He turned to leave, his gaze dropped, and he froze.
For a full three seconds, Owen went completely still. His eyes traveled over me slowly, from my wet hair clinging to my shoulders, down the curve of my neck, to where my fingers clutched the towel against my chest, to my bare legs, and back up again.
The look on his face made my skin flush hot.
“Owen?”
“You’re, uh.” He swallowed visibly. “Still in a towel.”
“I’m aware.”
“Right.” He dragged his gaze back up to my face with what appeared to be considerable effort. “Right. You should probably... put on clothes. Before you pack.”
“That was the plan.”
“Good. Good plan.” He took another step back. “I’ll just... be downstairs. Not thinking about…” He stopped himself. “Downstairs.”
“Is this a good idea?” The question came out before I could stop it. “Me moving in with you? Given everything?”
Owen’s met mine, and whatever internal battle he was fighting seemed to resolve itself in that moment.
“I don’t care anymore,” he said simply. “You’re coming home with me. We’ll figure out everything else tomorrow.”
He disappeared down the stairs before I could argue.
I stood there, my heart pounding for an entirely different reason now, the towel clutched against my chest like a lifeline.
Tomorrow.
We’d figure everything else out tomorrow.
I had a feeling tomorrow was going to be very, very interesting.
CHAPTER 23
OWEN
I am so fucked.
The thought played on repeat as I stared at my ceiling.
Harlow was in my bed.
She was down the hall, in my room, probably passed out by now, given how exhausted she looked tonight.
I threw my arm over my eyes, as if blocking out the darkness would somehow help.
I was wide awake, hyperaware of every creak in the apartment, my ears straining for any sound from down the hall.
The relief of knowing she was here, safe, protected, and not alone in that big house was overwhelming.
I meant what I said. I didn’t give a fuck about space anymore. For weeks, I’d been telling myself that distance was the answer, and if I stayed away from her, these feelings would fade. That the wanting would disappear, become manageable, and eventually disappear entirely.
I was so fucking wrong. It had gotten worse.
Every time I saw her at the rink, my heart did that stupid stuttering thing. Every time I caught a glimpse of her across campus, I had to physically stop myself from walking towardher. Every time my phone buzzed, I hoped it was her, and when it wasn’t, the disappointment was almost comical in its intensity.
And now she was here. Sleeping in my bed. Under my roof.
