Page 33 of Love Me Tomorrow

“No, you jerk”—she rolls her eyes without heat—“because right after you make me feel good, you drop a one liner that has me seeing red.Narcissistic?” She scoffs dismissively. “The roses were gorgeous.”

“The parlor smells like I’ve been receivin’ mourners for a solid week. You haven’t buried Inked yet, baby. Don’t get ahead of yourself with an early obituary.”

Rolling her bottom lip between her teeth, she pokes me in the chest. “Like I said,” she mutters, “justlike a man.”

Against my better judgment, I feel a smirk tug at my lips. “If you ever had any doubt about what I’m packing in my pants, then I have a bigger problem than your dad trying to evict me from a building that he doesn’t even own.”

Silence.

Pure, undiluted silence.

It lasts only seconds before she manages, “Really? Dick jokes?”

“Savannah,” I utter in complete somberness, “the subject of my dick is always important.”

She stares up at me, unblinking. “Huh.”

It’s my turn to return her stare. Heat, the kind that has nothing to do with erections and smooth skin and crisp sheets, creeps up my spine. “Huh, what?”

“You’re totally blushing.”

“What? The hell I am.”

Leaning back against the bookcase, she rakes me with a thorough once-over. “Is it the fact that I’m opening up to you that’s causing all the blood to rush to your face? Or the conversation about your . . .” Here she only unhooks one finger from around the picture frame and makes a little circle with it as if that’s the new sign language signal forpenis.

My face warms.

Goddammit.

“Neither,” I grit out, “definitely option C.”

“Interesting.” She hums a little under her breath, looking altogether too pleased for my comfort. “I didn’t realize you were shy.”

The seventeen-year-old me who shook when asking Maryanne to prom nods his stupid little head with his hands held high, shouting “Yes! That’s us! Shy all the way to our core!” Thirty-six-year-old me—the me who wants nothing more than to strip Savannah naked and show her all the ways I’m bold and confident and nothing at all like my teenage self—plants a hand on the shelf beside her head.

“You’re playing with fire, baby,” I growl.

“No, Owen, Iamthe fire.”

And then she twists the picture frame around and shoves it at my chest.

10

Savannah

Isee the moment that the full impact of the picture in the frame hits Owen.

His bearded jaw clenches and he falls back a step and I’m not surprised in the slightest when his dark eyes snap up to meet mine. “How long has this been on your shelf?”

Thisis referring to a picture of the two of us at an Entrepreneurs of the Crescent City meeting from over a year ago. His twin, Gage, had just given a speech to help raise money and awareness for a first responders charity that he’d founded. Photographers regularly attend every EOCC meeting and, on that night, one caught Owen and me unaware while we listened to Gage. If I close my eyes, I can almost remember everything about those few seconds where the ever-stoic Owen had turned to me for support.

My arms wrapped around his lean waist in solidarity. His stark, pained expression, while he listened to his brother discuss his mental state, after working on the front lines of the New Orleans Police Department, and mine . . .

God, I’ve stared at that photo so many times to know that my features were strained withwant. From the very first time that we met, Owen has always reminded me of a chained wolf. His tattoos intimidate and his always reserved expression often makes me feel as though he’s holding back, biding his time, before striking.

But in that moment, Owen had neededme.His ex-girlfriend’s sister. His friend, if not his lover. And as much as I’d burned with the knowledge that he was hurting for his twin, I’d still soaked up those precious few moments where the untamed wolf allowed himself the chance to be comforted by a woman who wanted him more than she wanted her next breath.

Whostillwants him more than she wants her next breath.

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