Page 34 of Love Me Tomorrow

Aware that Owen is waiting for a response, I clear my throat awkwardly. “It’s been about . . . oh, you know, like a year and a half or so. The photographer that night, he posted it on the EOCC website, and I thought—well, I don’t really knowwhatI was thinking when I printed it out. I mean, the quality isn’t even all that good but when I first saw it, I realized we don’t have a single picture of the two of us together and there really was no talking myself out of it once that epiphany hit me, and oh my God, please shut me up before I keep rambling.”

“I like it when you ramble,” Owen murmurs, his voice pitched low and smooth like the most intoxicating whiskey.

Ba-dum.

There goes my heart. It’s going to beat right out of my chest and maybe that won’t be such a bad thing because then I won’t be responsible for swaying Owen over to the dark side and convincing him to sign his soul to the devil.

I mean, ERRG. Not the devil.

Really.

“The whole point of the story,” I say, dredging up the last bit of my courage, “is that my dad regularly maneuvers his opponents like pawns on a chessboard. I screwed you over once, Owen—I don’t plan to do so again.”

“My definition of screwin’ would have been infinitely more enjoyable, in case that was ever in question.”

Ba-dum.

It takes every ounce of self-control to hold his glittering gaze when I dredge up a pitiful retort, “I thought you were shy.”

At that, he throws back his head and barks out a deep, sexy laugh. The sort of masculine laughter that spreads warmth through your limbs like liquid heat. Even now my core clenches tight, and I’m forced to avert my gaze or face the consequences of finally discovering what it might be like to kiss that grinning mouth. I’d kill to taste a little of that laughter for myself.

I clear my throat again.Act professional!Or as professional as I can be while simultaneously wondering what he might say if I were to unbutton that dress shirt of his and slip my arms around his waist, all so I can feel that heavy laughter deep in my bones.

“Are you done?”

Sobering, he reaches past me to set the frame back on the shelf. “Are you going to be sending me anymore rose bouquets?”

I sniff. “Not now that you called me a narcissist.”

“I called your dad a narcissist.”

“Same thing, really. I thought they were the perfect calling card. You’d know immediately who sent them.”

“How about this”—he spreads his arms wide, like he’s doing me a grand ol’ favor—“I’ll give you anAfor persistence.”

When he bites down on his bottom lip in clear deliberation, I wave a hand at him. “Spit it out. AnAfor persistence and a . . .what?”

“Cfor originality.” I gasp in mock-outrage, which only prompts him to add, “Too on the nose, Rose. I’d offer you the chance for a do-over but, really . . .” He leans down so that we’re at eye level. “Don’t.”

Don’t.

Incredulous laughter climbs my throat.

My entire life has been a series ofdon’ts. Don’tclimb the ladder after the boys because girls don’t roughhouse.Don’taccept that boy’s invitation to the school dance because his family doesn’t know the right people.Don’tcomplain about upholding a legacy that’s existed for five generations, no matter what youthinkyou want to be doing with your life.

Don’t, don’t, don’t.

And for the first time, with Owen looking at me like he’s worried I’ve lost my marbles, Ido.

“I want you to be a partner in the new hotel.”

Owen’s jaw goes slack at the same time Pablo gets a wild hair up his ass and launches across the room to cling to Owen’s slacks.

“Christ,” he grunts—Owen does, I mean, not Pablo—before wheeling around.

The furry demon only holds on more voraciously.

“Pablo, let go!” I lunge forward to grasp the gray-haired cat, but he escapes my uncoordinated hand grab with skill.

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