Page 88 of Love Me Tomorrow

I always used to worry that if I let Owen in, he would ruin me. But the last few days have shown me that I’ve already been ruined. I went on a TV show and met twenty-six men, but it’sthisman—the one who was never supposed to follow me to California—who makes my heart go wild.

I lick my lips. “What do you see when you look at me?”

I’m not asking what his eyes are telling him but rather his heart, his soul.

And from the way his nostrils flare and he closes the remaining distance between us, I think he knows me well enough, too, to read between the lines.

“Give me your hand, sweetheart.”

It’s déjà vu all over again. His towering frame closing in, the ink at the base of his throat rippling with emotion, the gravel-pitched voice making me feel lightheaded and weak at the knees. Only, this time, his passive expression has taken a hike, and all that’s left is a confident man who is willing to show me the scars of his insecurities.

It’s forhimthat I do as he says, reaching out a hand.

Inked fingers intertwine with mine. Slowly, seductively, he turns our joined hands over and presses a kiss to the inside of my wrist, directly over my pulse. “I see the kindest, most compassionate woman I’ve ever met,” he tells me, his breath warm on my skin. “I see braveness and a fierce sense of loyalty.” Another kiss, this one in the same place as the last. I sway on my feet. “I see a woman who should have looked at me and kept on walking. Instead, she looked, and she kept on looking, and for the first time in years, I’m not tryin’ to purge the memories. I want these ones, Rose. I want all the ones from yesterday, and even the ones from today, and for all the tomorrows that come our way . . . I want those memories too.”

I tug him down, fisting his shirt in my hand, and kiss him.

Fearlessly.

Unapologetically.

Being imperfect has never felt so good.

26

Owen

“You’re smiling again, boss, and it’s honestly creeping me out. Can’t you, I don’t know, turn down the wattage on that shit or something? The whole world doesn’t need to know that you’re getting some.”

Jordanwouldhave commentary on me not being a broody bastard for once.

Turns out, coming clean to Savannah has put a permanent pep in my step. Not even the onslaught ofPut A Ring On Itfangirls stalking Inked has managed to erase the lightness in my chest, though I’ve seriously considered the merits of pulling an infamous celebrity-avoidance tactic by investing in ballcaps, sunglasses, and a wardrobe that doesn’t include my usual flannel shirts and jeans.

My new lack of anonymity is not exactly a thrill.

Rolling my eyes at Jordan’s dramatics, I shovel a forkful of jambalaya into my mouth, then wash it down with some sweet tea. Hit up the computer so I can reschedule today’s 3 p.m. appointment for tomorrow at noon. To Jordan, I ask, “What? You feelin’ jealous, Knight?”

My second-in-command props his feet on the couch, phone in hand. Behind him, we’ve kept the shades drawn to discourage the crazies from peering in through the front windows like a set of crop-top wearing Peeping Toms. Drastic? Yes. Reasonably effective? One-hundred-percent.

“Hell no,” Jordan grunts, barely sparing me a look.

I puncture a slice of andouille sausage with my fork. “You sure about that? What was it that you always used to tell me? A man can go approximately one month without sex before he starts losing brain cells?”

“Pretty sure you’d know the answer to that one first-hand. Before Savannah, you were practically a monk.” Jordan’s brownish brows arch high as he throws a look my way. “Not even jerking off five times a day can save a man like you from drowning in a pool of his own misery. There have been research studies. Let me know if you need me to pull them up.”

“Jordan?”

A small pause. “Yeah, man?”

“How’s that right hand been treatin’ you? I heard you’re giving it a twice-daily workout.”

“Have I told you to go fuck yourself today?”

“Not interested, Jord, which seems to be a common theme here.” Letting out a low chuckle, I tap the computer monitor with my knuckle. On it, a three-sentence email stares back at me, with the subject line,I’ve Had Better. “Did you seriously give this chick Inked’s email address to chat her up?”

The guy flies off the sofa, practically diving for the front desk like he’s going for a home run. “Is it from a Jane?”

“Does Jane think you’re shit in the sack? Because, if so, then yeah. Totally Jane.”

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