Page 51 of Twin Babies For The Grump

I tip my glass at her. It’s filled with a white sparkling alcohol-free wine from the back coolers, which I popped open at the start of the night when no one was looking.

“No, you go on ahead and have fun. I’m going to finish cleaning up here before I leave. Owen had the idea to have this tonight all on his own, I don’t want to make him think it was a bad idea because there’s trash laying around.”

“Do you want some help with that?” Adela asks, though it’s painfully obvious that she’s hoping the answer to that is no.

I shake my head, waving a hand at her. “Just go, Adela. I’ve got this. It’s going to take me literally ten minutes, tops.”

“Alright, alright,” Adela holds up her hands in retreat, and then turns and heads for the parking lot. She slides into her car and not even three minutes later, spins out of the property and onto the road. I can barely make out the twin headlights as they rush down the winding road.

“Are you the only one left?” The voice makes me jump. I spin around, one hand flying up to my chest. Owen laughs. “Sorry. I wasn’t trying to startle you.”

“Owen!” I set the glass down and hurry toward him, stopping right before I throw my arms around his neck. “I was hoping you would be back down soon.”

“Sorry,” he says. “I had to take care of a little problem.”

“I know,” I tell him. “I saw.”

It’s impossible to keep the slight note of irritation out of my voice. Owen lifts his brows, looking slightly amused. “Macy is … something else, isn’t she?”

“She’s a thief,” I say, the words out before I can stop myself.

Owen pauses. “A thief?”

“Sorry, sorry!” I wave a hand at him, turning away and grabbing one of the empty wine bottles to take over to the recycling bin. “I don’t know. That’s what I was going to tell you, but I shouldn’t have done it like that. I need to be way more professional about this. Just because she was all over you, that shouldn’t change—”

Arms wrap around me from behind, strong and muscular, pulling me up against his chest.

“Are you jealous that she wasall over me?”

“No!” I squeak, tossing the bottle and then twisting around in his arms.

He doesn’t let go, giving me no choice but to press my hands against the broad, solid shape of his chest. “Fine, yes. But that doesn’t have anything to do with— She’sreallywhat I wanted to talk to you about before the Wine Night started.”

“I remember you mentioning it,” says Owen. He hums and then kisses me, tongue in my mouth, and all I can taste is the tang of the red wine that he’s been drinking. “A thief, huh?”

“She stole a bottle of wine,” I say, between presses of his lips. “Drank it yesterday.”

Not a good moment to mention what she said during that encounter.

“I’m fucking furious over that, but you’re just— Shit, you’re already right here, and Ireallywant to be closer to you. We’ll deal with Macy later. You can tell me all about the bottle of wine, and—”

He cuts himself off, sliding his hands under the silky white fabric of my blouse. It bunches up around his wrists, and then slides up, over my shoulders. I squeak but let him push it off, painfully aware of the fact that we’re still outside.

“What are you doing?” I ask, face flushing. The blush runs down my neck and dusts over my knuckles.

“That’s a good look on you,” says Owen. He drops my shirt on the ground and then bends down, pressing a line of open-mouthed kisses against the curve of my neck, my throat, teeth nipping against the skin. “No one else is around, relax.”

“We’re outside,” I insist. “Someone could see us!”

“Who’s going to see us?” Owen asks, hands dropping down to the front of my black slacks. Fingers undo the button, the zipper, and push them down my hip. Despite my nerves, I let him. There’s something exciting about it, about knowing that we’re not safe and sound, hidden behind walls and doors. It’s like that first night.

“Anyone could see us,” I insist. “What if someone comes back for, I don’t know, their purse or something?”

“The dogs will bark and let us know,” says Owen, sliding one hand down the front of my panties, leaving my slacks to tangle up around my knees. Thick fingers press against my slit, rubbing my own slick up over the little nub of my clit.

Each touch has my belly flipping, and the knots in my chest pulling that much tighter. I’m torn between asking to move back into the house and just dropping to my knees right now. In the end, I decide that Owen’s probably right.

Even if someone does decide to come back for something, the dogs will let us know. It’s dark, with only the fairy lights wrapped around the columns, the solar lights pressed into the flower gardens, and the waning light of the white-walled fire pit at the center of the area.

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