Just For Now (A Flirting With Trouble Novel)

by Annie Kelly

I pause, then inhale a shaky breath.

  “I love you.”

  For a second, Owen freezes. When he turns around to face me, he looks like he’s both shocked and thrilled. Carefully, he sets down the salad and comes to kiss me.

  “I love you, too, gorgeous. It’s great to hear you say it back.”

  I bite my bottom lip, then release it.

  “It’s great to actually say it,” I respond.

  And it’s the truth. It feels right to love Owen. It feels like everything is falling into the right place at the right time.

  Finally.

  Finally, I’m sliding into the spot made just for me.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Six Weeks Later

  “You sure you don’t want to just hide back in your office? We could fit in a quickie before the open house starts.”

  I roll my eyes at Owen and he grins at me. I know he’s kidding—that he’s just trying to make me loosen up a little. It’s a huge day—professionally, the biggest day of my life. I’ve been nervous as hell all week and Owen knows it. His attempt at distraction is really his sweet way of making me relax a little bit.

  I pace back and forth in the hall outside the Safe Spaces Support Café and try to convince myself that there’s no reason to be nervous. That this day—this moment—is something I’ve worked harder for than I’ve ever worked for anything. Everyone I know is coming to the open house today. Cyn and Smith, her fiancé—God, I have to get used to saying that. They haven’t set a date yet, but Cyn’s already beginning to talk about dresses and Carson’s already got a bachelorette weekend planned. Carson’s moved most of her things out of the apartment—she and Wyatt found a row house in Hampden that they love.

  My parents are driving up today, too—both of my sisters have prior commitments, but I’m trying not to be hurt or offended. In general, I’ve decided to focus on the good and not the bad when it comes to all things—my relationship with my folks, my job and the kids I’ve come to love at BYC, and, of course, Owen. It’s been a long time since I’ve loved someone. It’s been a long time since I’ve let myself be loved.

  For a final time, I walk over to the café and check out the setup. I can’t believe how far we’ve come with so very little cash. There’s a bank of five computers—all donated—linked up along one wall. Over where my old coffee machine used to sit on a tray table? Now there’s a silver cart with a Keurig machine that’s far nicer than the one I have at home. The old tables and chairs have been replaced with new sofas and loveseats, along with lamps and end tables. The posters are gone—in their place, framed photos from local activists and large canvases with bright, abstract paintings.

  Best of all are the lockers. Our make-do lockboxes were donated to a few of the local schools. Now, we’ve got six-foot custom lockers that were built by a carpenter out of Pennsylvania. Each one has hooks for jackets, a shelf for books, and a large locking drawer for personal items. The lockers were given to our teen advisory board first, but the last three are being raffled off to the kids who attend the most.

  I feel arms come around my waist and Owen props his chin on my shoulder. I lean my head to one side and he sweeps my blond curls away from my neck.

  “You’ve done so good, baby,” he whispers in my ear. “This place is amazing. And this never would have happened if you hadn’t busted your ass.”

  I sort of shrug, but I can’t help but smile at his words. The truth is that he’s right. The grant applications had been an absolute pain in the ass, but it was nothing compared to the actual orchestration of the cyber café. I’d had to arrange deliveries and design the space and figure out how to make things the most functional and useful for the largest number of people. There’ve been days when I literally wanted to throw up my hands and give up. Those were the days when, inexplicably, as though she knew I was struggling, Charlie would show up. She’d help me with whatever was frustrating me. She’d paint windowsills or unpack boxes or just sit and chat about drama happening at school. In the end, it was like she knew I needed her there. And every single time, she got me through the panic and the worry.

  And now here we are. The BYC Safe Spaces Support Café. It’s a reality and it’s the best thing I’ve ever been a part of.

  “Charlie’s coming today, right?” Owen asks as we head back through the hall to the main office. I nod.

  “Yeah, she’s bringing her mom and her sister.”

  “What’s going on with her mom and her stepdad?”

  I shrug. “Charlie said her mom filed for a legal separation. It sounds like she’s done for real.”

  Owen shakes his head. “I can’t believe it—I mean, I’m really glad, of course. I just wish she hadn’t waited so long. She could have saved Charlie a lot of pain and the whole world a lot of trouble.”

  “Yeah, maybe so.”

  I reach for Owen’s hand, and, when I weave our fingers together, I squeeze gently.

  “Sometimes it takes a little while to see the truth about things,” I say softly, looking at him, a smile playing at my mouth. “Sometimes you need a little longer than other people to know what everyone else knew the entire time.”

  Owen pulls me into him and spins me around, backing me against the wall. I squeal, then look in both directions.

  “Owen—we’re not alone in the building!”

  “Please.” He scoffs, then frames my face with both of his hands, leaning in to capture my mouth with his. For a second, I attempt to resist, but my fight is futile and we both know it. I lift my hands to clutch at Owen’s biceps, letting my nails dig in with the slightest bite of pain. I know how much he likes it when I add an edge. The slightest bit of naughty spicing up our classic nice.

  “You know we can’t start this,” he growls in my ear, then grazes the lobe with his teeth. I roll my eyes, pinning him with an exasperated stare.

  “Um, excuse me. Who started this?”

  He grins, then lowers his mouth to my neck, knowing that’s my sweet spot—the one place that will make me melt every single time. As he flicks his tongue out against the soft flesh at the base of my throat, I whimper in protest. Well, okay, not protest. Whimper in need, I guess. Whimper with desire—for damn sure.

  “For the next few hours, I’m not going to be able to touch you the way I want,” he whispers, kissing my collarbone, “so I want to tell you what I plan to do to you tonight when we get home.”

