The typing bubble appears, but disappears.
I wait.
After what feels like forever, he finally sends his reply.
Owen:No naked women. Not drunk, but is hungover OK?
I roll my eyes, even if he can’t see it.
Me:You’ll still reek of alcohol.
Owen:I will sweat it out.
Me:Gross.
Another laughing emoji. He replies a second later.Please?
Putting down the phone and toweling off my wet hair, I consider his offer.
I pick the phone back up.
Me:Fine. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.
What am I doing?
Owen slouches in the large, plush chair in front of his desk. He’s shirtless, of course. His hair is tousled like he just woke up.
“Did you sleep here?” I ask, throwing my bag on the ground and crossing my arms.
“What of it?” he asks, chewing gum.
I almost laugh, knowing he’s trying to mask the scent of alcohol. He’s not hungover.
I narrow my gaze. “You’re still drunk.”
“So observant, Miss Riley.”
Suddenly, I’m annoyed. “You lied.”
He swings his legs over the side of the chair and stands. Once he has his balance, he stumbles toward me.
“You wouldn’t have come,” he says, stopping a foot from me.
“Lied and manipulated. You make a habit of those things? Is that how you get all those women into your bed?”
I don’t mean to let all that slip, but I can’t help it. I’m so flustered and angry and confused, and I don’t know which way is up. He’s a murder suspect, and yet he’s only been kind. He’s done nothing but help people, including me, which has me not wanting to look too far into why.
He takes another wobbly step toward me, and now I have to crane my neck to look at him. “What if it is?” he growls. His eyes are narrow slits, the green in them darkening almost to black in the dim light.
“So honorable,” I mumble sarcastically.
“You know nothing about me, Miss Riley.” His voice is a deep growl. A flash of anger passes across his eyes.
In any other situation, I’d be on high alert. Ready for a fight. Ready for the abuse that often follows when a person’s emotion finally snaps. But with Owen, I don’t feel afraid.
“Then tell me!” I yell at him. “Tell me why you drink every night? Why you have a different girl in your bed every night? Why you sleep in your office almost every night?”
He raises a brow. Does he think me so daft I wouldn’t notice he doesn’t go home at night?
