Page 21 of Love Me Tomorrow

6

Savannah

Owen Harvey is not a nice guy.

Oh, the man has the wholeI’m-such-a-gentlemandisguise down pat. There was that one time the Entrepreneurs of the Crescent City awarded him the Humanitarian of the Year award for donating a hefty percentage of his annual profits to a local foundation intended to help kids with special needs. And, okay,fine, he’s also been known to foster puppies while they wait for their fur-ever homes. Puppies, for God’s sake. Look upSexy Gentlemanin the dictionary, and no doubt you’ll find Owen’s ruggedly handsome face waiting for you as the only definition.

So maybe he is a nice guy—to some degree—but none of that matters. Whatdoesmatter is this: Owen Harvey pulls no punches and he knows exactly how to spin this conversation so that I’ll be the one sitting in the palm of his hand.

If I’m not already there, that is.

I meet his dark, pointed stare, and do my best to ignore the fluttering in my belly that has nothing (okay,almostnothing) to do with his close proximity and everything to do with the frustrating way he baits me to give him what he wants: my submission.

Not going to happen, buddy.

He’s close, closer than he’s been to me in months, and it takes every bit of willpower to keep from leaning in for a sniff of that delicious cologne he wears.

No.No.

I jerk back.

I’m no bumbling little girl with no idea how to hold her own. I manage hundreds of employees, millions of dollars’ worth in assets, and, yes, I might not be doing what I love—not the way that Owen is with Inked on Bourbon—but there’s a reason why the Vice President nameplate is now sitting front and center on my desk.

I’m good at what I do. Although I prefer compassion over strong-arming my opponents, I can be ruthless. I willnotwither into a pile of lust just because Owen Harvey is sex on a stick and is currently looking at me like he wouldn’t mind throwing me on his desk, if only to get all the answers he wants out of me.

Shifting off the chair, I rise to my full height. In my sky-high pumps, my eyes are level with all that ink at the base of his throat. Perfect. We’re on equal footing now, both of us sucking up our own bubbles of power.

Confess, his thunderous expression demands.

We’re getting there, I hope mine answers.

I line up my hip with the edge of the desk, my arms linked across my chest. His gaze veers south, swooping down over my loose, silky shirt to my tight skinny jeans to my hot-pink stilettos. The perusal is slow, meant to intimidate rather than seduce, but I’d be lying if I say I don’t feel the flames of desire flickering at my feet. Want clenches my thighs together, but I hold my stance, unwilling to give him any ammunition to think he’s bested me.

I hurt him—I know that. And I’ve paid the price for doing so every day for the last seven months. But this meeting has nothing to do withPut A Ring On Itor our personal relationship or the fact that he called me a coward. It’s about business,onlybusiness.

I clear my throat.

He plants his hands on the desk, on either side of his hips, and meets my gaze unapologetically.

My heart thuds in my chest as I force out a droll, “Like what you see?”

His smile, though barely there, is laced with a dangerous heat. “You know I do.”

Breath hitching, I look away. Take a second to stitch my flustered emotions—and my stupid, flaming cheeks—back together into some semblance of control.Throw them off their game.Catch them by surprise. It’s the first tactic Dad ever taught me when it came to business management.Never let them see your weakness. But what to do when your weakness isn’t a thing but a person, and that person is the one your family expects you to dismantle for their own gain?

Shakespeare couldn’t even make this shit up.

“You called it, you know,” I say smoothly, as though I’m discussing the weather or the Saints’ latest draft pick, “ERRG wants to buy you out.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Owen’s fingers flex on the desk. “Surprised you’re comin’ right out and telling me.”

“Because I’m a coward?” I flick my gaze up to his handsome face. “Is that why you’re surprised?”

His nostrils flare, and those long, artistic fingers of his drum a silent beat on the desk like he’s working out his next words with careful precision. “Savannah, listen—”

“Do you regret it?” I kick my chin up, staring him down.Donotlet him see how much his answer means to you. After a heartbeat of silence, I clarify, “Saying what you did earlier this week?”

He hesitates, and I can practically see him playing out all the different options laid out before him. One path keeps us tethered to this hate-infested, push-pull relationship, and the other puts us on the road to salvaging whatever we can of our friendship. I want the latter. No, Icraveit, but I won’t beg for forgiveness. I’ve done that, months ago, three days ago, and here we are still.

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