Page 46 of That Stranded Feeling
I laugh with him, then stop suddenly when I realize my hand has developed a mind of its own and my fingers have somehow come to rest on his.
A flash of panic makes me hot all over.
Best I try to make out it was nothing more than a friendly gesture.
I pat his hand. A bit awkwardly. And pull away.
“That’s why you’re the businessperson,” I tell him. “Anyway, Alastair encouraged the knitting.”
“Alastair is the dick?”
“I haven’t gotten to the being-a-dick part yet.”
“Oh, I’ve been all-in on him being a dick from the start.” He slides his hands down and off my legs, leans back in his chair, and rests his fingers inside his jeans pockets.
That’s better. I wanted him to stop touching me. Much better. I’m not already missing his hands on me at all. Not one bit.
“So, yeah, I finished school and moved down to LA to live with him. He told me not to bother getting an accounting job because he knew I’d hate it, and said he’d support me while I gave knitwear design a go. So, I did.”
My body refuses to listen to my brain and screams to have Owen’s hands back on it.
He cocks his mouth up at one side. “You’re a terrible storyteller.” There’s the cheekiness that makes his eyes sparkle again. “How did you get from that perfect arrangement in LA to here?”
“Knitwear went well. I started a little label, sold to some one-off boutiques. And then one of Alastair’s clients, a young-up-and-coming actress, wore one of my cardigan-wrap things in an Instagram photo. Overnight it went bonkers.”
“You can’t buy publicity like that. Well, you can. But didn’t.” He pauses. “Sorry.” He gestures at me to go on.
“After that, Alastair’s parents started to get twitchy.”I need more champagne for this part.“They kept asking me to do their business accounts and offering to get me other accounting work from their friends. Knitting was too lowbrow for them.” I throw my nose up in the air to demonstrate their snootiness.
He laughs. “Is that what hoity-toity people do?”
“It’s what his mom does. She spends half her life looking like she’s sucking on a lemon.”
He reaches for a cracker, but I slap his hand away. “Hey, they’re mine for when I finish the story.”
He sinks back in the chair and smiles that smoking-hot, dimply smile again.
“She’d have been fine with the knitting if I made fancy things for fancy people and charged thousands of dollars for them. But I like making affordable things, so more people can enjoy them. What’s the point of making a three-thousand-dollar poncho for a Hollywood housewife who’ll only wear it once because God forbid she should be seen in anything twice?”
“So, she never really got you?” There’s a knowing look on his gorgeous face.
Oh, hell. Does that mean he thinkshegets me? He might, though. He actually might. He might be brilliant, cheeky, sexy as all hell, and get me. Well, he’s definitely brilliant, cheeky, and sexy as all hell. And also he might get me. Shit.
“No, she didn’t get me. Or maybe she did, but didn’t like what she got. Whatever the reason, Alastair soon started piling on the same pressure. I assume because she made him. I refused to give in.”
My stomach lets out a loud rumble. I point at it. “Sorry, can’t wait till the end of the story.”
I pop in the cracker Owen almost took and chew it with my eyes closed, taking the moment to pull myself together. Blissfully yummy. I open my eyes to find him gazing at me with his head cocked to one side, like he’s looking at an abstract painting and can’t quite figure out what it means.
“Anyway, then he dumped me. Now he’s engaged to the actress who wore my wrap thing on Instagram. I guess that’s the punchline.”
“It’s not particularly funny.”
“It kind of is, though. Apart from the being heartbroken part. And then losing my grandparents right after.”
He leans forward, back into my orbit. Taking both my hands in his, he pulls them to his mouth, and presses his lips against them. “I hate that you were hurt like that.”
He looks at me like I can trust him. Like I can lean on him. It makes me all warm and glowy. I haven’t had anyone I could lean on in forever. I’ve propped myself up for as long as I can remember. It was my self-preservation plan—never rely on anyone, or need anyone, or want anyone again.
