Page 1 of Owen Bailey Needs Advice

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Owen

Who in their right mind dreams about jackhammers? Me—that’s who. The tapping in my skull is on repeat.Tap-tap. Tap-tap. Tap-tap.

I do not like this dream.Time to wake up, Owen,or time to shut down the imaginary power tools.I’ve been spending too much time renovating my house—it’s now invading my subconscious.

“Owen.” This time a dreamy woman’s voice accompanies thetap-tap. “Owen.” Very dreamy… she sounds exactly like Annie.Tap-tap. “OWEN!”

My eyes open like reckless window blinds off the hinges. My dream is yelling at me.

Only—very real eyes stare down at me. I jerk back and bang my head against my wooden headboard. “Annie?” The singing woman in my dream isAnnie?

“Come on, sleepy head. I broke up with James and I need breakfast. Let’s go.”

“James?” Not a dream.Realtapping.RealAnnie. I cram my eyes closed and repeat her words in my head. “It’s already been two months?”

“Hey,” she groans.

I hadn’t actually meant to say that out loud. But Annie doesn’t exactly have a great track record when it comes to guys. Two months is the max—which I don’t mind. In fact, I wish she’d get rid of them after two days.

She must forgive me quickly enough because her voice returns to normal and she’s back to business. “Yeah. You know,Mr. Buttman. The guy your sister set me up with!” A straight, auburn lock falls into her eyes. She blows out a puff, floating the hair into the air for a second before it falls back to her freckled cheek.

I blink, taking in her fully dressed body—ACDC T-shirt, blue business jacket, skinny jeans that go all the way down to her red heels. Her hair’s been straightened, and her makeup is on. Maybe I’m still dreaming. “Ah—what time is it?”

“Six.” She gives an apologetic smile, then stands straight, no longer leaning over me. She places one hand on her hip and with the other, scratches at the back of her head, mussing her hair in the process. Her full red lips part into a half grin—man, I love that grin.

And while I wouldn’t mind waking up to it every day, it isn’t normally the first thing I see at six in the morning. “How did you get in here?”

“Key.” She holds up the spare key I gave her for emergencies. The one that isn’t in her cupboard at home—like it should be—but on her keychain, along with her own apartment key.

I rub my eyes and sit up, leaning against the headboard that assaulted my scalp as if I were a wack-o-mole not one minute ago.

“Whoa. Hold the phone, Rocky. I don’t need a peep show.”

I blink, still half asleep. Still trying to make sense of this visit, though I won’t complain. It’s Annie.

But peep show?

Oh. I don’t have a shirt on. But then I never sleep with a shirt on. “You came to me, remember?”

She walks to the other side of the room and tosses me a T-shirt from the ground. It hits me smack in the face. Annie’s always been a good shot—one year of high school softball and she’s apparently Bob Gibson. She does not miss her target.

“Thanks,” I mutter. “Ah, I have school in an hour and a half.”

“I know.” She shakes her head. “Can you give me thirty minutes? Please, O.” She bends, picking up a pair of gray sweats, then throws those at me too.

This time I’m ready, and I catch them.

“Just in case,” she says before stepping out into the hall.

I turn to look at the red lights of my alarm clock, next to the lamp that Annie switched on. It’s the brightest thing in this room. Not even the sun is awake yet. I groan and knock my head back against the headboard. “Annie,” I grumble, knowing I’m getting up. Knowing I’m going. Why? Because it’s Annie, and I’d pretty much do anything for that girl. Even talk about some guy she’s been dating and kissing and spending a whole lot of her time with.

“I heard that!” she calls through the closed door. “Let’s go, Bailey!”

I need half an hour to get ready for school and fifteen minutes to get there. I can give my best friend—the secret love of my life—forty-five minutes. After all, she’s been through something. She broke up with her boyfriend.

Again.

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