American Honey

by Heidi McLaughlin

  Arching an eyebrow and pulling a lopsided smile at me, he laughs. Leaning back in his chair and raising his arms behind his head, he mutters, “Sure. Nothing. I gotcha.”

  The smug jerk.

  For the life of me, I still can’t figure him out. Rough and abrasive one minute, then smooth and suave the next. There are two things I feel when I’m around Owen: turned on and pissed off.

  Right now, pissed off wins. Shooting up out of my chair, it screeches behind me. The loud noise calls the attention of my friends who are on the dance floor. In a slow-motion haze, it seems as if everyone’s attention is on me, especially Owen’s. A playful look dances in his eyes as he waits for my explanation.

  “You’re unbearable. You know that?” My voice is rising in volume, silenced only when Owen stands from his chair and moves right in front of me.

  “I highly doubt that,” he smirks, standing in my personal space.

  I poke him in the chest, not at all shocked by the rock hard pecs that meet my finger. “Well, you are. And frustrating, and annoying, and…” I pause, looking for the right word.

  “And what, Elle?” He leans in closer, infinitesimally so. Regaining my composure, I pull back from him.

  With a final poke to the chest, I add my final insult, “You’re an ass.” Of course, as I turn away from him, I stumble slightly, finally feeling the effects of the alcohol. His strong hand steadies me, pulling me upright next to him.

  “Come with me,” he nearly growls as he walks me out of the bar.

  Normally, being led by the arm out into the dark alley of a bar would scare the crap out of me but with Owen doing the leading, I’m anything but frightened.

  Turned on and excited is more like it.

  Dragging us into a dark recess, he pushes me up against the brick wall. “I won’t deny I’m an ass, but let’s be honest…” he pauses, leaning against me. His thigh slides in-between my legs, the denim scratching against the exposed skin of my legs. It takes everything I have not to close my eyes and revel in the feel of his body pressing up against mine. “You’ve been an ass, too.”

  “Have not!” I defend, my voice bordering on a shocked squeal.

  He laughs as he cups my jaw, pulling my face back to meet his persistent stare. “You have been,” he counters with finality. “But I didn’t say I didn’t like it,” he adds, moving his lips within an inch of mine.

  Like a fish gasping for air, I open and close my mouth, searching for the right words. When they don’t come to me, I huff in frustration.

  “Do you like it?” He dances his lips over my cheek and down to my jaw and my eyes roll back in my head.

  A mumbled, “hmmm” is all I’m capable of in response.

  “This,” he answers my incoherent question, “me kissing you?” My eyes fly open at his words just in time to see his lips descend on mine, capturing them in a slow, tentative kiss. Like melted caramel, his lips move against mine. His tongue licks at the seam of my lips, but he’s not begging for entrance. It’s a claim he’s staking on me, branding my lips in a heat they’ve never felt before. Willingly, I open to him. Our tongues slide together. Moans fill the non-existent space between us.

  When his hand knots in my hair at the nape of my neck, pulling my head back for more access to my mouth, I can’t stifle the groan of delight that passes my lips. “I’ll take that as a yes,” his words swirl through my lust-filled brain as his lips dance down my neck.

  “So sweet, Elle. You taste so…” he pauses, licking a sweet and hot path down my neck, stopping just at my exposed collarbone. “So fucking good,” he finishes, looking me right in the eyes.

  “There she is!” Crystal and my other friends call out from the end of the alleyway. “Hey!” They misread the situation, a frenzied sense of worry creeping in their voices. Owen throws his hands in the air, the ultimate white flag that he’s not doing anything wrong.

  Still completely incapable of making any sense of what the hell just happened, I walk away from him and toward my waiting friends. “I’m fine, girls.” Chancing a last look over my shoulder, I add, “Let’s get out of here.”

  Like the ass he claimed me to be, I walk away from him, his hot kisses, and angry look, trying desperately to make sense why the hell he affects me so much.

  ***

  By the time Monday morning rolls around, I’ve cleared my head enough to develop a plan. It struck me as odd last week, as Owen sat at my desk, talking about profit and loss statements, and quarterly bank accounts as if he’d actually had experience with them. But since Ethan was here, picking me up for a business meeting slash dinner – one for which he gave me no notice whatsoever – I didn’t do much with it.

