Page 28 of Owen Bailey Needs Advice

Annie

Irifle through Owen’s closet. “Okay, so you need to ask at least three personal questions and tell her at least one thing that’s meaningful to you.”

Owen stands behind me, shirtless—yep, he’s my best friend, but I’m not dead. I know about the abs and pecs and hours of gym time waiting behind me for a shirt.

“Why three?”

“Because studies show that the more quickly we can relate and make a connection, the better. Plus, whenLonely on Lewis Avewrote to me and told me they just couldn’t connect with women, I told him to ask his dates meaningful questions and to give up at least one piece of personal information about himself. We’re proving my advice, Owen.” I peer back at him between the green button-up and the yellow polo. “Remember?”

Fact: Owen hasn’t been on a date in months, maybe even a year. Where I’m always dating, he’s never dating. Just another reason he’s the perfect experimental group.

I blink, taking in Owen’s tan skin that sort of shines like a greased-up runway model. His belly button is peeking back at me, and I feel a teeny-tiny flush come over my cheeks. Nothingto write home about. Certainly nothing I’ll be telling Kayla about. Because it’s just that—nothing. It’s just warm inside Owen’s closet. He needs air conditioning. And a shirt. That’s all.

“Got it,” he says, repeating my instructions. “Three questions and one meaningful fact about me.”

What a good student.

I tear my gaze from Owen’s abs—I’m pretty sure my eyes cross; there cannot be that many lines on one man’s abdomen. I spin back to the closet. “Don’t you have anything blue? Blue makes your eyes pop.”

“It does?” he says, and there’s a smirk behind his tone.

A bead of sweat slips from my hairline to my nose. I swat it away and turn on him, hands on hips. “Well, what would you pick?”

“Um, that shirt,” he points to the ground at the orange polo he wore to work all day. “The one you made me take off.”

Yeah… well, he’s not putting that back on, not for Ang from Post Falls. “Show me something blue.”

Owen walks over—barefoot and bare-chested. I’m just a few inches shorter than him in my four-inch heels. His eyes never leave mine as he leans past me, his arm brushing my cheek while pine and musk fill my senses. “Blue?” he says, pulling out a light blue button-up on a hanger.

I swallow.Whew. This closet might as well be a sauna. Owen has got to get on that air conditioning. It doesn’t help that we are having the warmest fall Coeur d’Alene has ever seen.

“Perfect,” I say. I’m not afraid to keep eye contact with him. “Blue.” I take the dress shirt from his hands, only to shove it into his bare chest and all those incredibly distracting abs. I step from the closet, embracing the cooler air out in his open bedroom. “Top two buttons undone, no undershirt. I’ll wait downstairs.”

Kayla would call me a drill sergeant… and okay, I may have sounded like one just now. But this has to go well.

I pace back and forth over Owen’s destroyed hardwood living room floors. And when he finally trots down the stairs—loafers on his feet, blue dress shirt tucked into dark jeans, brown belt around his waist—I feel like it might be Christmas morning and my gift is walking right toward me.

He looks perfect.

Perfect enough to… hand him off… to Ang from Post Falls.

Yep.

Perfect.

14

Owen

Despite the persistent asking, I did not let Annie wire me with a mic and earpiece. Nope. My best friend has me going on this ridiculous date. She’ll have to suffer bynotcoming along.

Okay, it’s not ridiculous. Annie’s advice is sound—ask questions and share something meaningful. All things that would potentially help a couple connect on a first date. All things that would lead to a second date.

Only Ang is not Annie. There’s nothing I could tell this woman or hear from this woman that would make me want to take a second glance.

So, why am I here? Because Annie asked me to be. Because when I asked if doing this would help her, she said yes. Sure, she also spouted something about it helping me as well, but that’s beside the point.

I stand outside a Post Falls Italian restaurant, my fingers on the door handle.Breathe. I can do this. I can go on a date—my first in a year—and not think about Annie the entire time.

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