Page 18 of Stud

“Unf.” I startled at my needy sound, and he raised an eyebrow.

If this were six months ago (PBG—pre broken gaydar), I’d have scooted over until our hips touched. I’d have skewered my fork through a few vegetables and fed him my better-than-his lunch, watching as my fork slipped past his lips, my tongue (hopefully) following shortly. But this was post BG, and I still had no clue if Owen was just being nice, or if he found me attractive, or maybe he found Nick attractive. The seventies mustache was pretty cool.

Instead of acting on instinct, I placed my Tupperware in his large hand. He dragged my fork through the vegetables, wrinkling his nose when poking the tofu. He scooped a bite and looked at the blue sky as he chewed. “Flavor wise, really good, but I’ll never get tofu. Tastes like bland mush.”

A curious squirrel nattered from the ground, scurrying closer, then away. Probably scavenging for its next meal. “That’s the cool thing about tofu. It’s a blank canvas. With the right marinade, you can make it taste like anything. Even meat.”

“Or you could just eat meat.” He returned my lunch, ripped off a piece of salami from his sandwich, and tossed it to the squirrel. The rodent squeaked and squawked as it studied its find. Deciding it wasn’t poison, he snatched it up and ran under the table.

“I’m vegan,” I said.

Owen squinted at my fuchsia belt. “But you wear leather.”

“It’s not an animal-rights thing. It’s more of a scarred-for-life thing.”

That had him twisting toward me. “I’m afraid to ask.”

I hadn’t relived this particular story in years, never shared those humiliating days with friends, let alone a guy who had me all unf. Yet here I was, for some odd reason, going tell-all with Owen. “I worked this job in high school, at a fast-food chicken and burger joint. I didn’t fit in with my co-workers, and my nemesis, Anton Bickley, liked to facilitate my embarrassment.”

And call me Little Miss Priss when telling everyone I didn’t know a chicken thigh from a leg. I ground my teeth. “So anyway, meat wasn’t my favorite. I ate it, but working with it grossed me out. Anton knew it was an issue. He also knew when I formed our burgers that I’d turn my head when dipping my hand into the ground beef, unable to watch. Like when my blood is taken.”

Owen stole an olive from my lunch and popped it into his mouth. “I do the same with blood,” he said around his bites.

“Right? So I’d grab handfuls of seasoned beef and mush them together without looking. I didn’t know there were maggots inside. When I finally looked, they were on my hands and wrists. I screamed and ran around like a chicken with my head cut off.” I stabbed at a bruise on my wrist. “Anton must have set a batch aside, knowing my shift was coming up. Like room-temperature aside. I didn’t have proof, but I caught him high-fiving people afterward.”

“I think I hate this Anton kid.”

Owen’s voice roughening in my defense should have sent a dippy feeling through my belly, but a ball hardened in my gut. “It was traumatic, to say the least. I never ate meat again.”

He didn’t laugh, didn’t crack a joke or brush it off. His cheekbones sharpened like they did when he seemed upset. “I’m sorry, Ainsley—for that first day you volunteered. I was as big of a jerk to you as that guy. Really feel like shit about it.”

His knee swung wide, gently brushing mine, like the leaves scraping against one another in the wind. He had no clue I was also upset over a revenge prank I should never have pulled on my nemesis, but something about his proximity, his deep voice, eased my guilt.

“Thank you. It was a crappy time in my life, for many reasons, but I know you didn’t mean to be malicious. I also know it won’t happen again.”

He held up three fingers. “Scout’s honor. But I still think tofu is nasty.”

I picked up my salad. “Your loss.”

Silence settled between us. He devoured his gross deli meat, while I munched on my veggies, sneaking the odd glance his way. The leaves above sent diamonds of shade cutting across our shoulders. Our squirrel poked its head out from below the bench and sniffed around for more food. My presumptuous hunk stuck his thick fingers into my lunch, stole a piece of tofu, and launched it for the little guy.

I elbowed his arm, barely making a dent. “Thief!”

He shook his head. “Scientist, not thief. Let’s see what he does.”

The squirrel squeaked and nudged the morsel. He paused. Then he repeated the inquisition. Next thing we knew, the cutie became irate, nattering at us in a high-pitched shrill that had us flinching. The rodent, who could double as a Game of Thrones villain, dashed for another picnic bench, ready to harass someone else.

Owen smiled at me, the first full grin I’d seen him unleash, and I nearly flew off the bench. That smile was a blast of sunshine. Joy in a rugged, dimpled package. It was riding in a convertible, the wind whipping at my face.

“Like I said, nasty.” His grin turned smug.

I tried to contain my erratic heart. “Or your palate is as sophisticated as a squirrel’s.”

He chuckled, that delicious rumble amping up his hottness, and I clenched. Clitoris catnip. I also relaxed. Chatting with Owen was nice. I mean, his superhero smile and worn denim were as tempting as a Calvin Klein sample sale—I worked those sales hard and fast, and always came out satisfied—but this was different. A slow burn had warmth simmering low in my belly, promise in its lazy spin.

As we finished our food, both our cells rang.

“Jinx,” I said as we fiddled to get our phones. His smile hit me full force again.