Page 46 of Puck Prince

But dinner is another insane alternative.

“Why not?”Because of the aforementioned insanity.“I’m hungry. We’re both free. Let’s go out, make an appearance, and get it over with.”

“How romantic,” I mumble under my breath. “You must really sweep the girls off their feet.”

That’s probably how he gets them into prime position to sow his very powerful seed.

His mouth quirks into a devilish smile, and I’ve changed my mind—that mouth is how he sweeps the girls off their feet. “Oh, you want this to include romance? That wasn’t in the original terms, but I suppose we can make adjustments.”

I roll my eyes as my heart gives a hopeful, pitiful thump. “Just go shower.”

Owen disappears, and my head is spinning. How did I get myself into this? Any of this?

I was just trying to go to the doctor to figure out one of my major life crises and, in the process, landed myself in an even bigger one. I look down at myself and realize that maybe I should change, too. Joggers and a tank top don’t really qualify as date attire.

Not that this is a date.

“Jesus Christ, Callie, listen to yourself.” I shake my head, go inside and slip into a short, black, cotton dress and a pair of wedges. Nothing too dressy, but cute enough not to look like a slob. I run my fingers through my hair and apply some lip gloss, a spritz of some flowery perfume, and head back out.

I assumed five minutes was an optimistic timeline. Men as pretty as Owen must spend at least that long staring at themselves in the mirror. But he’s already in the hall waiting for me, staring out the window that overlooks the parking lot.

“Wow, you really meant five minutes, didn’t you?”

“I’m a man of my word.” He turns to me. “Now, let’s—Oh. Uh… go, I meant. Let’s go.” He trips over the last word as his eyes trail up and down my body.

“What?” I ask, looking down at myself. Last time I wore this dress, there were ketchup stains involved. Did they not come out in the wash? “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” He shakes his head. The next thing I know, he has his hand on the small of my back and is leading me down the stairs. Despite the gentlemanly gesture, it feels staged.

Itisstaged, you doofus. This is not a real date.

Either way, he’s abnormally stiff.

“What’s wrong?” I ask again, trying my hardest to ignore how good he smells. Spicy. Sweet. Delicious. I swear I can feel the steamy heat rolling off of his skin in waves.

His blue eyes cast my way quickly before refocusing on the floor in front of our feet. “You clean up nice, that’s all.”

“So do you.” I can’t pretend I didn’t notice his nice jeans or his fitted Henley. It works for him. Painfully well.

He guides me through the parking lot and opens the passenger door of his blue BMW. A fitting car for him. The inside is pristine and still smells new.

“Thank you,” I mumble as I duck into the car. There’s a team hoodie on the seat, and I pull it into my lap.

“Oh, you can just—” He leans in, over me, taking the hoodie and throwing it. “—toss it in the back.” He’s basically hovering over me, so when he turns his head to look at me, our mouths are so close that we’re sharing the same air. His exhales are my inhales.

He shudders half a second before he rips himself away and slams his body into his seat.

Wordlessly, we buckle up, and he speeds out of the parking lot into the city.

So far, so awkward.

“I take it you know where we are going.” It’s not a question, it’s a statement. He’s driving with the confidence of a man who knows exactly what lies ahead.

Must be nice.

“Yep.” His eyes don’t leave the road and his fingers drum on the wheel. I think this is the first time I’ve seen Owen nervous. I can’t decide if it’s satisfying or if it’s making me nervous, too.

Music plays softly through the speakers, and I focus on that to ignore the racing thoughts in my own head. “Shaboozey,” I say after a beat.

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