Page 70 of The Thought of You

I haven’t gotten used to the color yet, either, as I used the bathroom earlier and actually did a double take when I caught myself in the mirror.

I’m surprised I went through with my itch to be spontaneous. I didn’t even call Caroline or Maren for their consultation. When the hairdresser confirmed they accept walk-ins, she asked me what I wanted done, and the request tumbled from my mouth so simply.

I continue skimming the menu, coming across outlandish combinations like PB&J chicken wings and a grilled apple pie and chicken sandwich. The drink menu with signature cocktails is just as delightfully unique, and I decide an apple cider mojito is just what I need.

After the server saunters away, my order scrolled across her notepad, I glance up and freeze.

Of all the cities, restaurants, and people, the guy in this establishment staring back at me is none other than the object of my thoughts and fantasies.

Am I seeing things? Have I lost my mind? I chopped my hair off and dyed it dark, and I’m dining at a restaurant whose menu makes no sense. This is it, isn’t it? I’ve officially gone insane.

“What are you doing here?” I ask at the same time that Owen rests a large hand on the back of the empty chair across from me and says, “Lockhart, your hair…”

This is real—he’s here. Owen is here in a long-sleeve thermal with the top button popped open, revealing a peek of his chest. But instead of wishing he’d undo the other two buttons to show off more taut skin, I’d rather slip my hand inside and explore his muscles for myself.

The front of his shirt is tucked into the waistband of his faded jeans, a hole ripped in the knee. His hat is firmly in place over his head, the bill of it casting a shadow over one half of his face under the glow of the lights overhead.

Instinctively, I touch my fingers to the short dark-brown strands, which the hairdresser called “chic and flirty as hell.” She loved this look, as do I, and although I didn’t do this for anyone other than myself, I suddenly find myself caring if Owen likes it too.

“I had dinner.” He blinks and leans a second hand on the chair as if he needs to steady himself. “Your hair looks…”

“Majestic?” I finish for him with a smile.

His lips curl into a grin of his own as he continues staring at me. I can’t look away, either. “It suits you,” he says, and my heart flip-flops.

I tear myself away from his gaze, and around the sudden lump in my throat, I blurt, “I agree. It suits me rather well to look different than my mother.”

He cocks a brow.

“She and I are total opposites, as you might’ve noticed. She’s fun, and I’m boring. I normally pride myself on that, but today, I figured why not be neither? I opted to just be different.”

His hum confuses me. It’s a light, raspy sound with zero indication as to his intention.

Which makes me ramble further. The tips of my ears burn with each word tripping on my tongue. “I’m sure you of all people would love it if I were more like my mother, though,” I say, and my mouth twists into a cringe.

My stomach churns with instant regret. Why did I open my big, stupid mouth? This is supposed to be my peaceful alone time, but two minutes with Owen Conrad, and I’m nosediving into an awkward pit of discomfort.

“Why would I want you to be anyone but you?” He angles his head to the side, the shadow over his face shifting and revealing more of his eyes. The emerald abyss stretches far and wide in his blazing eyes, and my pulse spikes.

“The other night in the custodial closet, you called me boring,” I whisper, my gaze stuck on his again.

Understanding drains the color from his face. “What I said doesn’t make it true. It just makes me an asshole, and I’m sorry.”

With great—or terrible—timing, the server sets my drink down and asks Owen, “Will you be joining her?”

I wait expectantly for his answer, hoping he accepts the invitation I should’ve offered myself, but I was too flustered for manners.

“I’d love to.” Owen scoots the chair out, and I reach for my bag to set it on the floor. “I’ll drink what she’s drinking, please.” He points to my short glass, inside which, mint leaves float around the light orange drink among the ice cubes.

“Good choice,” I tell him as the server scurries away.

“You haven’t even tried it yet. Or have you had it before?”

“No, but it looks good. Has to taste good.”

“Can’t argue with that logic.” He gives my face a once-over, and his eyes darken, as if he’s referring to something else entirely.

I clear my throat and shift in my seat. “I actually haven’t been here before. I just remember Gemma talking about it, so I thought I’d try it.”

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