Page 116 of Love Me Tomorrow

This time, the laughter escapes in a rush. It’s exactly what I wrote to him in one of the cards that went along with the 144 roses. And leave it to him to hold onto that memory until it served his purpose to repay the favor.

Owen is not like any other man I’ve ever met. He’s brash and he’s confident; he’s shy at all the strangest times; and when I somehow manage to make him blush, all I can think isI love you.I love that his spontaneity is under-laced with steel grit and determination. I love that his gruffness and intimidating looks are dredged in kindness, a certain compassion that feels so rare in the elitist world where I grew up. I love that even though he grumbled the entire time, he wore my stupid astronaut pet carrier so Pablo could hang out with us, and that in my hands I’m holding a T-shirt announcing me as the cat lady I’ve always been destined to be.

And I love him because he pushes me to be as I am, to take what I want, to live and thrive and be the Savannah Rose thatIsee, no matter how anyone else feels. I’ve loved him for so long that the words are pressing at my rib cage, demanding to be released, and it’s only a testament of strength that I shove them back down.

Not yet. Not until he knows everything.

“Savannah?”

Feeling my cheeks warm under his stare, I nod quickly. “I love it.” There’s a part of me that never wants to take it off. “It’s perfect . . . but maybe a little too on the nose.”

His mouth curls in the first true smile I’ve seen from him tonight.

While he sits, I hastily strip out of my wet clothes and pull on the shorts and cat T. When I slide in next to him on the couch, he’s already pulled up multiple internet tabs. “As soon as I got back here, I started researching.”

I set a hand on his thigh, gently squeezing. “You worried me, on the phone.”

His shoulders hike up, then release on an exhalation. “I worried myself. Feeling like—no,knowingthat I’m possibly hours away from everything I’ve worked toward for a decade going to shit is absolutely gutting. Within minutes of the article going live earlier, the phone started ringing. I hadn’t evenseenthe article yet, but it’s like Inked had found its way onto everyone’s speed-dial list. Appointment cancellation. Some asshole calling to tell me that I was a fraud who lied to customers. A magazine wantin’ an interview.” He rolls his bottom lip under his top, sitting forward as he drops his elbows to his knees. “It was an instant throwback.”

I try to hide my wince. “To before?”

“Yeah.” One whispered word, and immediately my hand goes to his tattooed back, rubbing in small circles. “To before. Back then, I chased the shadows away by turning to ink. Teaching myself, because how could I trust another artist to take me on when I was such a liability? I worked myself to the bone at multiple jobs while I built up a portfolio tattooing friends and family for free. Then I struck out on my own. No one could saydon’tif I’m my own boss.”

Don’t.

Ironic how that word always seems to percolate when we want it least.

Even more ironic that Owen and I came from different backgrounds, and yet somehow found each other. Two people who were always tolddon’tfinally leaping into a permanent desire todo.

“So, today . . .”

He presses his balled fist into the opposite palm, cracking his inked knuckles. “I came here and worked myself to the bone . . . and watched that door like a hawk, praying you would come through it to hold my hand.”

God, this man.

I lift my gaze to the ceiling and blink back the sting of tears. I willnotcry. I’ve done enough of that already today. If my cat hasn’t turned Owen off, then it’s possible my mascara-streaked face might seal the deal.

Clearing my throat, I drop my fingers from his back and meet his gaze, the same one that’s always seemed to anticipate my every move. On a ragged murmur, I say, “Give me your hand, Owen.”

His Adam’s apple bobs down his throat, but he doesn’t hesitate. When he sees me rest my hand on his thigh, palm up, he tangles our fingers together. Lifts them to kiss the back of my hand, then each one of my knuckles, before setting our clasped hands on his leg once again.

Over the next twenty minutes, he points to page after page on his laptop screen. When he said he spent the entire day researching, he wasn’t exaggerating.

“Every major spoiler that’s come out of thePut A Ring On Itfranchise,” he’s telling me now, our hands still clasped together, “Celebrity Teahas reported it first. Stamos and Mina’s engagement?Celebrity Tea. All that leaked footage with you rejecting DaSilva and Stamos, within minutes of each other?Celebrity Tea.”

“Maybe he has a source from within the show?”

Owen tilts his head, and I can’t pretend I don’t notice the way the ink on his chest seems to move over the finely corded muscles. The man is seriously hot, in a way that makes me flustered, even now when we’re discussing possible fraud. “Nah,” he mutters, “I’m thinking he’sinthe show.”

My eyes widen. “You mean like a contestant?”

“No.” A firm shake of his head. “I’m talking crew. Cameraman, casting director, producer.”

“Why in the world would someone on the crewbe sidelining asCelebrity Tea? Wouldn’t that defeat the entire purpose of the show—to spill all its secrets before it’s even aired?”

“Look at any reality TV show, Sav. When the drama is hot, the ratings are even hotter. Spoilers don’t matter when people tune in just to see how it all plays out.”

“Jeez,” I breathe. “Small miracles, I guess. Originally, the show was supposed to be done in real time. Film one day, release the next. Could you imagine the chaos?”

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