating,” I say slowly, letting my words sink in.

“So? I can make this happen. I just need to catch up on my assignments, right?” He makes it sound so easy.

“You failed three tests already,” I point out, not even bothering to look at the sheet that breaks down his epic failure of English Advanced Comp. I studied it before he arrived. Memorized it, really. “You’re also taking a creative writing class and you’re close to failing that one as well.”

“I thought …” His voice trails off and he exhales, his nostrils flaring slightly. “I thought it would be easy.”

“Apparently not.” I raise a brow, proud of my calm, cool demeanor. Inside, my nerves are starting a riot in my belly.

“I’ll pay you extra,” he blurts. “I can’t … I gotta work.”

His offer shocks me, and all I can do is blink.

“Maybe …” I take a deep breath. “Maybe we could meet at another time? Is that the problem? Does this time not work for you?”

“It doesn’t. Not at all.” He shakes his head. “I don’t want to do this. No offense, but I don’t have time for this shit.”

And with that final statement, he turns on his heel and leaves.

CHAPTER 2

Chelsea

I hate working at the diner. It’s located in the not-so-great part of downtown, next door to a bar where the college students definitely don’t hang out. But considering it’s open twenty-four hours, the last of the college bar-hoppers tend to trickle in around two thirty in the morning, starving and drunk.