Page 60 of The Thought of You

His exhale is one of exasperation, and seemingly losing patience, he dips his own hand into the bag and retrieves… a mug. At least, that’s what it appears to be. I’ve just never seen one like this, with its giraffe-printed stripes decorating the sides in diagonal patterns.

The frame itself doesn’t stand upright. It’s like the Leaning Tower of Pisa.

Leave it to Mrs. Marilyn to sell such a bizarre item at her store of wild and wondrous things.

Owen nudges it into my hand. “You said you need a new favorite coffee mug, so here you go. It’s one less thing you need to worry about, which gives you more mental capacity to consider dating me.”

My gaze snaps to his and travels over his face. Determination blossoms in his green eyes, and his Adam’s apple bobs before he sets his jaw into a firm position.

Owen is completely, utterly, certifiably sober and very serious.

Did someone turn the heat up in here? Suck out all the oxygen like a damn crane just picked up the studio and planted it on Mars? Why can’t I breathe?

I am speechless, but he breaks the silence for me. “What dance was that?” He wiggles his finger over the floor and levels me with his wide eyes, a glint in them that I don’t believe I’ve ever noticed before.

I think he’s impressed.

Pride swells in my chest as I croak, “One I made up.”

“I had no idea you were a choreographer.” He spins around. “Hell, I didn’t know you worked here.”

“How did you find me?” I ask as I place the items he brought me onto the table next to the costumes.

“Austin.”

“He’s busy with Caroline in New York!” I gape as I inch toward him again.

“He’s never too busy for his best friend.”

“I’m his best friend,” I argue, my eyes narrowed.

“You were a lot more relaxed while dancing,” he says, a light tilt in his smooth voice. Owen always seems at ease, and it draws me to him.

He lures me in with his peaceful presence without me even realizing it.

Just like now, I inch closer to him because I can’t help myself.

“How long have you been practicing that one?”

I run my fingers through my loose ponytail, and my cheeks flush. “I actually just made that up. When I dance alone, I don’t stick to a routine or calculated sequence. I only do whatever feels right.”

“You, Addison Lockhart, don’t have a formula or practiced sequence?”

“Not in here, I don’t. This is a sacred space, like when artists go to the park and simply draw whatever they see or feel.”

“Being an artist looks good on you.”

I dip my head, reaching my hand behind my neck just to have something to hold onto. I might as well be thrust under a spotlight, splayed open for his scrutiny and curiosity.

He’s so damn curious.

And it’s rather intimate, especially when he looks at me with such intensity. It’s like he truly sees me and can’t get enough.

“I don’t actually work here, though. I volunteer.”

His eyebrows disappear under the shadow cast over his forehead from his hat.

“It’s just that Iris is nearing retirement, and her niece will take over afterward. While she currently pays her to show the dancers their choreography, there’s no money in the budget for a third helper, but they need more bodies around to wrangle these kids. They’re like chickens.”

---