When we were done, I scrubbed a hand over the back of my neck, shuffling on my feet. “Well, I guess I better head back.”
“Do you want to stay?” Delia blurted.
My brows rose. “Stay…here?”
She nodded. “I don’t want you driving back into the city after you’ve been drinking, and I have a guest room.”
“The world’s comfiest bed,” I said, remembering Brie’s comment from that night at Lawless.
“The same one,” she confirmed. “Please. I would feel better if you didn’t drive.”
She was worried about me, and the knowledge pleased me deeply.
“Of course,” I answered, because how the fuck was I supposed to say no?
I woke up themorning after my party feeling surprisingly perky given all the tequila I’d consumed. After Owen showed up wearing a costume that matched mine perfectly, I lost my head a bit. TJ had dressed as a fucking puppy—a little too on the nose if you asked me—and he hadn’t held a candle to Owen in his Levi’s. The way the denim molded to his ass, the massive belt buckle drawing the gaze right to his crotch, and the well-worn cowboy hat shading his baby blues…damn, he was stunning. An echo, albeit a more rugged, grown up version, of the teenager he’d been running around his family’s ranch in Idaho twenty years ago.
And my stupid heart had practically sung at the sight of him, even if his discomfort was obvious in his hands shoved deep in his pockets, his head bent, completely hiding his face from view. The way he’d walked into my party had been a far cry from the Owen Lawless I’d come to know.
TJ certainly hadn’t helped matters, and seeing them standingside by side was a formative moment for me. TJ was a head shorter than Owen and eight years his junior. Skinny next to Owen’s bulk. Pale where Owen was tan. Fresh and smooth faced where Owen’s was rugged stubble and scars. Boyish where Owen was all man.
I couldn’t have Owen, and that was fine. But I realized in that moment that TJ also wasn’t the guy for me. When he’d brazenly asked me if I wanted to spend the night together, I’d politely but firmly sent him on his way.
We hadn’t even kissed, for crying out loud.
His…enthusiasm for dating me was palpable, and he’d been a lot more invested than I had been. Thankfully, he’d handled my rejection admirably, and I found I didn’t feel an ounce of sadness over the end of our relationship.
I stretched myself awake, taking a moment to work out the kinks and stiffness from sleep, then got up, relieved myself, and headed down to the kitchen. Outside my windows, the day was bright and clear, fall still holding us in her grip, winning this last battle before winter ultimately won the war.
As I did every morning when I entered my kitchen, I lifted the little remote off the counter and clicked on the power for the Bluetooth surround-sound system. Morgan Wallen’s gritty, beautiful voice filtered through the room. I wiggled my hips, humming the words as I prepared my cup of coffee.
While that was percolating, I moved to the fridge, taking out my pre-cut frozen fruit, almond milk, Greek yogurt, and spinach—the ingredients for my favorite pre-run smoothie.
I’d been blessed with a metabolism that kept my body fairly thin regardless of what I ate or how often I worked out. AndI used to take my gym time very seriously, actively engaging in strength training as a way to stay toned and fit. But once I moved home from college, driving into the city every day for a workout wasn’t a commitment I’d been willing to make, and while I had the room, I also hadn’t wanted to designate any of my home’s square footage to gym space. So I’d taken up running, and quite frankly, it was one of the better ideas I’d ever had. Going out for a jog had become an integral part of my morning routine—when I could stomach the weather. Winters here could be brutal, and on the days when it was snowing or below freezing, I’d do yoga in my living room instead.
Ten minutes and three songs later, freshly blended smoothie raised to my lips for that first delicious sip, I spun from the counter—and let out a scream.
“Nice dance moves.”
Hand to my chest, I sucked in gulps of air, my heart racing a thousand miles a minute. “What the fuck,” I breathed.
“You forget I was here?” Owen asked.
I sure as hell had, and he knew it. I guessed I’d consumed more tequila than I thought, if I’d forgotten about offering my guest room to the hottest man I’d ever laid eyes on so he wouldn’t have to drive back into the city so late.
“I did,” I said, offering him a sheepish smile. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine,” he said with a wide grin. Then tilted his head toward the ceiling and added, “I didn’t peg you as a country girl.”
“What kind of girl did you peg me as then?” I asked, more brazen than I had any right to be considering I wasn’t wearing pants.
“EDM,” Owen said immediately. “You look like a rave girl.”
I arched my brow. “I don’t know what a ‘rave girl’ looks like, but I feel like I should be offended.”
“No, of course not. It’s just…” Owen opened and shut his mouth a few times, panic flitting briefly across his face before he said, in a rush and voice low, “I bet you look good in fishnets and pasties.”
The comment had me choking on my smoothie, and I hurried to the sink so I could spit out the mouthful I’d inhaled before I made matters worse. When I turned back, I was so dumbstruck, all I could do was stare at him. I was surprised, both by his words and by the color blooming high on his chiseled cheekbones. If there was anything I’d learned in the short time since we’d started working together, it was that Owen Lawless had walls as tall as the Eiffel Tower. I wasn’t delusional enough to think I’d be the one to break them down. But this moment of weakness from him? This rare admission that he’d noticed me in the same way I couldn’t help but notice him? That maybe this attraction I felt for him wasn’t all in my head, nor entirely one sided?
