There’s no way the sweet bliss he made me feel with a brush of his tongue could possibly be legal.
I felt the blossom of heat over my skin and an urgent need to be closer to him—more contact, more skin, his lips in more places.
We were at a corner table in a dark pub. No one cared what we were doing.
He kissed me until the only available next step would have been tearing at each other’s clothes. He nipped at my bottom lip and I was grateful for the noise in the place so he wouldn’t hear me moan.
When we broke the kiss, I met Owen’s eyes for a hint at what he was thinking. Did he see me as an easy hookup? I’d probably given him the wrong impression earlier by practically jumping him at the bakery so I couldn’t blame him for thinking that’s where we were headed.
But he didn’t look at me with a smirk or an impish gleam that said we should take this show into a back room somewhere and have at each other.
He squeezed my hand, which was still clenched in his on the table, and looped a strand of my hair around a finger on his other hand and brushed it back.
The gesture was more intimate than half the nights I’d spent with Tom, not that I was comparing.
Okay, I was comparing.
This guy was not what I expected. Owen looked peaceful and content like a man who did exactly what he wanted to do when he wanted to do it. He wasn’t apologetic and he wasn’t leering at me like I was dessert.
He seemed confident that he’d read me correctly and done exactly what I wanted and needed. The crazy thing was that I’d been the one caught off guard, wholly unaware I wanted and needed it. But he was correct.
I’d sort that out later.
My eyes hadn’t left his. There was something grounding about looking at him and it didn’t feel strange that we hadn’t looked away from each other for probably a full minute. Then I shook myself free and tried to regain composure.
“Well. You must’ve really not wanted to answer my question,” I said.
He smirked. “I want to answer your question. And I will. I just wanted to do that more.”
“Oh.” It wasn’t often that someone left me speechless, but Owen continued to surprise me. He also sent alarm bells sounding because, excuse me, what the hell was I doing kissing him . . . in a restaurant . . . on the heels of a breakup?
It was a rebound kiss, plain and simple.
I just hoped he had the good sense to know that.
I did my best not to think about it for the time being because I was having a good time, and that didn’t happen every day. There would be plenty of hours for self-analysis and annihilation later.
Sometime late at night when I should be sleeping, I’d be lying awake thinking about that kiss.
Owen grabbed a French fry and popped it into his mouth. When he was done chewing, he leaned his elbows on the table and folded his hands in front of him. “I was born in Pleasanton, about an hour from here, and I have one sister. She and I grew up pretty much alone. Our parents were missionaries and spent their time traveling to remote locations to indoctrinate people into Christianity. From what little I know, they were zealots on a crusade to spread the faith. Honestly, I kind of think they were part of a cult.”
I didn’t know what I was expecting, but Christian zealots wasn’t it. The way he said it almost robotically made it seem like he was hurrying to get the words out without having to think about them. I didn’t want to judge what I didn’t understand.
“Oh. So did you grow up pretty religious?” I didn’t know much about present-day missionaries, but I assumed that if people wanted to spread a religion they started with their own family.
I’d learned about the early California missions in school because it was part of the fourth-grade curriculum, but it always seemed like something in the remote past when new ways of life were forced on unwilling settlements in the name of religion. I mentally flogged myself for not being better informed.
He looked at me like I was crazy. “No. Not at all. I’m about as close to an atheist as a person can get. Maybe they taught me that, indirectly. They were so devoted to the church and their mission that they spent six months a year traveling. Sometimes more. It got to where I resented Christianity as a concept because it cost me my family. My sister and I were pretty much on our own from the time I was sixteen and she was twelve. Since I was older, I helped her with schoolwork until it became clear she was smarter than me. She liked to cook so she handled that stuff, and I had a solid after-school job at a sub sandwich place, so I had spending money for both of us.”
I couldn’t be hearing this right. “Wait, they left you two alone for weeks at a time when you were sixteen?”
“Yeah. They created an imaginary aunt who supposedly stayed with us when they went out of town, so the school never bothered us and they were free to come and go whenever they found a new place to spread religion.”
I couldn’t imagine it. Unlike my childhood full of siblings and fights and laughter, even when my dad was sick, Owen’s childhood sounded quiet and sad. “I can’t believe you only had parents for part of the year. Who paid for groceries and rent and . . . everything? You couldn’t have supported two people working part time making sandwiches.”
His face was unemotional. “To their credit, they set up accounts for both of us and they were well-funded enough that we managed. That’s how it was for a while, then when I was seventeen, they left for somewhere in Mexico—they never told us exactly where they were going, maybe because their itineraries could change on the fly or maybe they were just really irresponsible—but on this particular trip, there was an ambush of their bus by some mercenaries who were part of a drug cartel and I’m pretty sure they were killed.”
I stared at him in shock. “Pretty sure? You don’t know for sure?”
He shook his head. “It was a dicey situation. I tried to get some information from the missionary group they usually went with but I was just a kid. They weren’t going to tell me they sent my parents to Mexico and put them in the path of Mexican drug lords. But over the years, I’ve collected more information and that’s the likeliest explanation for why they never came back.”
