Page 52 of Love Me Tomorrow

A Rose with her unshakable pride.

It’s too bad my thorns are currently nowhere to be found.

As though I’m not feeling like I’ve been punched in the gut, I meet Owen’s gaze boldly. Do my best to scrape together every inch of my father’s arrogance when I carefully unwind the scarf from around his sketchbook. “Sorry for not calling in advance.”Perfect.That’s perfect.I sound calm, totally collected. Running my tongue over the back of my teeth, I hiss out a short breath, then add, “I had something of yours. Figured you might want it back.”

Owen’s impassive black gaze drops to the leather-bound notebook I’m holding to my chest. Brows knitting together, he drags his thumb across his bottom lip before sinking his hand into all that thick, midnight hair. The strands stick up when he lets his arm fall back to his side. “Jesus,” he mutters, so low I nearly miss it, “Savannah, I didn’t hear you—”

Beside him, a very pregnant Lizzie Harvey awkwardly coughs into a balled fist, cutting him off. “Soooo, I think that’s my cue to go.” She looks from me to Owen and then sharply nods her head. “Oh yeah, I’m pretty sure I’d rather be anywhere else right now—even the DMV, which, I’m just going to say it, is hell personified.” She shoots me a half-grin. “No offense, of course.”

I slip a glance over to Owen, who still looks like he’s composed of marble. God, the man couldseriouslybeat out my dad when it comes to expressionless faces, and that’s saying something. “None taken.”

Under different circumstances, I’d give Lizzie a hug and ask her how she’s been. We aren’t best friends, but she’s always been extremely kind to me in the past. Of all the people I’ve met, she’s always given me the feeling that she enjoys talking to me forme,instead of determining her next move so she can get something out of me. Underthesecircumstances, however, I only watch with sinking dread as she busses Owen’s cheek with sisterly affection.

When she turns to me, it’s with a knowing look in her sharp, blue eyes. “Good to see you back in N’Orleans, Savannah,” she says, moving in for a swift, one-armed hug before heading for the front door. And then, with a parting “don’t kill each other, please” vote of confidence, she escapes out onto Bourbon Street.

Leaving me and Owen alone.

Oh, how fun this will be.

I drag in a heavy, chest-filling breath. Tap my fingers against the leather-bound notebook and sketch out a quick plan: drop off the book, play pleasantries for no more than three minutes max, and then get the hell out of Dodge.

Easy peasy.

And then I can make a pitstop at the closest bar for a pick-me-up in the form of a cocktail or five. Maybe even make it a fish bowl so when I start to cry, everyone will think I’m just regretting my life decisions.

Not completely untrue.

Doing my best to ignore the awkwardness permeating the parlor, I sidestep Owen and head for the receptionist’s desk. “I’m just going to leave this here for you, then I’ll be out of your hair.”

Strong fingers circle my wrist, stalling my flight. “You bid on it.”

Only, I hear what he doesn’t say in that rough New Orleans drawl of his:You bid onme.

So we’re going there.

Sinking my teeth into my bottom lip, I glance down to where he holds me. Ink crawls down his forearms, his wrists, to the tips of his fingers, in intricate geometric shapes that look only that much more complex the longer I stare. I once heard that tattoos, much like pets, are a reflection of their owner.

I’m not sure what that says about me, since I have a homicidal cat who runs my life like a power-hungry dictator, but if we’re rolling with that theory, then Owen is the most complex person I’ve ever met.

He hides his vulnerabilities well—behind all that intimidating ink, behind the trim beard that half conceals his smile when he openly grins, behind those aloof eyes of his that see so much and reveal so little.

So, yes, I did. I bid on the sketchbook.

I bid onhim.

Because, charity or not, I saw something besides fury and impatience glinting in his eye on the night of the auction. I saw fear and sadness, and yes, even a sliver of vulnerability. The man who shows the world nothing suddenly verged on showing it all.

I couldn’t let that sketchbook go.

The thought of it landing in an art gallery or being sold alongside tickets to Machu Picchu churned my stomach in such a way that I felt physically sick.

And, yeah, I spent a good deal of money to outrun Mayor Frannie Barron, who, I would just like to add, didnotgo down without a fight.

Pretty sure that in her eyes, I went from being the acne-prone little girl who used to bus her tables, to enemy number one in less than two hours flat.

No regrets.

In a clear, sharp voice, I clip out, “I did.”

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