Page 28 of Love Me Tomorrow

Our . . . appointment?

Oh.

My eyes widen and I won’t deny it: my heart flutters again, this time for a reason that has nothing to do with Jean’s crawfish dumplings. A year ago, I sought out Owen’s company because his presence soothed me. Every minute that I spent with him felt like the antidote to the everyday chaos of being a Rose. He listened and he encouraged and, when he saw me retreating into my chain-linked shell, he pushed me to do something crazy that reminded me that I was so very much alive.

He inked my skin. He dragged me to the wine bar over on St. Charles Avenue that I love so much. He offered his office to me like a safe haven from the constant demands of my job.

I loved that side of Owen.

But I can’t help but crave this new dominant side of him too—the side he’s only shown me since I walked into the old souvenir shop and saw him standing there with barely leashed fury in his gaze.

It’s all kinds of wrong—and knowing our history, I’m going to be burned alive by heartbreak or regret or both—but I can’t help poking the metaphorical bear to see his claws come out. Hence, the roses.

Hence, you are insane, my subconscious informs me.

Yeah, that too.

I fake a light tap to my head. “The appointment! Right, right. Will you let me know when he arrives?”

“You got it, boss.” With one last glare in Dufrene’s direction, Georgie flips me a thumbs-up and backs out of the room.

Tapping the next item on my task list, I turn to Jorge.Focus, girl. Focus on the job.Easier said than done when I can’t help but listen for any new sounds coming from the main office area. “Catch me up to speed on the Rose & Thorn IGTV campaign. Where are we at?”

Jorge sits up straight. Propping his laptop open, he clicks away at the keyboard, then meets my gaze. “We’re doing great. I’ve been tracking our numbers—for every new Behind-the-Scenes video we post on Instagram, there’s a direct correlation to the number of patrons who come in to eat for about . . .” He taps some more, his dark eyes roving over the screen. “Three days or so. This week I tried posting five videos—one on each weekday—instead of our usual three but didn’t see an increase in reservations.”

“So it’s safe to say that three videos per week is probably the max we can hit before oversaturation?” I flip to a new page in my notebook, making a note of Jorge’s theory. Stop just short of doodling Owen’s full name, like I’m a middle schooler with my first crush.

Savannah and Owen sitting in a tree. K-i-s-s-i-n-g. First comes love, then comes marriage. Then comes—

Embarrassed, I draw a heavy line through Owen’s name.

“I’ve been testing for a month now,” Jorge says, regathering my attention. “Maybe things will be different during Mardi Gras, but for a regular month with no major city-wide events, three seems to be right on the money.”

“Perfect.” I cap my pen and lean back in my chair. Try as hard as I can not to think about Owen storming in here. The reality is, Idoneed to see him. My father did not react well to Owen turning down ERRG’s offer.As if I expected anything different.“I want you to try it out with Rosalie’s account next—schedule the first video with the launch of the dumplings. See if we can get the word out that way. If it works for Rosalie, then it’s safe to assume that it’ll work for the rest of the restaurants.”

The conference door swings open again and, once more, Georgie peeks inside. Her cheeks are flushed when she looks my way. “Sorry to interrupt. The, um”—she fidgets with her shirt sleeve—“callerwanted me to let you know that he’s just parked his car. ETA is five minutes.”

A shiver of heat works its way down my spine.

Ignoring the inquisitive glances aimed in my direction, I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth and inhale slowly. Let it out. Then calmly reply, “Message received.”

As if Owen isn’t giving me a countdown until all hell breaks loose.

As if I’m not watching the minute hand tick away on the clock mounted to the wall above Dufrene’s head.

As if it’s an everyday occurrence that the man I rejected in front of an entire nation isn’t on his way to pick up the gauntlet I recklessly threw down.

Hovering in the doorway, Georgie drops her hand from her sleeve. “He wanted me to let you know that he’s . . . bringing you something that you forgot at his place.”

Across the table, Dufrene watches me speculatively. “You’re blushing.”

God, am I? Resisting the urge to press my palms to my cheeks, I reach for the water bottle. “It’s a little hot in here.” I look to Heather, our CFO, for backup. “Isn’t it a little hot in here?”

Her expression doesn’t so much as twitch. “I’m going through menopause, Savannah. I’m roasting approximately twenty-four/seven.”

The men all groan, Jorge going so far as to shout out “TMI!” while Greg, ERRG’s accountant, makes the sign of the cross like there’s a good chance Heather’s menopause will metamorphosize into, I don’t know, theplague.

“What?” Heather throws her hands up in the air. “Women deal with menopause, men put up with using the little blue pill. Life goes on.”

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