Before she can finish her sentence, I follow my instincts and rip my hand away from her. She gasps and pulls her hands up to her chest.
“I told you once already to go,” I spit. “I’m not the kind of man who repeats himself.”
I say it loudly enough that the bartender looks our way. So do the two girls he’s still flirting with. I realize suddenly that I’m slightly unsteady on my feet. How much have I had to drink? One, two, three, four…
Across from me, the poor man’s June is on the verge of tears. She has the hand that was touching me clamped tightly to her chest as if I burned her, and she’s whimpering like a helpless little lamb.
That one little sound seems to break whatever resemblance I thought she’d had to June.
This woman is nothing like mine.
She may be pretty, but June is beauti
