Page 22 of Love Me Tomorrow

Push.

Pull.

There’s only so many times I can sayI’m sorrybefore I strip the words of all power they carry.

Finally, his broad shoulders sag like he’s come to grips with some internal, warring struggle. “You know I fucking do, Rose.”

Thank God.

Twisting around before he can glimpse the emotion—and all the grateful tears—cresting to the surface, I shakily flip open the top folder I brought from my office. The deeds to the souvenir shop and Mike’s Hard Daiquiri. I set those aside and reach for the thick contract I printed out this morning. “I’m not a coward, Owen, no matter what you think about what happened that night.” And what hethinkshe knows won’t even come close to the reality of it all. Still, the long-standing frustration of being misunderstood sharpens my words. “A coward would have shown up here today, willing to do whatever needed to be done to make my pops happy.”

“I thought we just agreed that I regret calling you a coward,” he grunts, pushing off the desk to head for the coffee maker in the corner of the office. He glances over at me. “Want one?”

“Sure.”

Presenting me with his back, he grabs the glass decanter and shoves it onto the heating pad. He skipped his flannel shirt today, so there’s no hiding how his black T hugs his muscular frame almost indecently. And hug his frame, the shirt most definitely does. Wide shoulders taper off to a lean waist. The cords of his back muscles play when he lifts an arm to grab two mugs from a built-in shelf. To say nothing of the way the hem of his cotton T rises, revealing a black strip of briefs—boxers?—and an even more tantalizing glimpse of inked skin.

I bite down on my bottom lip and do what is only right in the name of self-preservation: I picture Owen wearing awful, hideous tighty-whities. Not that the reprieve lasts long.

He reaches up, bicep visibly clenching beneath his short sleeve, and runs a hand down his nape.

His shirt rides up. More taut skin is exposed.

And now there’s nothing I can do but stare up at the ceiling and think of all the awful things in the world.

Sex on a stick is right.

The first time I met Owen, my sister dragged me into Inked because she couldn’t wait for me to meet the guy she’d been seeing recently. I’d asked her what he looked like, and she’d only flashed me a small grin and said, “Bad.”

She wasn’t wrong.

Owen Harvey looks like every woman’s bad-boy fantasy come to life. The messy dark hair. The intricate tattoos that cover his arms and the base of his throat. One time, when I’d had too much to drink, I asked him if he had ink all over. Was his entire body a canvas of artwork? I’d wanted to know—so damn badly—and the dratted man had only smiled wickedly in response.

It hadn’t been in my right to ask—he’d still been dating Amelie, though not for much longer after that—but the question had kept me up at night, tossing and turning in bed.

Even now, I can’t help but wonder all over again as I watch him prepare our coffees.

“I feel you starin’,” I hear him rumble, as the Keurig beeps and he fills our mugs to the brim.

Caught red-handed.

Warmth dashes across my cheeks. “I was thinking about that time I asked how many tattoos you have.”

He stills, giving me his profile. The crooked nose. The furrowed brows. That full, soft mouth that could tempt any woman into dropping her panties, myself included. “You asked if I had any ink on my ass.”

The blush sweeps down, fanning over my collarbone. “I was tipsy.”

He turns, one mug clasped in each hand, and comes forward with his right arm extended. The left, as he always tends to do, he keeps close. “You hadn’t even had two sips of your chardonnay.”

“Potent sips,” I counter swiftly, aware of how off course our conversation has gone but unwilling to push us back into line. I’ve missed the banter. I’ve missedhim. “They went straight to my head. I didn’t stand a chance.”

“Likely excuse.” He nods to the mug I’m holding. “Sorry. I don’t have any of that creamer you like so much.”

The fact that he remembers what creamer I like warms me in a way that the steaming mug clasped between my hands never will. Wanting to hear his laughter—pathetic, I know—I wait until he’s mid-sip before quipping, “I think I can manage to drink it black for today. I’m told it puts hair on your chest.”

At my offhand remark, he comes up spluttering, a cough lodged deep in his throat. “Christ,” he grunts, using the back of his hand to wipe away the droplets of coffee from his mouth. “The visual of hairy nipples—”

“Yeah, it’s going to linger awhile.” I pat his arm, because we’re getting along and it feels right and even though there’s no future between us, I’m determined to make things good again. Baby steps, right? I can be patient. “But probably for not as long as Jordan’s sexual escapades will.”

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