“Wow. So who raised you after that?”
He made air quotes. “My aunt.”
“Who didn’t exist.”
“Exactly, but no one knew that because they did a great job of making her seem like a real relative. There were photos of us with some random lady in my file at school. I never knew who she was and I have no recollection of taking the photos. For all I know, they were photoshopped. So when it became clear they weren’t coming back, I let our school know our aunt was staying with us on a more permanent basis and they never questioned it. I only had one more year until I was a legal adult, but I was desperate not to let anything happen to my sister. I couldn’t let her end up in foster care, so when I turned eighteen, I applied to be her legal guardian and stayed in the house until she was ready for college.”
At some point while he was talking, I noticed my hand had migrated to where his was resting on the table and I’d reached out protectively. I couldn’t hear that story without offering some physical connection.
I shook my head, unsure what to say. “That’s . . . unbelievable. I’m so sorry to hear that. Really. I can’t imagine what that must’ve been like.”
He smiled sheepishly. “Bet now you wish you didn’t push me to talk about my family.”
I threw a wadded-up napkin at him. “Stinker. I’m glad you told me. It makes me appreciate that you seem to have it so together after what sounds like a hellish childhood.”
When he spoke, his voice was calm. “It wasn’t hellish. I mean, imagine growing up without parents around. Ice cream for breakfast whenever you want! No bedtime!” He smiled, but I could tell he was trying to put a positive spin on his story.
For the first time since we’d left the bakery, I didn’t know what to say. I was at a loss for how to comfort a person who didn’t seem to need comforting, but who I
was sure deserved a hug and more. My anguish must have shown on my face because he reached for my face and ran one finger across my forehead and between my eyes.
“I didn’t tell you to stress you out. I’m fine. It all ended up fine,” he said.
“I . . . okay. I just wish I’d known you back then. I’d have invited you over for dinner, at least.”
His face softened and I could tell the idea touched him. “That’s maybe the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” he said.
The hint of a smile played against his closed lips, but in his eyes I could see the residual pain of not feeling the parental love he should have had. It was heartbreaking.
I didn’t have much interest in the rest of my food, so I pushed the plate aside. We needed a change of tack from the heavy conversation so I gave his hand a friendly nudge and delved into Owen’s burger anomaly. “So explain the logic behind a veggie burger with bacon and cheese on it. Are you a part-time vegan?”
He laughed. “Hardly. I’m a full-time guilt eater. I’d rather go a little healthier by not getting a meat burger if it means I can have the bacon and cheese.”
“Ah, very logical. But burgers aren’t completely unhealthy unless you eat them all the time.”
“Are you just rationalizing your meat burger?” he asked. “I’m not judging if you are. As long as you can sleep at night.”
I really wished my mind wasn’t so easily swayed that his casual reference to sleeping made me immediately think about sleeping with him, which was not something I did on the first date.
Not that this was a date.
What had happened to me? I was seriously losing it.
Our waiter came and cleared our plates and asked if we wanted anything else. Owen didn’t even look at me before ordering two slices of apple pie.
“A la mode?” the waiter asked.
“Are you kidding?” Owen said, nodding like the answer was obvious and the question crazy. The waiter left with the dishes and said he’d be back in a minute with the hot pie and ice cream. “Do we want it à la mode? What kind of a question is that?” He shook his head.
“It’s a question from an inexperienced pie eater,” I said. “But how’d you know I wanted pie?”
Now he looked at me like I was crazy. “You’ve been staring at it the whole time we’ve been eating.”
“I have not.” I’d mostly been staring at him, but I had been wanting pie since breakfast. If he’d read my mind about the pie, who knew what he was capable of? It scared me a little.
“You eyed that pie case the second we walked in, you took this seat instead of mine so you could ogle it, and you agreed to share a plate of fries instead of getting your own because you wanted to have pie later.”
I stared at him. How did he know that when he barely knew me? And because he was apparently a mind reader, Owen leaned in and whispered, “I do know you.”
If that wasn’t reason enough to be intrigued by him, the feel of his breath near my ear had my insides twisting into a knot of lust and begging him to linger there forever.
But first, there was pie.
Chapter 8
Owen
The walk back to the bakery felt very different than our walk a couple hours earlier. Instead of worrying about whether it had been an impulsive mistake to ask Isla to dinner, I was worrying about whether I’d ever get over her. In the course of one night, she’d leveled me.
I wished that I could just look at her forever without having to blink. I resented even the tiniest lost moment, and that should have been a big flashing warning sign that I should back away slowly and take a breath.
For fuck’s sake, she’d asked about my family and I’d told her the truth. She was the first person in years I’d bothered to tell about my sordid family saga and I didn’t do it because I wanted to soften her shitty day by telling her about my shitty years. I wanted her to know me better and for once I didn’t care if that meant knowing the messy parts.
Normally, no one asked and I didn’t volunteer the information, especially with women I dated. I’d made that mistake once years ago and couldn’t handle the awkward sympathy I wasn’t looking for.
