Page 9 of Love Me Tomorrow

“Don’t,” she warns on a shaky whisper.

“Don’t what? Be here?” I drop my voice to a low, unforgiving pitch. “Hate to break the news to you, but I’ve got an appointment with the boss.”

Thatgets her attention.

Her eyes are almond-shaped, lashes thick and batting quickly as she stares up at me, though not at all flirtatiously. She’s confused, on the verge of calling me out, I’m sure, when Kurt clears his throat behind me and ventures, “We, uh, screwed up, Miss Rose.”

He points to the wall, and she follows the length of his arm with her gaze.

“Crap.”

Whether she’s talking about the inevitable repairs or the fact that she’ll now have to interact with me for the foreseeable future, I’m not quite sure. Either way, it’s almost grossly satisfying to know that as much as she wants to be done with me, the universe has pulled a giant middle finger and flashed it in her direction.

Somehow, I’ve found myself with the upper hand and I’m not about to squander it.

I drop a hand to her stack of folders, careful not to touch her, and lower my head so we’re at eye level. For a second, I let myself rememberbefore. All the times she sat in Inked, watching me work. The first time she asked if I could tattoo something on her skin. The first time Itouchedher skin. Soft. So fucking soft. I’d gone home, fully prepared to do the right thing and go straight to bed, and instead found myself standing beneath my shower head, my hand wrapped around my dick. Because, Christ, everything about this woman calls to me, no matter the fact that, in theory, she’s never been mine to want in the first place.

“Send me an invoice,” she clips out, clearly striving for control of her emotions, “and we’ll take care of the repairs.”

An invoice isn’t going to work for me.

“Thirty minutes,” I tell her, not bothering to temper the hard note in my voice. “I’ll be waiting next door.”

Her brows shoot up. “We shouldn’t.”

I let out a short, caustic laugh. “When has that ever stopped us before?”

2

Savannah

When life takes a shit on you, it does so in epic proportions.

I’m talkingepicproportions.

In the last twenty-four hours: I’ve lost my luggage—according to the airline, both suitcases are currently vacationing in Tokyo; spotted my face on no less than three tabloid magazines while hustling through the New Orleans airport—“America’s Sweetheart Spotted Returning to the USA!”; and sat down for lunch with my parents, expecting at least a hug, considering I’ve been traveling with Amelie all over Europe for the last four months, but instead was given the “big news.”

Apparently, I’m the newly minted Vice President of the Edgar Rose Restaurant Group.

My dad beamed at me with pride from across the oak table.

My mom offered a warm smile and a toast of congratulations with her second glass of merlot.

Meanwhile, I was so caught off guard that I choked on a half-eaten boudin ball and almost needed resuscitation.

Confession: between the vice-presidency and death by boudin ball, I’d choose the latter.

And if all of that isn’t enough to make my head feel like exploding, there’s also Owen.

Owen.

I spent eight hours formulating a plan of action while flying over the Atlantic Ocean. Eight hours of staring out the small, oval window and picturing his reserved black gaze and his full bottom lip and, oh yeah, thinking of various ways to approach him about the new ERRG restaurant opening next door to Inked, as well as finding a way to discuss everything that went down onPut A Ring On It. . .

Oh, who am I kidding?

I’ve spent the last sevenmonthsthinking of ways to apologize for what I did, in front of the entire nation. I’ve mulled it over more times than I can count. I’ve pulled up Inked on Bourbon’s Instagram page—because Owen has never been one for having personal social media accounts—and typed out at least three dozen apologies that have never been sent because what else is there to say?

I’m sorry. I said that when I sent him home from the show.

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