Page 29 of Love Me Tomorrow

Sarah offers a high-five from Heather’s other side. “A-frigging-men.”

They slap hands as Georgie creeps back out of the door. “I’m going to go now.” Before Dufrene can make another parting comment, ERRG’s executive assistant escapes out of the conference room.

Act normal. You can do this!I turn back to my employees. “Where were we?”

Looking amused, Dufrene drawls, “Menopause. Rosalie. Jorge finally learning how to count.”

My social media manager thrusts out an arm and punches Jean in the bicep. Only, it’s Jorge who ends up wincing. “What the hell are you?” he mutters, shaking out his fist. “Iron Man? It’s like punching a brick wall.”

Dufrene’s mouth curls in a smirk. “I work out.”

I hold up my hands, palms facing out. “Children, can we please get back on track?”

For the third time in ten minutes, the conference room door cracks open, and this time I squeeze my eyes shut. “Georgie, why don’t you send me a text when he gets here? That way we can wrap up this meeting before I—”

“Before you what, Rose?”

Rose.

My eyelids peel open and, sure enough, it’s not my curly-haired, spitfire of an assistant standing in the doorway but Owen Harvey in the flesh. Dark, messy hair. Black slacks. A deep blue button-down that looks completely foreign on his large, brawny frame. No flannel in sight.

The fact that he’s pushed the sleeves up to his elbows, though? It’s the only familiar thing about the image he’s presenting me with right now.

My gaze skips down to the bouquet of roses he’s gripping in one hand.

Looks like he received my delivery.

Game on.

Immediately, I launch to my feet. Ten pairs of eyes from around the table swivel in my direction. I can feel them all staring openly, curiously, even as my stare stays latched on the one man who has the ability to make me question everything.

Even my decision to keep my distance from him.

I hear Georgie’s jangling bracelets before I see her, but suddenly there she is, panting and heaving as she points wordlessly at Owen then at herself. “Bathroom,” she manages weakly, “I left to go to the bathroom and he—he—”

Owen doesn’t even have the good grace to look apologetic. “Figured I’d give myself a tour.”

He would.

Hewouldtake it upon himself to stroll all up in here like he owns the place. Thank God my dad isn’t in the office today. It’s one thing for me to invite Owen to a showdown when it’s just the two of us, and another thing entirely to do so when there’s the very real chance that the two of them will have a potential run-in.

I don’t know why Dad dislikes Owen so much, especially when Amelie and Owen’s breakup was an entirely mutual decision. But the hate is real, even if seemingly unjustified, and in the off-chance that someone will recognize Owen’s face from his one ill-fated episode onPut A Ring On It, it’s probably best that I get him out of here and into my office as quickly as possible.

Grabbing the plate with the sole crawfish dumpling on it, my high heels tap against the ceramic tiled floor as I swoop in close to the man determined to throw my world upside down and keep it that way. By invitation, this time around.

On instinct, I wrap a hand around his exposed forearm and ignore the tantalizing spark of heat at the contact of skin against skin. I toss out “we’ll finish up the meeting at noon!” over my shoulder, just as I yank Owen behind me and into the hallway.

“You sure you want to be alone with me right now?” he rasps softly, and if my heart wasn’t pounding ruthlessly before, it definitely is now. I’m aware of his heat at my back, the tension radiating from his big body, the way he pulls out of my grasp and locks a hand around my wrist, tugging me to a stop. “Because I’m not feeling nice.” His thumb slides over my stampeding pulse. “And I’m not feelin’ cordial.”

My gaze flicks left, quickly assessing the empty hallway. When I return my attention to Owen’s rugged features, I ask, “Did you bring an open mind like I suggested?”

His lips twitch. “I brought something—can’t say it’s an open mind exactly.”

I dip my chin toward the roses. “Tell me you appreciated the gesture, at least. A dozen bouquets of roses. Really, you’ll remember this moment for the rest of your life.”

The pressure of his hold on me slackens, but he doesn’t let me go. “You’re assuming that the gesture means enough that I’ll even want to remember it.”

Ouch.

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