Page 52 of Forgot to Tell You Something

“Are you sure?” When I nod, she rolls her chair over, giving me a fierce hug. “I’m sorry, Lu. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

I shrug, determined to present a brave face. “I’m glad you did. You’re my ride or die, remember? The one who tells me I have broccoli in my teeth or that the man I dated briefly has moved on.”

“What man is that?”

I swear Owen moonlights as a ninja. His timing is impeccable.

“Good morning, Dr. Stevens. How are you today? Late night, I’m assuming?” Stefani is cordial, but her tone carries an arctic chill.

Thank you, sweets. You always have my back.

“In need of a vat of coffee,” Owen chuckles, swigging back the last of his cup. “Tally, would you like to join me for breakfast?”

“I’m busy,” I mutter as I stalk into my office and shut the door. It’s a universal signal that I’m off-limits, otherwise engaged.

A ‘stay the hell away from me,’ sign.

It’s also one which Owen blatantly ignores as he pokes his head in the door. “Tally?”

I hate how appealing this man is on every level. Why can’t I be immune to him?

“Yes, Dr. Stevens.”

“I found this great restaurant. They have an amazing mahi-mahi dish. It’s supposed to be the best seafood in the area. I’d like to take you.”

“I’m busy.” I don’t even raise my head from my paperwork. If I look at him, every emotion will show on my face.

“I didn’t say a day.”

I remain silent. It’s my best defense at the moment.

“Tally, can we talk?”

“I’m busy. Is there something I can help you with, Dr. Stevens? I don’t have the time nor the inclination to discuss mahi-mahi right now.”

“Darlin, what’s going on?”

I stand up, bracing myself as I meet his gaze. I open my mouth to repeat my former statement, but Owen isn’t having it. He crosses the small space, pressing his fingers to my lips.

I’m tempted to bite them, but I surmise he’ll enjoy it too much. Come to think of it, I will, too.

“I wouldn’t if I were you.”

“Or what?”

He kicks the door closed, turning the latch in one deft move. Then he comes for me. Damn my tiny office.

His hulking frame backs me into a corner, as he wastes no time pressing his length to mine. “Or I’ll be forced to find other ways to get the truth out of you.” His hands are like homing devices as they skate under my skirt, sliding along my thighs.

But his talented digits are not welcome anymore. Not in my office and not on my body. “I’m not in the mood for your games, Owen.”

The teasing grin slides from his face when he realizes—finally—that I’m not kidding. “Are you still mad at me?”

Why can’t I lie? God didn’t gift me with a filter; why couldn’t he have given me a damn poker face? “No.”

“Okay, that’s a yes.”

“Did you have an enjoyable time last night?”

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