Page 82 of Snowed In

Anyway, Owen stopped in every morning on his way to work. Five days a week, for the past eighteen months, this rugged, handsome man had walked into the cafe and placed the same order. One vanilla latte and a blueberry muffin. And every single time, I made a fool of myself.

The first time it’d happened, I’d chalked it up to nerves. Owenwas like every one of my teenage fantasies brought to life. I wasn’t short at six foot, but he seemed to tower over me. His chest, always covered in the threadbare maroon polo he wore for work, was the perfect size for me to fall asleep on. Tattoos covered every inch of skin on his arms, disappearing under his sleeves. Occasionally, his calloused fingers would brush against mine as I handed him his order, and I’d imagine how they’d feel against other parts of my body.

It was bad enough in winter, but summer added a whole new layer of deliciousness to Owen. On those hot days, he’d swap his worn blue jeans for a pair of shorts.

Let me tell you, I didn’t used to think I had a thing for calves. Owen’s though? They made me drool. The thick muscles covered in a layer of dark hair had me wanting to write sonnets dedicated to their existence.

The first time I saw him, I couldn’t to stop staring, which seemed to embarrass Owen. He’d flushed as red as his shirt, keeping his gaze firmly fixed on the counter between us.

Honestly, when was I going to learn that some people, especially straight men, didn’t like you eyeing them up like a piece of meat?

I’d tried desperately to find my power of speech, but all that came out was muttered gibberish. Owen had mumbled his order back so quietly that I’d had to ask him to repeat it twice before I caught it.

I hated that I’d made him so uncomfortable.

From then on, I kept my eyes firmly averted whenever he stepped through the door, saving my longing looks for when he was leaving. My misguided hope that maybe he was gay had been dashed on his second week there, when his mate had asked about the girl he’d hooked up with a couple of weeks before.

It made me all the more determined to not make a fool of myself. Having a crush on a straight man in your mid-twenties was, quite frankly, humiliating.

Despite not making eye contact with him, I still managed to embarrass myself in other ways. Occasionally he seemed to be in a chattier mood, making small talk. It always caught me off guard,making me stumble over my words and spill whatever I was holding. Once I’d even managed to trip over thin air and land flat on my face behind the counter.

Owen, being the gentleman he was, had rushed around to help me to my feet. Those few seconds when he touched me had had heat dancing over me. In my head, I had us married with a truckload of kids.

I didn’t evenwantchildren.

If making a tit of myself by falling over wasn’t enough, Owen then invited me out for dinner after my shift so he could make sure I was okay.It was almost like he was blaming himself for my ineptitude and extending the invite out of guilt.

Of course I’d said no. Well, I’d shaken my head as I stammered out what I thought was a negative response before turning tail and running to hide in the storeroom. As much as I would’ve loved the chance to spend a few hours in Owen’s company, that wasn’t a good idea. It’d only feed my pointless crush. Besides, I couldn’t even form a sentence around the man—it was laughable to think I could keep up an entire conversation.

Well, the joke was on me. Fate was making it happen, regardless of how I felt.

Chapter Two

Owen

Like most millennials, a ringing phone was my worst nightmare.

Unfortunately for me, I couldn’t let it go to voicemail then Google the number. Not with this phone, anyway. When this one rang, it meant someone needed help. So not only was I going to have to deal with speaking to another person when all I wanted to do was slump on the sofa and watch sitcoms, I was going to have to leave my cosy warm house and go to work.

All with an impending storm rolling in.

On Christmas Eve.

Needless to say, my tone when I answered was gruff. “Owen.”

“Umm…no, it’s not Owen.”

The timid voice was familiar.Could it be?“No, I meant you’ve reached Owen.”

It sounded like the caller pulled the phone away from his ear, cursing. “Of fuckingcoursehe wasn’t calling you Owen. Honestly, what iswrongwith you?!”

A grin broke out across my face. Oh yes, that wasveryfamiliar.

“Sorry,” he said when he finally brought the phone back to his face. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I’d heard everything he’d said.I knew from my morning visits that it took very little for me to make Rory uncomfortable.

Much to my dismay.

“How can I help, Rory? Is everything okay?” I was already heading for the door, grabbing my work boots.

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