Page 58 of Love Me Tomorrow

“Jordan,” I bite out from between gritted teeth, “getout.”

“Can’t.” He waggles his brows. “I have an appointment in twenty. Ohhh, you know what? Keep going.” He waves a hand at us, then makes the sign of the cross over his chest. “If God loves me, it’ll be another mother and daughter and they’ll get a solid view of allthat.Let the one-star review be natural, not staged. Such a better plan.”

“If God loves you, he’ll shut you up before I take that Slurpee and drain it down your pants. Hopefully the ice will take care of what the herpes hasn’t.”

“Who figured you’d be so touchy about this? Oh, that’s right”—he snaps his fingers—“the entireworld.”

I open my mouth, ready to lay into him, only to be interrupted by the sound of snorting.

Cutting a glance to the left, I find Savannah bent over at the waist, her shoulders shaking with full-on laughter, interspersed with the most inelegant wheeze-snorting I’ve ever heard.

When she catches me staring, she doubles over for a second time, her shirt clamped closed by her fingers. “You—you—”

Some of my anger recedes as irritation kicks in. “Me,what?”

“You’re blushing,” she gasps out. “The big, b-bad Owen Harvey is blushing like a schoolgirl.”

Jordan barks out a laugh. “Better tagline right there. We’re rolling with it.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

“I’m not blushing,” I grunt, sweeping a hand over my beard. If nothing else, there’s not enough blood flow to head north when it’s already south of the equator. Blushing isn’t even an option right now, I’m so hard. “I don’t blush.”

“Liar,” Jordan grunt-coughs behind a balled fist, just like a high schooler.

“It’s okay,” Savannah says, poking me in the stomach. “I think it’s cute when you act all shy. Boyishly charming. It’s a good look on you.”

In the span of ten minutes, I’ve gone from having the woman who’s haunted my every thought for damn near two years begging for my cock to her telling me that I’m cute.

It’s official: Jordan must die.

18

Savannah

“I’m going to fuck Owen Harvey.”

As soon as the words escape, my face, reflected in my laptop’s video-chat screen, cringes, hard.

Nope.Nope. Way too crude.

Clearing my throat, I try again: “Amelie, I just want to let you know that I plan to make sweet, sweet love to your ex-boyfriend. That cool with you? Yeah? Perfect.”

More like ridiculous.

How did I manage to go from Pornhub to Hallmark in the span of thirty seconds?

My forehead collides with my desk, and I don’t even have it in me to worry about possible bruising.

This is going to be such a disaster.

I have approximately five minutes to get my head on straight and figure out what I’m going to tell her. Since I’ve returned to New Orleans, I’ve made it a point to video call my sister every Thursday at two. She may still be hopping around Europe, but I want her to know that I’m in her corner, no matter where we are in the world. Usually, I look forward to our chats. Usually, I don’t have the memory of Owen’s mouth ravaging mine to set the guilt into motion.

At the sound of an attention-seekingmeow,I turn my head just in time to see Pablo leap onto my office desk in a blur of gray and white. Spine arched, he slinks along my open laptop, his thin tail curling around the corner of the screen.

“This is all your fault,” I mutter, reaching out to run a hand over his sleek back.

He spares me a haughty look, his blue eyes narrowed, as though to retort,Really, wench? Mine?

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