Page 82 of The Relationship Clause

Owen is in the hallway, splayed out on the floor, his white button-up shirt halfway over his head. One foot is bare and the other one has only a sock. I blush when I realize his belt is missing and his jeans are unbuttoned as well as unzipped, revealing a tiny peek of bright-blue underwear.

“Um, Owen?”

The man on the floor jumps as if he’d fallen asleep like that and my words woke him.

“Huh? Junie? S’that you?”

Oooh dear. Oh deary, dear, dear.

Owen sits up, still struggling with his shirt. At first, I think he’s trying to figure out how to pull it on the rest of the way, but then the whole thing comes off and he sighs in relief.

“Uh, Owen, what are you doing?”

“Taking my shirt off, duh. It’s hot here. Are you hot?” He’s getting up, and he’s very stumbly. Like almost falling over again. I reach out to steady him, and he leans heavily on me, his big, muscled arms all over me.

“Are you drunk? I thought you said you weren’t going to drink.”

“I didn’t. Only had ginger ale.”

I lean closer to sniff his breath, and he’s right. He doesn’t smell boozy at all. But he had to have done something to get like this.

He starts lumbering forward, not toward the living room and his nice cozy bed, a.k.a. the couch, but toward my room.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Going to bed. I’m tired. My head hurts.”

“Okay, but—but, Owen, did you talk to Craig?”

“Who?”

“Craig. Remember? Your dad’s friend? The guy whose stepdaughter may or may not be our mole?”

He squints, then stumbles again, this time, thankfully, landing right on my king-sized bed. Or maybe, unthankfully. Because now he’s in my bed. Wait, no. Thankfully?

“Oh, yeah, Craig!” Owen starts fumbling with his other shoe, but he’s not getting anywhere with it so I bend over and help him take it off. “Yeah, I talked to Craig. Nice guy. Super nice. We talked all night, actually.”

“You did? While you were drunk?”

“I’m not drunk,” he insists as he falls off the bed again, trying to take off his socks.

“Sure you’re not. Um, Owen, what exactly did you and Craig talk about?”

“This and that. Not much. My company.”

“Your company?”

“Yeah, he was suuuper interested in Em3rge.”

Red flag. So many red flags. ALL the red flags.

“Okay, um, what exactly did he want to—Oh my gosh, what are you doing?” I forget all about what I’m asking him because Owen starts taking off his pants.

He looks up at me like I’m crazy. “Getting ready for bed. Psh. Silly.” And then the pants are off.

I repeat, people: the pants. Are. Off.

Off and in a puddle on the floor. And now he’s in his bright-blue boxer briefs. Well, those plus one sock which he somehow forgot to take off. I shouldn’t look. I mean, I REALLY shouldn’t look. How would I feel if these weird tables were turned and I was the one drunk and undressing in front of him? I would definitely expect him to not be looking and keep his distance way the heck away from me.

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