Page 54 of Love Me Tomorrow

I cracked its spine.

Studied every image.

Left no page unturned.

And subsequently found twelve sketches of myself. Each one left me emotionally reeling, not because of their provocativeness, but because Owen saw me, even when he shouldn’t have. The first one was simple, an almost hasty outline of me waiting for Amelie on the day Owen and I met. He’d captured my loose topknot, my crisp pantsuit, the forlorn expression on my face as I stared out the window and watched the activity on Bourbon Street. I looked a little standoffish, a little too perfect . . . until I realized that he’d also memorialized how I’d shucked off my restrictive high heels and curled my legs up beneath me.

A woman dying to shed her skin.

He’d seen it, even then.

Various drawings filled the pages next, most with me seated opposite him in his office while we both worked on our respective projects. How many times had he pretended to work while he’d actually been sketching me? No more than six, based on the number of drawings, but still, I’ve found myself thinking back on those nights over the last few days, recalling our conversations, dissecting every glance he’d once thrown my way.

Heart racing at a quick clip, I force myself to confess: “I looked inside.”

Owen’s frame stiffens behind me.

I slip my hand out from under his and spin around in his embrace. Lift my eyes until I’m looking into his black gaze and watching the myriad of emotions—trepidation, frustration, vulnerability—fight for dominance. When he says nothing, I fill the silence. “You watchedPut A Ring On It.”

His Adam’s apple bobs down the length of his throat. “Your point? The whole fucking country is glued to you on the TV.”

After his littleNo, I don’t want to fuck Savannah Rosecomment, I’m not letting him walk out of this one so easily. I poke him in the chest, right over his heart. “My point is, I sent you home and yet youstillwatched it.”

There’s no way he can tell me otherwise.

His sketchbook betrayed him. Hisfeelingsbetrayed him.

The last drawing of me was clearly taken from a clip in the seventh episode of the show, which only aired on TV a few weeks ago. The sketch depicts me staring out at the ocean from a balcony, my hands clasped together, my head bowed. I look defeated. Resigned. I certainly felt that way, especially in that moment when I’d just received another heartbreaking email from Amelie, who’d apparently spent the last twenty-fours crying over all of Dad’s revelations.

“You’re smart, Rose,” Owen says now, his hands planted on either side of me, his chin jutted forward in cocky defiance. “Put two and two together.”

I lean back against his hands that are still gripping the desk. Cock my head to the side. “Oh, I definitely could do that. But I like your game more.”

He blinks, eyes narrowing into dangerous slits. “My . . . game?”

Well, well, well, would you look at that—it’s time Owen received a taste of his own medicine.

Nodding, I settle my hands on his forearms. No flannel today—it’s too hot outside—so it’s skin on inked skin. I glide my palms up, secretly living for every popped vein and corded muscle that I come across.

When I reach his biceps, I use his mountain size to leverage my weight against his, rising up onto my toes so that my lips graze his bearded jaw long enough for me to murmur, “Tell me anyway, Harvey.” At his own words being thrown back at him, his gaze sparks with a warning that I blatantly ignore. “Tell me why you continued to tune in, even when you were furious with me for sending you home.” I tiptoe my fingers over the ball of his shoulder. “Go on,” I say, deliberately taunting him for a reaction, “I’m all ears.”

Except that Owen doesn’t respond accordingly.

He doesn’t cave and submit, the way I did when he kissed my neck and made me shiver. He doesn’t flower me with pretty words of love and desire like some dashing hero out of a romantic comedy. He doesn’t doanyof that.

No, in true, classic Owen Harvey form, he gives my expectations the brash middle finger—an inked one, at that—and slides his palms down to cup my butt. He squeezes me indecently, prompting a ridiculous-sounding gasp from my lips. Capitalizing on my surprise, he tows me up into his arms and deposits me on the front desk where anyone can see us from the street.

Like a sinner, one corner of his mouth ticks up just before he leans in, his face close to mine, and growls, “Because Ilied.”

One high heel slips off my foot and clatters to the floor like a white flag of surrender.

“Because I’ve spent over a year playin’ by society’s rules—byyourrules—when we both know it’s all bullshit.”

Nervous, I lick my lips. Owen’s hungry gaze tracks the movement like a predator closing in on its prey.

“Because I’m tired of being the gentleman instead of claiming what I want.”

Sharply, he spreads my thighs apart and steps between them, forcing my legs even wider to accommodate his massive frame. The fabric of my skirt goes taut.

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