Page 1 of Owen (Storm Enterprises)

PROLOGUE

LAYA

AGED EIGHTEEN

Pushing my shoulders back, I stare into my vanity mirror and straight into the eyes of Owen James Stevens, my brother’s best friend. At ten years my senior, he’s forever been out of my reach. I’ve always been too young, innocent, illegal.

Not anymore.

I apply another layer of the bright-red lipstick I know drives him insane, then roll my lips together.

My eyes once again snag onto the photo pinned to my mirror. It might be of me with my brother and his three best friends, but I only seehim.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve only seen him.

When he did everything in his power to avoid me, I always tracked him down, craving his attention with an all-consuming need.

Even if he pretends like he didn’t let me kiss him when I was seventeen after telling him I saved my first kiss for him, I still only see him. The way his heart had beaten wildly beneath the palm of my hand was burned into my soul, and I chipped away a little of his denial of our mutual attraction. For a split second before he pushed me away, he was mine and I was his.

Then he acted like the biggest ass in the world and left me feeling rejected once again.

But not tonight. Tonight, I’m eighteen and want more than a kiss.

I want him to be my first.

My first everything.

My last too.

OWEN

My pulse hammers as I glance around the foyer, contemplating whether I can slip away without my absence being noticed.

The mansion is heaving with partygoers and socialites, like a goddamn afterparty for a film premier, complete with red carpet on the stairs. I shouldn’t be surprised Laya is beautiful, a social butterfly with an air of sophistication that money can’t buy. Her body is chiseled to perfection, with olive skin and long waves of dark hair. Those luscious red lips of hers are naturally plump, not from the Botox shit her friends inject into themselves, and her fucking eyes, they’re the brightest green you’ve ever seen. She’s unique in every sense of the word, and with a promising career ahead of her in the fashion industry, the girl has it all.

My mouth becomes dry just thinking of her while waiting with bated breath for her to greet her guests.

I’d always assumed she wanted to become a model with looks as beautiful as hers, but she scoffed at the notion and scrunched her nose when I helped her practice for a mock job interview when she was fifteen.

Her friends sat gawking at me with rosy cheeks, but not Laya. She would throw her hair over her shoulder, straighten her back,raise her chin, and feign confidence whenever she was around me. I hated it. Hated how she felt the need to put on a display, but I hated it more because I understood it. She wanted to impress me.

Laya Kavanagh has had a crush on me for as long as I can remember, only now she’s old enough to act on it, and my heart pounds erratically at the thought.

I’ve been feeling angsty all day, and she hasn’t even made her grand entrance yet. I glance up the stairs again, my palms sweating while clutching the gift in my pocket I don’t want anyone to see. Somehow, I made it to the bottom of the staircase, now leaning against the wall as if I’m not some creep waiting for a glimpse of her, a stolen moment I can present her with the only item I have left of my mother, the one I took from around her cold neck.

Flicking my eyes left and right, I triple-check my friends are out of the vicinity, then make a run for it. Grabbing a hold of the banister, I take two steps at a time and dash up to her bedroom.

My feet freeze at her door and the blood in my veins bubbles with trepidation, a knot sitting heavy in my stomach. Fuck me, what the hell is wrong with me? I scrub my sweaty palms down my pants as I stare at the door.

Jesus.

Maybe it’s the fact she’s no longer jailbait, that I’m standing outside her bedroom door. Somewhere I’ve no place to be.

Knocking, there’s a slight tremble in my fist. Shit, that’s new too.

“Come in.” Her voice is as sweet as honey, and I suddenly want more of it, as if I haven’t heard it a thousand times before. I mean, she followed me around for years like a love-struck puppy. She even got herself the nickname of “Owen’s helper” as a kid because she was constantly looking for an excuse to be by my side.

Her familiar scent invades me the moment I step into her room, causing me to suck in a sharp breath. My focus zeros in on her vanity and the abundance of familiar photos and cutouts of the future she longs for. When our eyes lock in the mirror, I swear she can see deep into my soul—every sordid truth, every longing, desire, and thought riddled with the sickening guilt that has consumed me for even allowing it to creep into my mind. Her breath hitches, as if unearthing those truths, stripping me bare, and I stand there frozen, finally allowing the pent-up feelings to spill from me.

---