Ooh, sexual conquest or master villain?
Uh…
I haven’t decided yet.
I am expecting another text calling me on my bullshit, which frankly would be completely fair. But the next thing that comes through, a minute later, is a snapshot of… dammit. This was a bad idea.
He’s beautiful. He’s perfect. Or maybe perfectly imperfect. Sandy blond hair, square jaw, crooked smile. There’s a birthmark above his right eyebrow and a tiny, crescent-shapedscar on his chin. Zoe seems to have snapped the picture somewhere on a sidewalk in the city, Owen squeezing in against a storefront to let an elderly couple pass. His jacket is zipped all the way up, and he’s got a scarf wound around his neck. His cheeks are flushed from the cold. His green eyes sparkle with laughter.
I can’t stop staring at him. And my insides are doing some complicated and unsubtle acrobatics.
He’s real, and that is so much worse than some sort of vague abstract fantasy.
I’m completely fucked.
Later,when I’m lying in bed, not even pretending to sleep, my phone lights up with a text.
Owen
So sorry. Zoe kept me out all night! Did you know there’s a Holiday Lights bus tour? You ride on top and there’s hot chocolate and caroling! And elves! Anyway, I’m beat, so I’m turning in. I’m yours all day tomorrow. Or I’m your book’s? Or something. There may have been some festive drinks as part of our adventure. Anyway, you’re probably already asleep. So… Nighty-night, George Knight.
If I want not to want things, answering a drunk Owen—flirting with a drunk Owen, let’s be real—is not a good idea. I know this. So I don’t answer.
But I read it over again. Twice.
DECEMBER 26
CHAPTER 39
GEORGE
I’m groggy,dazed, and there’s a pounding in my head that—no, wait. The pounding is coming from downstairs, the front door.
God, what time is it? Blueish morning haze filters in through the skylight above my head. I grab for my phone, hold it up above my face, and oh shit. I guess I was looking at Owen’s picture again when I fell asleep because there it is, open on my screen.
More pounding.
Oh, holy fuck, what if it’shim? Now a voice is calling, definitely a man’s voice, although I can’t tell what he’s saying.
Suddenly, I’m much more awake.
Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.
Is this good? Is this bad? Is it both? Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I scramble into Owen’s bathrobe and half run, half trip towards the spiral stairs. It occurs to me that wearing the man’s robe might not be the best way to answer the door if it is him, but in my boxers probably wouldn’t have been a good idea either.
On the way down, I rehearse things to say. Hi Owen. How are you, Owen? I definitely am not having inappropriate thoughts about you, Owen.
My brain catches up halfway between the bottom of the stairs and the door, and I realize it doesn’t make any sense that he would be here. And if he were, would he even knock? Certainly not like this. Nevertheless, I pause and on the doorknob take a deep, fortifying breath—just in case. Then I swing open the door.
It’s not Owen.
It’s a tall guy, in a cashmere coat, with slicked back dark hair and an air of self-importance about him. He is holding a box under one arm and looking down at his watch. After a moment, he looks up at me. He registers obvious surprise.
He looks me up and down, then registers obvious disdain.
I’m still foggy, trying to figure out what’s going on. It can’t be more than seven in the morning. Which makes it perfectly reasonable for me to be standing here hair rumpled, bare-legged, in my—okay, Owen’s—robe. But answering the door to a GQ model wannabe does have me a little self-conscious. I pull the robe tighter.
