Page 74 of The Thought of You

“I have to get it out before it sets. Then again, it’s syrup. It’s going to take a lot more than water to clean it. I need dish soap or some?—”

“I’ll buy you a new shirt. Please just stop.”

She finally glances up and idly sets the napkin down.

“You have no idea, do you?”

“About how to get a stain out? Of course, I do.”

I shake my head, and the movement feels like it happens in slow motion, as if I’m moving through quicksand. “You have no idea what you do to me, Lockhart.”

chapter

twenty-three

ADDIE

I could become addicted to him.

Owen kisses like it’s an art form. Each swipe of his tongue and caress of his fingers along my skin is special as he worships me.

I’m well aware of how in tune he is with my body, and I have the acute experience of how easily he made me come apart etched on my brain and body forever.

But more than that, I could grow obsessed with the way he looks at me. His eyes bore into me like he’s seeing me through a tunnel. Like he sees nothing but me.

When he says romantic—sometimes even dirty—things and pairs it with this look, the wall I’ve built around my heart crumbles as if it’s made of clay.

“How is everything tasting?”

It requires a beat for us to pause our staring contest, and in sync, he and I turn toward the server. “Great,” he says, his voice strained.

“Perfect,” I mumble around the lump in my throat.

“Saving any room for dessert tonight?” she asks, and her expectant gaze bounces from me to Owen and back again.

My stomach rolls with need, but it’s not for dessert. Not of the sugar variety, anyway.

“I think that’s all for tonight, don’t you, Lockhart?” His eyes darken until they reach the most mesmerizing shade of forest green.

My words stumble over the ball of disappointment in my throat, so I nod, instead.

After all, this is my doing. He’s made it clear time and again how much he wants this—how desperately he wants me—but I’ve asked him to wait.

I’m the one who’s in control, and as much as I normally enjoy the responsibility, I’m tired of letting it keep me from what I want.

And what I want is Owen Conrad.

The carpet between the foot of the bed and the fireplace gets a workout as I pace back and forth in my hotel room, the scent of fresh linens filling my senses from the plug-in in the corner.

The color of the palm tree wallpaper on all four walls matches the forest green of Owen’s eyes when I left.

He paid the bill, and I just freaking left.

Did I even say thank you to him? I’m really not great at that, as it turns out.

I pick up my phone, then drop it on the bed. After a few more paces, I scoop it back up again as Maren’s words from earlier this week play in my head on repeat.

“You like him, even if you hate that you like him.”

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