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That’s why I said Owen’s name.
It’s not the embarrassment of going to a wedding alone. It isn’t even the jealousy that my oldest friend is getting married. It’s fear. Proper, gut-wrenching, palm-sweating fear that I’m going to be alone for the rest of my life.
The train screeches to an undignified stop, and several people climb off while I contemplate my latest predicament.
How on earth am I going to persuade Owen—a man who actively dislikes conversation—to come to my best friend’s wedding and pretend to be madly in love with me?
And if that isn’t complicated enough, there’s one very important detail I can’t forget.
Owen is already madly in love with someone else.
The day I first met Owen, I’d been on the shop floor checking out my hair in the glass front of a Bancroft cabinet when he sauntered around the corner in a haze of heavy musk, wearing a fresh white shirt and a shiny leather belt.
I’d been aware that a new designer was starting, but Jamal, our team leader, had failed to mention just how handsome the new guy was.
My last date had been two weeks earlier. I thought I’d hit the jackpot when I managed to snag a date with a guy in finance I met while clothes shopping in Next. My arms had been laden down with items of clothing I’d been intending to try on, and I’d dropped a halter-neck top, at which a man had stopped and picked it up for me. I turned on the charm just as much as he had, and we soon exchanged numbers and agreed to meet up the next day for a drink.
But as soon as I’d arrived at All-Bar-None, it was clear it was going to be the date from hell, as stockbroker Marve had about as much charisma as a boiled egg. By eight o’clock, I was hoping for a major crash in the stock market so he would have to abandon our date and go save the fate of the pound, but I had no such luck.
When he called and asked for a second date—completely oblivious to how disastrous the first one had been—I told him I would’ve loved to but had decided to follow my dream of pursuing an art degree and was moving to the Netherlands to study the Dutch masters. It was safe to say that my dating spirits had been at an all-time low until Owen walked around the corner with his dark blond hair, blue eyes, and a smattering of stubble.
I may have thought all my Christmases had come at once.
Never one to be caught off-guard, I had several opening phrases at the ready, and I’d just adjusted my high ponytail to look extra fluffy.
“Hey, are you the new designer?” I asked, stepping from behind the resin countertop and letting my manicured hand trail across the polished surface.
He glanced up from the iPad he was clutching, and I waited for the double-take, the falter in his step, the intake of breath, anything to signify that I was to be the love of his life—but nothing. He looked at me quickly, barely smiled, and said, “Yes,” before he carried on walking to his new office.
I could’ve cried. Not at the blunt answer—there were explanations for that. Maybe my timing was bad. Maybe it was nerves from his first day. Maybe he just needed a little space.
No, what nearly brought me to tears was the beautiful purr of the word yes, his silky voice sounding exactly like one of the men from the audiobooks I listened to at night.
And in that moment, I decided he’d been delivered to me by the patron saints of all single people, right here at Kitchen City.
It was finally my time.
He was my Romeo.
So, when I saw him later in the day after stalking outside his office and following him into the staffroom, I was prepared.
He was standing by the kettle making a drink in a mug he’d clearly brought from home with a box of tea I didn’t recognise beside him.
So, he drinks strange tea, I’d thought. This could be my way in.
Sidling up next to him, I pulled a cup from the communal cupboard and dug around for the camomile tea Taylor, our receptionist, always had on hand.
After shutting the cupboard door, I expected to feel the new guy’s eyes on me. It was only natural to look at the person next to you when in such a confined space. But no. He continued making his tea as if I hadn’t arrived.
Obviously needing a little push, I launched into phase two of Operation Flirt.
I let out the loudest yawn I could muster before covering my mouth. “Excuse me,” I said, stretching my arms above my head. “Didn’t get much sleep last night, hence the camomile tea.”
I was fully prepared to bare my best come-hither smile, but Owen still didn’t look up.
“Camomile helps you sleep,” he said while poking his teabag with a spoon. “It’ll only make you more tired. You need ginger or peppermint if you want to stay awake.”
It was a strange response, but I was too wrapped up in his accent to properly process it. Irish. Completely unmistakable and one of the sexiest accents on the planet. The kind of accent that can make a woman feral over a single consonant.