  Sitting at my computer now, I’m ready to finally get to the bottom of the enigma that is Owen Carmichael.

  Thank you very much, Google.

  Why I hadn’t thought of a basic internet search on the man with whom I’m currently running a company is completely beyond me. All I can think of as an excuse is that Vincent’s death was so sudden. The legal proceedings that followed completely screwed with my head. Knowing that I needed to get the meeting with Ethan in before Owen could find out about it, I buried my nose in financial statements, figuring out the most fail-safe business plan I could come up with. In between all of that, figuring out who the hell Owen Carmichael really is, was way on the back burner.

  But with the feel of his lips singed into my memory, I type his name in the search bar, determined to get to the bottom of this. The first thing to come up is a Newsday article outlining his recent inheritance of half of Bella Luna’s Estate. Nothing new there, so I scroll down.

  When his Linkedin profile shows up, I click on it, immediately intrigued by his clean-cut and professional picture. What the hell? Owen Carmichael graduated at the top of his class at Boston College. He holds an MBA and according to this profile, he had recently signed on as an intern at a prestigious financial firm.

  The little fucker. He knew everything he was talking about when he was looking at those papers. Angrily, I hit print, and wait not-so-patiently for the printer to spit out the evidence of his deception.

  Though, he didn’t really lie. I think to myself. Seeing as I called him a bastard farm boy, without even thinking to ask him anything of where he was from or what he knew, I didn’t exactly give him an opening.

  Just as the final page prints out, the door to my office opens. Owen stands in front of me. Work-worn jeans, beat-up boots, tight-as-sin T-shirt, the man is sexy as hell. Quickly, I shove his profile papers into the stack of folders on my desk.

  “Can I help you?” I ask, primly sitting back in my seat. The feeling of being lied to weighs heavily on my mind.

  “We need to talk.” He sits across from me. “Look, I’m sorry about the other night. I shouldn’t have…I mean, it was wrong of me to assume.” Hearing him stammer through an apology, one that’s completely unnecessary if you ask me, might be the most endearing thing ever.

  “It’s fine.” My words surprise him, the shock registering on his face. “We just can’t let it happen again.” Curt is the word I would use to best describe my tone.

  He shoots up from his chair, offering me a snide look. “Clearly,” he snaps. When he gets to the door, he turns around, to add, “I’ll be out in the fields, where I belong.” Dejection hangs on his words and I feel like a jerk for making him feel that way, but I need more time to make sense of this new information.

  Resting my elbows on my desk, I cradle my head in my hands. When I hear the door creak open, I look up. “Hey, Rosie,” I greet her as she brings me a cup of tea.

  “Everything okay, sweetie?” she asks, not as a secretary, but as a friend.

  “Just peachy,” I answer with a smile that’s brighter than necessary.

  She smirks at me, “Uh huh,” she mutters under her breath. When she realizes she’s not going to get anything else out of me, she walks back toward the door.

  “Oh, Mr. Robertson called earlier.” She lean
s against the doorframe recalling the details she obviously forgot to tell me.

  “And?” I prompt her anxiously. He still hasn’t decided if the wedding reception venue is a venture in which he wants to invest.

  “He wanted to see if you had time for a tour of the facilities. You were free this afternoon so I penciled him in.” She looks down at her watch as if it’s no big thing she forgot to tell me this. “He’ll be here in about an hour.”

  Realizing she meant no harm, I smile calmly at her but in my head, my thoughts swirl around like some crazy cyclone. Rosie excuses herself and I pull together any last-minute details Mr. Robertson might need.

  ***

  An hour later, right on cue, Rosie ushers Ethan Robertson into my office. Extending a hand to him, I greet him warmly, and hopefully. “Good afternoon, Mr. Robertson.” The sly and seductive look on his face, the one that was there when we went to dinner the other night instantly puts me on edge.

  “Elle,” his smile is anything but business professional, “call me Ethan. I told you that the other night.”

