It’s way too thorough and thoughtful a response to have been done out of obligation.
I run a hand through my damp hair as I stare at the screen, a half-chuckle escaping my lips.
Go figure.
I quickly type out a response.
From: Owen Wilde
To: George Knight
Date: December 21, 10:07 AM
Re: What to Do in New York When You’re Not Doing Other Things in New York
Thanks! Maybe I’ll give it a try.
- O
PS: I did pack for the cold, but I left plenty of sweaters there. You’re welcome to them (or anything else) if you need to bundle up.
CHAPTER 21
GEORGE
Owen’s sweateris cozy and warm and smells distractingly good. Like detergent and aftershave and just a hint of fresh-cut wood. And while layering it under my coat has certainly made my trek into town more pleasant than my first one, it is also destroying my concentration and reinforcing my lumberjack fantasy.
I wonder if Owen looks like a lumberjack.
Okay. This is not a productive line of thinking.
Though if I wanted to pursue it, I know the man likes plaid flannel, having had to go through his drawers to find the sweater. And I know he’s tall and sturdy from the way the hand-knit pullover hangs off my clearly smaller frame.
Maybe he’s blond, because Zoe’s blonde…
Maybe I should stop thinking about this now.
I’ve managed to get almost the whole way to town without making any progress on my book, despite having opened up my voice recording app for all the notes I haven’t made. In the city, walking often helps me brainstorm, but here? Now? Not so much.
Strictly speaking, I’ve come up with a few ideas. Unfortunately, they’re all swoony scenes for the book that isn’tsupposed to exist, rather than solutions to my Sebastian-Steele-locked-in-a-bank-vault problem.
I blame the sweater.
Then I feel guilty because the sweater is clearly not to blame. And any associated lumberjack daydreaming is clearly my mind desperately trying to latch onto something that isn’t my damn book. Owen is not a lumberjack. And even if he were, I don’t evenknowOwen.
Which is also why it was stupid to take the time to put together that whole New York walking tour I didfor the guy. I’ve probably frightened him off from ever emailing me again by coming on so strong.
It’s weird… admittedly, I was probably procrastinating when I started. But once I got going, I found that I was enjoying myself – guessing what Owen might like from what I know about him, sharing some of my own favorite secret spots in the city.
It’s been a long time since I’ve had the opportunity to do something for someone else like that. Making careful choices, putting in little personal touches. I feel a small pang, which I choose to ignore.
As I come to the town square—this time warm enough, thanks to the sweater, to pause and take in the large, colorfully lit tree in the center—a notification buzzes on my phone.
Okay, so maybe I set my phone up to alert me if Owen emails. Weareoccupying each other’s homes after all. There could be an emergency.
…And possibly I’m enjoying having someone to chat with—even if he isn’t exactly a friend. Or a lumberjack.
I tap over to the email. Most likely, Owen’s letting me know he’d given in to Zoe’s pressure and is now headed to some bizarre destination she picked for him. I wouldn’t take it personally if he just ignored my whole list. After all, who the hellam I and what do I know about what Owen wants to do with his time?
