Page 25

“Did you call Laufer?” Miles draws my attention back to him with the question, and I nod, which has him asking, “Everything good?”

I nod again, and unable to stop myself, my gaze returns to Annie, who’s still staring at me like I’m some kind of alien that was beamed down right in front of her.

“I had Harlan fix dinner, seeing as none of us had time to eat anything.” Miles shoves the plate into my hand.

“Thanks.”

When Miles walks to the stairwell and heads up to the third floor, where his apartment is, Annie snaps out of whatever trance she was in and awkwardly turns in the wrong direction before spinning around and hurrying into her place.

“Night, Owen,” she calls out. “Again.”

“Night . . . again,” I say, the corner of my mouth lifting as I retreat into my apartment.

I look down at my bare chest and eight-pack, which are glistening with sweat, and my eyebrow lifts. Way too fucking slow, it registers that Annie is definitely attracted to me.

Annie

Cleaning the counter, my movements slow down as I blindly stare ahead of me, once again lost in how ridiculously good Owen looked without a shirt on.

It’s been over two weeks, and I can’t get the mouthwatering image of all that corded muscle and sweaty skin out of my mind.

“Hey.” Harlan snaps his fingers in front of my face, ripping me out of my daydream. “Wipe the drool off and stop staring at Owen. He’s going to notice.”

I blink a couple of times, tearing my gaze away from the pass-through.

After the fight, Miles swapped Harlan and Owen so that all the women would stop coming. It worked, and everything has returned to normal.

The regulars seem pleased because they like Harlan more, seeing as he actually talks to them. Miles also finds it easier to train him, and I think Owen is more at home in the kitchen, to be honest. The man has some serious cooking skills.

Harlan leans back against the bar rack and crosses his arms over his chest. “Want to talk about it?”

I continue wiping the counter, making sure it’s clean. “Talk about what?”

“You and Owen.”

I give him a don’t-be-ridiculous look. “Pfft. There’s no Owen and me.”

A smirk forms on his face. “Are you really going to stand there and lie to me? I thought we were friends.”

“We are, and I’m not lying. Nothing is going on between Owen and me. We barely talk to each other.”

Since the night when I got to know him a little, things have felt weird between us. It’s almost like he’s on guard around me, and I don’t like it one bit.

“Okay, if you say so.” Harlan gets back to work, and grabbing the mop, he starts cleaning the floor.

“Annie,” Miles calls from the doorway that leads to the restroom and his office. When I look at him, he asks, “Will you check how many bottles of Jameson there are in the back?”

“Sure.” I walk to the kitchen and push through the door, which has Owen glancing in my direction.

Damn, only he can look like a cover model while unloading the dishwasher and packing the glasses in the crate we use to carry them to the front.

I head down to the basement, and pulling my keys out of my pocket, I unlock the security door before stepping into the room, which is filled with crates and boxes.

I see the vodka is stacked on top of the whiskey, and as I move the first box, Owen comes in and takes the heavy box from me while asking, “What do you need to get to?”

“The Jameson.”

As soon as Owen has cleared the vodka out of the way, I quickly glance into the four cases to make sure they’re full.