Page 11 of Love Me Tomorrow

His expression remains impassive under my scrutiny.

I tap my fingers on my hips, a silent beat that does nothing to mitigate the excess energy firing through me as I wait him out.

And wait him out.

And wait him out some more.

My tapping dies a slow, slow death. “I should have sent you an email when the deal went through, just as a head’s up that I’d be . . . thatwe’dbe opening next door to you.” Another composed email to match the dozens of others I’ve written to him that sound stiff and completely unlike me. This latest one is still sitting inDraftmode in my inbox, never to be read again. Or sent. Just like all the others. “I’m sorry for that,” I add softly, “I planned to stop by after my meeting next door. Obviously”—I clear my throat awkwardly—“I wasn’t expecting you to be there. That’s not . . . that’s not how I wanted you to find out. I know you don’t like surprises.”

Surprises like the way he showed up in California and shocked you right down to your core?

As if he’s recalling the same night as I am, his black eyes gleam as he levels me with a swift, thorough once-over that starts at my professionally blown-out hair and ends at my chipped, end-of-vacation pedicure.

Clearly content to let me run circles around myself like a dog chasing its own tail, he doesn’t say a word.

Dammit. Can’t we do this civilly?

“Owen, I—”

“You’re not wearin’ a ring.”

Words die on my tongue at his succinct pronouncement. Like my hands belong to someone else, I hold them up in front of me. Nails painted a pristine summer white. Skin the color of café au lait. Slim wrists with silver bangles tinkling noisily as they clink together.

What Owen said isn’t quite true—Iamwearing rings, just not where they count.

And not on the fourth finger of my left hand.

Has he really not seen any spoilers online? Footage leaked months ago, over the winter, that I turned down both final contestants. And there’s been no shortage of talk about it everywhere else. Even while traveling in Europe, I couldn’t stand in the checkout aisle of a local grocery store without seeing my face staring back.

That woman on the front pages of those magazines—she looks like me, smiles like me, but God, I feel like we might as well be two different people. Pre-Put A Ring On It. Post-Put A Ring On It. I didn’t fall in love on the show—not the way that I hoped I would after that very first night—but somehow those three months traveling the world with a bunch of strangers changed me anyway.

I can’t help but wonder if Owen sees those changes now. He’s always read me like an open book—peeled back my layers as though my spine is only his to crack, my pages only his to flip.

Slowly, I shake my head. “No, I’m not.” I pause, steeling my spine for his response. “Engaged, that is. I . . . I’m not engaged.”

Owen’s expression reveals nothing. He’s completely aloof, and that ambivalence threatens to spark my anger in a way that dating twenty-six strangers never did. The producers lamented my level head, even when shit hit the fan—like when one of my final two contestants, Dominic DaSilva, came clean during our overnight date about how he’d been paid to come on the show. I never once screamed. I never once lost my temper. I’m sure the producers would have loved the added drama of me throwing a vase across the room or bashing Dominic in the face with my fist, but I stayed calm.

Completely unruffled.

But with Owen . . . Jeez, I already feel my cheeks burning as I stand here, completely vulnerable to whatever he might say—except that he’s not sayinganything.

And then, to my short-lived relief, he opens his mouth and grinds out, “Too bad.”

My jaw goes slack.

Too bad?

Too bad?

When he turns away, heading for his office, I march right after him. “Are you kidding me?” I snap at his broad back, hot on his heels. “That’sall you have to say? I’ve been gone for seven months, Owen. Seven. Months. And I tell you that I’m not engaged and all you can come up with istoo bad—”

I don’t expect his quickness.

Maybe I should have—at this point, I should always expect the unexpected when it comes to Owen Harvey—but I don’t.

My shortsightedness has dire consequences.

Namely, me with my back pressed tightly against the exposed brick wall of the narrow hallway, Owen’s big body looming large over mine, and one of those deliciously tatted hands planted on the wall beside my head. His eyes narrow and I feel the airwhooshout of my body like he’s sucked it right out of me.

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