Page 44 of The Thought of You

Fusing my lips together, I tilt my head and study Owen from a different angle, using the twinkling lights above us and what little sunlight is left to my advantage.

He’s not wearing a hat tonight. His hair is unencumbered, naturally bouncing back into place even after he runs his hand over his head, the ends swooping over the tops of his ears.

His square jaw is sharp. Yet it’s not intimidating like some of the ones I’ve seen on guys marching down Wall Street. It’s definitely not as lethal as the sharp edges of some boulders I’ve seen near the river.

Owen’s jaw is strong, and it’s very… him.

And I guess I agree with the rest of the women around town—he’s rather attractive.

Has he always been this good-looking? When the gossiping shrews have gone on about his looks, I’ve usually turned the other way to fight a gag. But now, is it possible that I see what they mean?

“Well?” he presses, still peering down at me. “I’m sure there are better ways to celebrate a job well done. I mean, this reunion turned out great, and it’s all thanks to you. You should enjoy yourself, or is that what’s happening here? You’re celebrating by doing what you love most—insulting me?”

The only part of his rambling that my brain latches onto is the compliment of a great reunion. “Do you really think so?” I whisper, searching his green eyes for any sign of sarcasm, but I come up empty.

“It’s bitchin’,” he belts from deep in his chest.

And a laugh rumbles free from my throat, a sound I’ve never made around him.

His eyes drop to my mouth, which curves upward, the intensity of his gaze like the heat of the sun.

Goose bumps prick my arms as I clear my throat and say, “Listen, did you… I found dinner on my porch the other night, and I was just… Austin mentioned you might have…”

“I left you dinner,” he states evenly.

I stuttered over my words, but he couldn’t be more calm and collected, as if he does this sort of thing for people he hates all the time.

“I thought it best to forego a note, since I figured you wouldn’t eat it if you knew it was from me.”

The sound I release resides somewhere between a scoff and a snort. “That’s so not true.”

He lifts a brow, and I glimpse a bounce in his cheek like he’s fighting a smile.

“Okay, it’s true, which begs the question—why? Why did you bring me dinner?” I urge.

“You hadn’t eaten,” he says, and again, his answer is simple.

It’s too simple for my liking.

I have so many questions.

“What did you hope to gain from it?” I start. “I’ve seen you since then, but you haven’t mentioned it. If I hadn’t talked to Austin, I wouldn’t have known it was you, and I wouldn’t have been able to thank you.”

“Is this supposed to be a thank-you?”

“Yes,” I clip.

“You’re not very good at it.”

“Well, I’m not finished, am I?”

“Please. Go on. I’m listening.” He lifts his thumb and forefinger up to his mouth, where he drags them across his bottom lip in a motion to zip them up.

Hot currents of indignation creep up my neck until my ears burn. “What’s your angle, Owen?”

He shrugs. “I thought it was nice.”

“You don’t do nice.”

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