Page 24 of Love Me Tomorrow

All that work—gone.

The chance to do something with my life besides manage restaurants and be my father’s lackey—gone.

Any hope of Owen and me turning over a new leaf . . . pretty much nonexistent.

His big, blackI-crush-dreams-for-a-livingboot lands on the trash pedal. The tin top smacks the side of his desk as the shredded papers drift down like plastic beads at the height of Mardi Gras season. And then he picks up my empty mug, his expression wiped clean of all emotion, and asks, “More coffee before you go?”

I don’t think coffee is going to cut it.

Hell, I’m pretty sure a full bottle of wine isn’t going to fix the hot puddle offuck-my-lifeOwen has just landed me in.

“No, I’m good.”

“Suit yourself.” And then the jerk takesmymug to the Keurig and tops it off. Turns and rests his broad back against the wall, and casually drawls, “About the hole. I’ve got guys comin’ out to fix it tomorrow, but in case they need to stop inside the old souvenir shop—that good with you?”

He casually sips from the mug I just used. Eyes me steadily over the rim that’s still marked with the pink of my lipstick.

That wholeI’m so calm, the TV producers were begging me to lose my shit?It goes sailing right out the window.

Owen Harvey is my kryptonite, my weakness—and, as of this moment, the biggest pain in my ass. And from the taunting gleam burning in his gaze, he knows it too.

Just. Friggin’. Fantastic.

7

Owen

Savannah Rose is quickly becoming a pain in my ass.

Seventy-two hours.

That’s how long it’s been since she waltzed out of Inked on Bourbon with her massive purse tucked under one arm and dogged determination etched into her expression like war paint. Jordan had looked from me to her and then back again before promptly announcing, “Y’all should just fuck out your differences and call it a day.”

Fucking has nothing to do with the onslaught of Rose-everythingthat has invaded my life in the last few days.

First, there were the trio of emails (and phone calls) that landed in my inbox. Each highlighted a different financial advantage to me selling the two floors above the parlor, the last of which going so far as to even pinpoint that the overall marketplace for private rentals has decreased in New Orleans since the city council voted to eliminate short-term rentals from the French Quarter.

My response was a simple but curt,My block exists in the preapproved zoning area of Bourbon.

No reply, which should have raised red flags but didn’t—not until the construction crew next door began erecting scaffolding on the exterior of our entire block yesterday morning.Scaffolding, for fuck’s sake, when there’s nothing at all wrong with the façade, the interior, any of it, save for the goddamn hole in the wall that was just fixed.

And then there’s this.

This.

Seventy-two hours after Savannah left, and I’m staring at all the roses that have infiltrated Inked on Bourbon while I stepped out for lunch. Not just one bouquet or even two.

No, there are over adozenscattered around the parlor. On the receptionist’s desk. The leather sofas in the waiting area. Beside the equipment. When I spot another sitting innocently atop a side table that usually holds binders with tattoo examples for clients to flip through, I curse under my breath and contemplate the legalities of storming into ERRG’s headquarters, busting open the door to Savannah’s office, and letting her fucking have it.

I’d enact the punishment real slow, too.

Her hands restrained above her head, my belt cinched around her wrists.

Her shirt yanked down to reveal her tits.

My hand on her thigh. High enough to have her begging for more; low enough that she’d soon be regretting every moment of sending her little “gift” to my place.

The chime of keys disturbs the fantasy as Gage slams to a stop beside me at the sight before him. He catches his car keys mid-toss. “It smells like a goddamn funeral home in here.”

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