  Yes, yes you did and I got the creepy crawlies when you said it then, just like now.

  Shaking away those thoughts, I suggest we start our tour with the fields. “I want to show you where couples could do their wedding photos. I think you’ll be impressed by how beautiful the vineyards are.” As I escort him out of the office, I grab my files. Having enough foresight, I actually booked a mock-wedding photo shoot at the vineyards last week, after the field crew left for the evening. I knew that my words would never do the pictures justice.

  By some magical power, I manage not to trip and break my neck as I show him the vines wearing my heels. “Just so you can see the full visual.” I stop and pull out a few pictures. “Look at the way the sun filters through the leaves. Brides will go crazy over perks like this.”

  His fingers graze mine as he takes the pictures from my hand. His eyes lock on mine as he says, “They are quite beautiful.” A chill courses through my body as a feeling of discomfort and unease surround me.

  “Excellent, Elle.” He hands me back the photos and shoots me a look that makes me feel anything but excellent. “I think I’d like to see the cellars now.” His voice is filled with determination, and, though it hadn’t been part of my plan for the tour, I can’t deny him.

  “Certainly, Mr. Robert–” he cuts me off mid-word, waggling his finger in front of my face. “Ethan, I mean,” I correct myself and ignore the odd look in his eyes as he turns away from me.

  On the way out of the fields toward the cellar, he catches a glimpse of the cottage. Looking at it curiously, I try my best to explain my visions. “That’s where the main reception venue would be,” I say, silently kicking myself for not having the plans already drawn. I held off on those, figuring whoever would be investing in the project might want to have some input.

  “Is it opened to the public now?” he asks as he eerily scans the area surrounding us. My senses go on high alert, but before I can come up with some kind of explanation as to why we shouldn’t go in there, he’s already walking away from me.

  My heels dig in the ground as I try to catch up to him. By the time I reach him, I’m out of breath and completely off-balance. He stops abruptly, forcing me to stumble into him as I regain my footing. Bracing my arms in his strong hands, he scans my face. “So sorry for that, Mr. Robertson.”

  He rights me, letting his hands linger on my arms longer than he should. Holding the door open for me, he lets me walk in front of him. I feel his eyes on me and just as I turn around to move past him, he shuts the door behind us.

  “What are you doing?” Panic rises in my voice.

  “Nothing you haven’t already asked for.” His words set my world spinning. “You and those tight skirts. I see the way you look at me. You’re nothing but a woman trying to use sex as a means to get what she wants. Well, here I am.” He steps in close to me, turning us so my back is pressed up against the door. “I’ll give you what you want, but you have to give me what I want first.”

  “What?” I stumble back a step, disbelief and fear wash over me as I try to get away from him. “You’re crazy,” I yell, moving toward the door.

  He catches my wrist in his hand as I fumble for the doorknob behind me. “Oh, no you don’t,” he chides me. “Where are you going to go anyway?”

  “Help!” I call out, my voice cracking. “Please someone help.”

  A maniacal laugh bubbles from his twisted mouth. “No one can hear you, so keep screaming. I like it when they fight back.”

  Fear like I’ve never know lances through me. In that moment, every side-ways glance, every wayward touch, everything that I thought was odd and just off about Ethan Robertson, comes back to me full force. Screams, frenzied and panicked, fly out of my mouth. When his hand clamps over my mouth, I bite down hard enough to draw blood. It’s enough of a distraction for him to drop my hand and for me to open the door.

  He recovers quickly, grabbing my wrist as I’m just one step out the door. He pulls me back, twisting me to face him. A loud thwap sounds in the air as his hand slaps across my face. “You bitch!” he curses.

  When his hand flies up into the air for what I assume is another smack to the face, I close my eyes and brace for it.

  “Leave her the fuck alone!” I recognize the low, mean growl of Owen’s voice as I wait for the painful blow. When it doesn’t happen, I open my eyes. Ethan turns to see a seething Owen standing behind him. With my wrist still in his hand, Ethan eyes Owen. Ethan pushes me away and I stumble to the ground, the hard cobblestone walkway lacerating my knees as I fall to the ground.

