Page 22 of Lavender and Lust

Owen is one of those people who naturally breezes through life, oozing self-confidence and charismatic charm in abundance. It shines off him like a beacon of light that captures the attention of everyone in the room. He never appears to question himself about anything, and not once in all the years that I’ve known him have I ever seen him nervous or stricken with self-doubt.

It’s endearing as much as it’s annoying.

Feeling the weight of Lexi’s eyes watching me from across the table, I glance back and meet her inquisitive stare.

“So, how was it?” she asks, her tone one of genuine curiosity rather than playful teasing, and feeling my throat constrict, I shrug my shoulders and avert my gaze.

It’s a question I can’t bring myself to answer truthfully, mainly out of fear that what I’d experienced last night wasn’t in the same league for him.

I know he has a lot more experience than me. Throughout our senior year, I’d heard whispers throughout the halls about how he and Violet apparently went at it like rabbits on Viagra. And the rumors of his escapades while away at college are enough to make even the most notorious manwhores blush.

Whereas me? I didn’t have my first taste of love until after graduation when I’d found myself caught up in a wild summer fling. And it wasn’t until I got to college that I got my first real boyfriend, and even though our sex life was more than healthy, it was nothing compared to what I experienced with Owen.

It was by far the best sex I’d ever had in my life. It was raw and intense. It was completely out of control and so damn passionate that it blew my mind beyond the stratosphere. But the fear that not only was it mediocre for him but perhaps considered nothing more than another notch on his belt is a pill so bitter that I can practically feel the sourness of it fermenting in my gut.

Making a feeble attempt to mask the feelings of inadequacy and self-doubt gnawing at my insides, I school my features and paste on my most convincing blasé expression. “It was okay, I guess.”

She arches a brow. “Just okay?”

“Yes, just okay,” I grumble, wanting to get off this topic and get off it fast. “Look, that’s not important right now. I really need some advice here. Please, Lex. What the hell should I do?”

She studies me intently for a moment as if actively searching for the right words before speaking. “Okay. The way I look at it, you have three options,” she states, holding up a finger. “One, you pretend nothing happened and go about things like nothing has changed.”

“Or two.” She holds up a second finger. “You take the bull by the horns and talk to him about it.”

Butterflies immediately take flight in my stomach at the thought of talking to him about it and what he would actually say.

What if he just blows it off and wants to pretend it never happened? Or worse, what if he tells me it was a mistake?

Having sex with someone is a big deal for me, and the thought of him dismissing it as nothing more than a one-time lapse in judgment would sting like hell.

Releasing a heavy sigh, I look at her hopefully. “And the third option?”

She takes a sip of her coffee, eyeing me over the rim with a twinkle in her eye before placing her cup down and shooting me a sly grin. “You fuck him again.”

* * *

The butterfliesthat took flight in my stomach at the café earlier have now erupted into a full-blown riot, their savage frenzy making me feel slightly queasy as I approach the diner.

Lexi’s advice was a fat lot of help. Still, in her defense, unless she somehow discovered the mystery of how to make time travel possible, there really wasn’t much else she could say or do.

I have no other choice but to deal with this and somehow make it through this day with my dignity still intact.

Reaching the threshold to the diner, my steps falter and I stop for a moment to actively get myself together and give myself a mental pep talk.

I’m not that meek little girl from school anymore. I’m Mackenzie Scott, the daughter of the man who owns the best damn diner in the county. I’m a twenty-five-year-old strong and independent woman.

I’ve got this shit, and I refuse to let anything that Owen Parker has to say get under my skin or make me feel like less of a person.

Taking a fortifying breath, I straighten my shoulders, then push through the door and step inside. Shania Twain’s ‘Man, I feel like a woman’ plays from the jukebox and filters through the bustling activity of the dining room, and feeling a sudden sense of empowerment fuel my strength, I steel my spine and stride toward the kitchen with my head held high.

Passing by my father, who is ringing up a customer at the cash register, his eyes meet mine, and he does a double take. “What the hell have you done?” he barks.

I instantly freeze.

Oh fuck.

He knows.

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