Page 69 of The Thought of You

My dryer will have to wait a few more days. With Austin’s absence from the auto shop, Judd’s been slammed and hasn’t been able to get away. No matter—the clothesline has been working just fine.

I needed distance from town, and Savannah is so close. Yet it’s far and big enough to feel like a whole new world. The truth is, I would’ve driven all the way to Atlanta had I known my mother and her wandering crew would’ve crashed my productive weekend.

I’m positive those “friends” are just random people she likely met yesterday too, if history tells me anything, and they’re definitely going to leave me a gift other than the lingering notes of sage—a mess. They’re going to leave a giant, irritating mess for me to clean up, but that’s a problem for future me.

Right now, I have a problem with my traitorous hormones, which are the biggest reasons I needed to hightail it out of Dodge.

The gym is the second largest space in the school, but it’s still not big enough. Not when it comes to Owen Conrad and his stupidly sexy smirk. A whole ocean couldn’t contain him or the feelings he makes me feel.

I drown in them.

Who even am I? I never daydream like I have the last two days, and it’s all because of Owen.

In my defense, the guy’s ass is round and strong. His sweatpants stretch over it each time he moves, and honestly, it should be illegal. It should be against policy to wear anything but business attire to school, even if he is the PE teacher.

No one should get special treatment because of their subject, or perfect ass.

Thirty-five miles away from Sapphire Creek, I drive into Savannah’s city limits. I’ve been here a few times and know my way toward downtown, but I have no solid destination.

I need a hotel room, but a walk along the river sounds heavenly.

A drink at one of the many rooftop bars sounds even better.

But I don’t do any of that. Instead, a bright sign with cursive writing catches my eye—a hair salon.

The ends of my strands tickle my cheeks as if to whisper encouragements for me to go in, and I turn into the parking lot.

Time to be spontaneous.

“Table for one, please.” I nod toward the hostess and flash her an easy, bright smile. My fresh new look gives me all kinds of boss babe energy.

My new hair is light and airy, and it makes the rest of me feel the same, which I desperately needed after the last week. It’s the little things, after all.

“Right this way.” The hostess spreads her arm for me to follow her as we meander past a bar on one side and a few tables of two on the other. People are perched on teal stools at the bar, where they sip on fun cocktails in Mason jars.

She comes to a stop at a small table in the corner, and she sets a menu in front of the far chair, then lights the wick of the Mason jar candle in the center. “Your server will be right with you.”

“Thank you.” I toss my bag into the empty seat across from me, behind which the restaurant is spread, giving me a panoramic view of the rest of the crowd. There’s a commotion from behind me, and I nearly fall from my chair trying to get a good look.

In the hall, a few girls wait for the bathroom, giggling with flushed cheeks.

Different smells of unique combinations of foods mix in the air around me, and my stomach rages with hunger.

As I peruse the menu, the letters jumble, and my mind drifts to Owen once again. It’s like I’m staring at a word search puzzle, but instead of stringing along the letters to innocent words, the two jumping out at me are OWEN CONRAD.

Owen, whom I hated, but I let him do unspeakable things to me—and I freaking loved it.

Owen, who likes me a great deal.

Owen, who is my co-worker.

More than that, we share a classroom, and I was so distracted the last two days that I couldn’t properly do my job. It’s another reason I didn’t want to get involved.

I definitely shouldn’t have let things go as far as to ride his face like I was on a mechanical bull. Hell, I gyrated my hips into his face like a porn star. Who was I?

Up until Wednesday night, I didn’t think I had anything in common with a porn star, and it was a simpler time.

The music overhead switches to a faster country song, and bopping my head along, I run my hand through my hair, long past the ends, which hover a couple inches above my shoulders. My fingers haven’t grown accustomed to the new length just yet.

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