After knowing what it feels like to lose it, my answer is easy. “Yes.”
Owen looks contemplative for a moment before shooting me a playful look. “Wait until you taste the food.”
His eyes drop to my lips.
What did I taste like when he kissed me?
Heat rushes to my cheeks, and I drop my gaze to the menu. Ugh, stop acting like a sweet blushing virgin. He’s not yours.
But the more time we spend together, the more I wonder if marriage to Owen Phillips wouldn’t be so bad.
For Eloise, I mean.
“Look who decided to trade a white tablecloth and wine for sandy floors and warm beer.” A woman appears at our table, pen and notepad in her hand.
She’s all legs in her tiny black shorts, and she has eyes only for Owen.
“Hello, Amy.” He smiles at our waitress. “How have you been?”
“You’d know if you answered my texts.”
I look between them, a knot quickly forming in my stomach.
“Things have been… busy.”
She places a hand on his arm and squeezes, the touch comforting but overly familiar. “I heard about your dad. Sorry.”
Owen tips his head, acknowledging her words. “Thank you.”
They must be friends. I feel guilty about the weird spasm of jealousy I’m feeling.
“What can I get you?” she asks Owen.
I smile, waiting for her to look at me or even acknowledge that I’m here, but she doesn’t.
“We will start with a bottle of wine.” Owen gives her the name of a vintage so expensive it would make my lavish father giddy.
“I’ve always wanted to try that one. Save me a sip.”
My brow lifts automatically. Is she hitting on him?
Amy leaves before Owen can respond.
Well, I now have in-person proof that he didn’t need to negotiate a deal for a bride.
“Why did you make a deal with my father?”
He rests his forearms on the table and steeples his fingers as he looks at me. “Would you rather I let your family business go under?”
I’m not sure how to respond. I don’t want my father to lose his business. But being here reminds me of the first bed-and-breakfast he’d started with my mother and how quickly my father’s vision changed after her death, turning grander and leaving behind the quaint, homey style my mother had embraced. This is the style I wanted to emulate when I took over.
But that dream died with my mother.
“You don’t need to negotiate for a wife. You’re a billionaire—you can have any woman.”
Including the waitress.
“I know,” he states. The confident, teasing twitch at the corner of his mouth is frustratingly sexy. “But none have intrigued me quite like you.”
