I look down at myself. Sure enough, Owen’s jacket is tucked around me. It smells like him: cedar, ice spray, and clean laundry. Warmth spreads through my chest before panic immediately stomps all over it. I shriek, more alarmed than if I’d looked down to find a tarantula crawling on me. Even worse, a scorpion. For an East Coast girl like me, those things are the devil’s lobster. I toss the jacket away, so that it lands in a heap on the floor. The dramatic overreaction would probably be more convincing if I didn’t instantly miss having it around me.
“I don’t know how that got there!” I clamber up from the sofa and back away, the forgotten phone clutched in my fist. “I couldn’t sleep. I got here early. We were watching replays of old games!”
Like that somehow explains why I apparently fell asleep wrapped in him.
“Ooh, girl, you’re in trouble. Wearing his jacket like a weighted blanket, while on the job? Talk about unprofessional.”
“I have to go.”
Mostly because if I stay on this call another thirty seconds, Cara’s going to figure out I’m halfway in love with this man.
“Hey, Remy, breathe. I was just joking.” Cara’s brow furrows. “Want to talk about it?”
“Not now. Sorry, I just…” I don’t even know what to say. I hang up and stuff my phone into my pocket. Then, with shaking hands, I pick up Owen’s jacket, fold it over the back of the sofa, and go.
I don’t return to the rink. I need to get my head right, and I don’t know how to do that when I’m breathing the same air as Owen. The conversation today helps me make sense of so many hints that he’s dropped over the last few weeks. His protective reaction to Lenyx getting hurt. Little comments about his parents. Even the way he treats me. Careful. Attentive. Like hurting me would genuinely upset him.
God, all that talk about being a grenade. It’s not just that people expect Owen to go off. He worries about it, too. Like some part of him is always waiting to become the thing he hates most.
So I avoid the ice and go up to the offices instead. Renee looks up from a stack of paperwork and greets me with a warm smile. “Remy! Good to see you.”
“How’s the seafood emergency going?” I keep my tone light.
Renee utters a loud groan. “Oh, don’t even get mestarted.He’s been texting me updates, and no matter how many times I let him know that it isnot my business,it doesn’t slow him down. The man has no boundaries. And I meannone.”
“Say less,” I deadpan, and Renee laughs.
“Fair enough. It’s not your problem, either. But he’s not in today, at any rate.”
“Actually, I was wondering if I could meet with you. Just you. I want to run something by you.”
Renee’s smile fades. “Okay. We can step into Sergio’s office if you’d like some privacy.”
“Please.”
Renee ushers me into Sergio’s workspace, which is a lot more open and inviting when Dante’s not pitching a fit in there. Instead of sitting in “his” chair, Renee chooses her usual seat and spins it to face mine. Her posture is all-business.
“Did something happen with Owen?” she asks.
“Yes and no.” I wave my hand.
“Okay.” Renee’s nostrils flare. “Dammit, I wouldn’t have thought he was the type, or I would have insisted that he be assigned a male handler. I’m glad you came to me. Dante is a real dinosaur about this sort of thing, but we take all incidents of harassment seriously,regardlessof him.”
“Wait, what?” I hold up my hands to stop her. “No, Owen didn’t harass me.”
The immediate need to defend him hits me so fast it’s almost instinctive.
“Oh.” Renee droops into the chair. “Thank God. We had an incident with a former player, and I thought… Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter what I thought.”
I’m glad that Owen wasn’t here to witness her leaping to terrible conclusions. “Owen has never touched me without my permission.”
“Good.” Renee’s attitude has relaxed, but her piercing gaze is hawklike. “I was worried, given that Dante’s plan to have you shadow him leaves the two of you alone a lot, and the way Owen looks at you is hard to miss.”
Heat crawls instantly up my neck. I bite the inside of my cheek. Guys are oblivious, but Renee is clearly anything but. Given her daily interactions, her Petty Bullshit Meter must be more finely attuned than mine. “How does he look at me?”
I somehow already know the answer and need to hear someone else say it out loud.
Renee draws circles in the air with her fingers, as if fishing for the right word. “Possessively.”