It was easier to be vague about my family details and most of the time I never dated anyone long enough for it to matter.
I had the same tendency to be vague about my job. It wasn’t that I didn’t like talking about my work if someone was interested for the right reasons, like a shared passion for design or sustainable landscaping. But some of what Isla had alluded to was true at our age—sometimes I got the feeling that women I was dating were looking at me as a dating resume, a set of criteria that were part of their ideal man portrait.
Was I relationship material or was I a one-night stand? It all came down to that. All the questions and surreptitious clocking of information was part of figuring that out and deciding whether I was “the kind of guy” they wanted to date.
I hated the whole dance. If I wanted to spend time with someone, I did it. There didn’t need to be a marriage proposal in the offing or a promise of a date sixteen when we were only on date two.
But Isla was different. She was one of the few women I’d ever met who made me want to talk about date sixteen and get it locked down and recorded in pen.
It surprised me how much I felt like it was a foregone conclusion that I was going to fall in love with her after one date that wasn’t even a date.
And yet . . . she’d made a point of talking about the “alpha males” with their big corporate jobs and empire building in such a negative light. She’d seemed relieved to think I had some sort of hotel peon job. Hell, maybe she really wanted to date a bellhop.
If it would get her to spend more time with me—and kiss me again—I was prepared to spend ample time at each of my hotel properties shuttling bags back and forth between rooms.
Of course, if we spent any significant amount of time together, I’d tell her eventually.
I would.
We’d chalk it up to a miscommunication.
When we got back to the bakery, there was really no reason for me to linger unless it was to linger for a lot longer. I’d been thinking about my lips on her skin since…well, since I’d met her a year ago.
So much of me wanted to bite her earlobe and lick my way down her neck. I pretty much hadn’t thought about anything else for the past half hour.
Give me a break—I’m a guy and she’s breathtaking.
“Are you going back to work?” I asked when she unlocked the front door to the bakery.
“Oh, not even. I’ve been here since four this morning and I have to be back in . . .” She looked at her watch and frowned. “Seven hours. No wonder I’m always exhausted.”
“How often do you work fourteen-hour days?”
“Too often. Especially now. We didn’t even get a chance to talk about it, but I’m trying to grow this little bread box and it’s going to require training more bakers and expanding into a couple new locations.”
“That’s exciting. I’d love to hear about that sometime.” To be clear, that was me asking her out in a completely surreptitious and probably unsuccessful way.
She looked at me and nodded. It was obvious she was exhausted. Her eyes were slits and her smile looked a little loopy. It was a good look on her, but I wasn’t such a jerk that I would cut into her sleep any more than I already had. Mostly.
“So . . . can I make sure you get safely to your car?” I asked. I wasn’t about to leave her alone to close up shop and walk in the dark to her car.
Even if I didn’t have my parents around to raise me, I’d picked up some good life lessons from after-school specials.
“Not yet.” Isla grabbed my hand and drew me inside as the lock on the door gave way. It was mostly dark inside the bakery, save for the dimmed wall sconces and twinkle lights that gave the place ambiance to anyone who looked in from the sidewalk at night. In other words, the room had the perfect romantic lighting.
I was never one to wast
e romantic lighting.
“Is this you inviting me into your house?” I asked, following her into the room.
She smiled at me and shook her head. “The House of Bread. I don’t actually live here. You know that, right? Or do you believe I’m actually some kind of bread fairy who sleeps among the bread baskets and bakes through the night?”
“You’re painting quite a picture. I won’t pretend that doesn’t sound hot, especially if you do it in satin lingerie.”
“Stop,” she said.
“Done." I kissed her again because kissing her was everything.
I was tempted to make use of one of the tables, which was barely big enough for me to lay her down on it, so I quickly aborted that plan and looked around the room for anyplace that looked remotely comfortable.
“This whole place is wood and angles and painful surfaces,” I said. She nodded in agreement, then she held up a finger.
“I have an idea. Come.” I followed her into the back, wondering if she was going to whip up a giant batch of fluffy dough to use as a pillow. Instead, she pointed at a stack of flour sacks. “They could be molded a little bit more to fit, kind of like a beanbag chair maybe.”
“I don’t know if I feel right messing with your flour. What if we get carried away and ruin the whole bread operation? The weeping of carb junkies will be heard across the city and I couldn’t bear the responsibility.”
She laughed. “How thoughtful.”
I pointed to my chest. “I am a self-serving bread eater, nothing more.”
And to hell with comfortable surfaces. I’d make due on the floor without a complaint, but Isla had other ideas, yanking my hand so I’d follow her up a flight of stairs. At the top, she opened a door to a small office. With a small couch.
“I was thinking about getting rid of this couch ‘cause I never sit on it and I never have anyone else in the office with me,” she said as though I was consulting on her interior decorating choices.
“I’m happy you’re too busy to get rid of couches,” I said, walking her gently backward and lying her down. I knelt with a knee on either side of her hips and my hands cupping her face. It was exactly where I wanted to be. “This is quite nice.”
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