“Can I help you?”
At this, he flicks his eyes up and down me again. Then let’s out a little irritated puff of air. Who the hell is this guy?
“I’d like to speak to Owen, please.”
Oh, you would, would you?
“Well, I’m afraid you can’t do that.”
He laughs. This gross, arrogant little laugh.
“Look, whoever you are…whateveryou are, that’s between you and Owen. And my business with Owen is between him and me. So if you wouldn’t mind… ”
At this, he actually attempts to breeze past me. I don’t know if it’s reflex or I’ve written one too many Sebastian Steele scenes, but I block him. Physically. Like with my body.
It doesn’t have the same effect as it does for Steele because he’s a fictitious 6’2” and I’m 5’9” in heels. Plus I’m me. But the guy stops anyway.
He stops, lets out a long suffering sigh, and then, dripping condescension, says, “I don’t have time for this.”
And suddenly it clicks.
I know exactly who this guy is. He can only be one person.
I narrow my eyes. “You’re the ex, aren’t you? Bob? Brad? Bart?”
“Beau.”
I know it’s Beau. I’m just fucking with him.
“Listen…”
“George.”
“George.” He pronounces it like he’s humoring me somehow by saying my name. “I don’t have a lot of time. I’ve come here all the way from Burlington. I have no desire to intrude, but I have a few things of Owen’s, and he has a few of my things which I would very much like to get back. So if I could just see him?—”
“No.”
“No. First of all, Owen isn’t here. He is in New York, getting away fromyou.” I’m actually not sure how strictly true that is, but I’m going with it anyway. “And second of all… You don’tdeserveto see him.”
He jumps back like he’s been bitten. Which… okay, then. Damn straight.
It feels good, but it’s not enough. I don’t know a lot about Owen’s relationship with this guy, but I’ve been able to piece together enough.
This slime bucket thinks he’s too good for Owen. Owen!
And that’s fine, I guess. Owen is better off without him.
Except for one thing. He hurt Owen. I know he did. I know he did because of a few things Zoe’s mentioned in passing when she’s talked about Owen recently. And that thing that Allie said about him having had a hard time. And one or two things he himself has let slip that make me think this asshat somehow made him feel less than worthy.
Beau is eyeing me warily, now. Sizing me up. “Look, if Owen really isn’t here…”
And that’s when I let him have it.
“No, Owen really isn’t here, and that is a very good thing. Because he’s too good a guy to tell you the truth. But guess what? I amnotthat good a guy. So I’m going to tell you exactly what I’m thinking.” I jab him in the chest with my finger. “I am thinking you must be some kind of moron. Because you had the kindest, sweetest, most genuine man in the world and still somehow managed to fuck it up. We’re talking about a guy the whole town adores. A guy who bakes scones—from scratch—for the couple next door, who he met three freaking days ago.” I don’t know where all this is coming from, but I’m too worked up to stop now. “A guy who’d rather stay in but lets his cousin drag him to every queer hangout in Manhattan just so he doesn’t have to hurt her feelings. A guy who makes a handcrafted pun-based Christmas present for a personhe’s never even met!Thatguy. Andyousomehow managed to make him feel bad about himself. So you can take your cashmere coat and your holier-than-thou attitude, and you can go fuck yourself.”
And with that, I snatch the box out of his hand—”I will see that Owen gets these.”—And swing the door shut in his face.
I stand there holding a box of what looks like Owen’s socks, a pair of sunglasses, a couple of pens, and a DVD of Finding Nemo, breathing heavily and listening to the sound of a car peeling away in the dirt driveway. And it feels fan-fucking-tastic.