  Skittering backward, I scratch my palms on the ground, getting out of their way. Owen twists Ethan’s arm behind his back and pushes him up against the door. “Tour’s over, asshole.” With a hard shove, Owen pushes his elbow into Ethan’s lower back. The scuffle has drawn the attention of a small work crew. Peter races over to Owen’s side, but not before Owen’s fist connects with Ethan’s jaw in a loud crack.

  Handing Ethan over to Peter, Owen glowers at him. “I don’t ever want to see you around here again. Got it?” Ethan nods as he rubs over the spot where he was just punched. His eyes travel over to me on the ground. “Don’t even think about looking at her.” Owen steps in front of him, blocking me from Ethan’s view. “Pete, take the bastard out front. I’m calling the cops right now.”

  Owen crouches down in front of me, sweeping my hair from my eyes. Though he’s gentle beyond all belief, even the slightest touch of his callous-roughened fingers across my slapped cheek causes me to pull back in pain. “Fuck, I’m sorry.” Carefully, he tucks my hair behind my ear. Holding out his hand, he helps me up. That’s when I notice I must have twisted my ankle in the fall.

  I stumble into his arms. Pain lances up my leg and the reality of the last half-hour comes barreling over me. Tears streak down my cheeks at the thought of what could have happened if Owen hadn’t found me.

  Pulling me against his chest, Owen coos into my ear. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. You’re safe.” His calm, blue eyes scan my face. “Can you walk?”

  I try a step, but the pain is too much. “I can’t. It hurts.”

  Effortlessly, he scoops me up in his arms. Wrapping my arms around his neck, I lean my head against his shoulder. As we make our way back into the office, Rosie sees us. Immediately frantic, she races to open the door for Owen. “What happened? Is she all right?” The questions fly out her mouth as she moves the pillows around on the small sofa in my office.

  Owen gently places me on the couch. “She’s just fine,” he calms Rosie with just a few words. “Would you mind getting us some ice?” Before the question is even fully out of his mouth, Rosie is scurrying off to the small kitchenette. Owen heads out front to explain what happened to the cops. After they ask me a few questions, they take Ethan away and it’s just the two of us left alone together.

  “Hey,” he tips my chin up when he’s sitting next to me, “are y
ou okay?” The concern in his voice isn’t lost on me.

  Swiping away the few tears on my face, I nod and try for my brightest smile. When that falters, I laugh at myself. “I’m such a fool,” I scoff, recalling how Ethan was anything but a professional in the few encounters I had with him.

  Rosie chooses that moment to walk back in the room. She hands one ice pack over to Owen, who gently props my ankle up on a pillow and rests the ice on top of it. With motherly gentleness, she presses the other ice pack up against my reddened cheek.

  “What happened, Elle?” Rosie asks again.

  Since the kitchenette is on the other side of the building, Rosie wouldn’t have seen the cops. Shooting Owen what I hope is my just-go-with-it face, I make up a story about getting my heel caught in the cobblestone and falling on my ass. “Luckily, Owen and Peter were passing by and saved my sorry ass.” The look of relief that passes over Rosie’s face at my explanation helps me relax a little. I know it’s a crappy thing to lie to her, but I hate to worry her. And honestly, with what Owen said to Ethan, I doubt he’ll be showing his face around here again.

  Rosie looks torn between staying in the office and going back out to her desk to answer the ringing phone. Owen speaks for me as he walks Rosie to the door. “I promise I’ll take care of her. Can you just cancel whatever appointments she has for the rest of today and tomorrow, too?” Rosie nods and blows me a kiss, telling me to take it easy the rest of the afternoon.

  As I shift in my seat, I wince in pain. Owen notices it and asks if he can get me any Advil.

  The soft spot I have for him grows a little and I can’t stop myself from smiling. “That would be great. There’s some in the top drawer of my desk.”

  When he comes back to the couch, he hands me two pills and glass of water. He doesn’t sit back down, though. Instead, he goes back over to the desk and pulls out the folders I was working on earlier. Moving the mouse around on the desk brings the computer back to life and I nearly spit out my water telling him to stop.