  I love when he says things like that—things like “when we go home” even though we have separate apartments. He’s been staying at mine the majority of the time for weeks.

  But the word “home” is a little less potent right now as he starts laying out a seduction of words that makes me positively weak-kneed.

  “First, I’m going to undress you, starting with that sexy black dress you’re wearing,” he says, tugging on the strap of my knee-length shift dress. I decided dressing up for today’s opening was appropriate, so we’d both chosen business attire instead of our usual polo shirts and jeans. Owen’s deep grey button-down and black slacks make him look more dapper and put together than usual, which is saying something.

  “And when I get that sexy little dress off of you,” he continues, grazing my jaw with a half dozen light kisses, “I’ll be delighted to find out that you’re completely fucking naked underneath. And that’s when I’ll drop to my knees.”

  I pull back quickly, banging my head in the process.

  “Oh, will you now?” I ask, eyes wide. “Please, tell me more . . .”

  Owen cocks his head.

  “Well, I don’t know . . . I mean, I don’t want you to get all excited or anything. I mean—I don’t want you to be distracted giving your speech today . . .”

  “No, distract me. Please distract me.”

  He chuckles, then presses a chaste kiss against my mouth.

  “I love you, Rainey. And I’m proud of you. A
nd I mean that in the least patronizing way possible.”

  I lift up on my toes and kiss him back, locking my fingers around his neck and pulling him in close.

  “I love you, too.”

  I breathe the words between our kisses, but I know he hears me. I know by the way he kisses me back more intensely. I know by the way I can feel his mouth smiling against mine.

  There’s so much success in my life today—the Safe Spaces Café and legitimate love. I’m not sure I ever could have predicted this kind of future for myself. In some ways, I’m glad. I’d rather be surprised by my own happiness every day than live the life laid out for me by anyone—including myself.

  ***

  “We’re incredibly proud to announce that Safe Spaces is the first program of its kind in the city of Baltimore.”

  Burt Kensington stands, smiling broadly at the group of nearly a hundred people. We’re all standing outside of BYC, and a ceremonial ribbon has been tied between two bannisters. Owen is holding a pair of scissors, but his eyes are trained on me. I keep glancing over at him and smiling. He has a hand discreetly pressed to the small of my back and I have to resist the urge to press back against it. I have to resist a lot of urges right now, like the one I have that’s trying to convince me to go fuck Owen in my office while Bullshit Bruce waxes poetic about our accomplishments.

  But, instead, I just smile and look out at the people waiting patiently to see what we’ve made out of this underfunded little center. Sure, we didn’t get all of the grants we’d wanted, all the cash we’d wanted, but the single private anonymous donor gave us enough to cover the basics we’d installed in the café. After soliciting businesses for material donations and convincing the carpenter to work for a deep discount, we’ve made something I’m proud of. Something I’m honored to show my friends, my family. Something I’m happy to say I saw through from start to finish.

  I glance down the stairs at Cyn and Smith. He’s standing there proudly, smiling down at her like she’s where the sun rises and sets. What more could anyone ask for than that kind of love?

  Next to them, Carson and Wyatt are holding hands. This is the first time I’ve seen Wyatt out and about without the help of his crutches—just with the assistance of a cane. They’re leaning against each other as though holding each other up. I have a feeling that’s more than a metaphor. I think they make each other better.

  I’m happy for my friends. I can feel that way now, knowing that I’ve got so much to keep my heart full. Sure, it’s about Owen, but it’s also not at all about Owen. It’s about this place. About the kids we’re helping. I’ve never felt so sure, so much like I belonged anywhere. In some ways, I think Safe Spaces is just as much for me as it is for Charlie and the others.

  And on the left side of the steps, sitting on a bench, are my parents. My mother insisted on wearing a pale pink Chanel suit that only she and Emily Gilmore can pull off, now that Jackie Kennedy is dead. My dad’s charcoal pinstripe pants and crisp white shirt make him look as though he’s going to church or a job interview. But I can’t complain—they’re here, and that says something. My sister, Neely, is studying for her LSATs next week, and Mamie is in Norfolk on “official pageant business,” but I get it. We all have our own lives and our own priorities. I can’t fault them for it. Especially when my parents chose to be here to support me in the end.

  “So, without further ado,” Mr. Kensington is saying, “Mr. Owen Marshall, our director here at BYC, will cut the ribbon and we can all check out the brand-new Safe Spaces Support Café!”

  Owen makes the obligatory cut in the cheap polyester ribbon, and the ends flutter to the cement below. There’s clapping and hugs and pats on the back as the crowd begins to ascend the steps. I turn to him and he winks. I can feel a little jolt between my legs with that sexy little expression. There’s just something about this guy—I’ve never been involved with someone I was so inherently attracted to. It’s hard to make it through the day without dragging him into the broom closet halfway through our shifts.

  It’s pretty common knowledge that we’re dating, but we still try to maintain some level of professionalism, so I let Owen walk up into the building with Mr. Kensington while I walk in the opposite direction to meet up with my parents. When I get close enough for him to reach me, my father wraps me in his arms and squeezes me hard.

  “Well, kiddo, I gotta tell you,” he says with a healthy chuckle and a shake of his head, “you’ve outdone yourself.”

  I grin at him as I pull back to meet his gaze.

  “Daddy, you haven’t even seen it yet.”

  “Please,” he scoffs, “I know it’s perfection already. You’re my hardworking, ass-kicking girl. You’re using that money to make things happen, baby doll.”

  That sentence—“you make things happen”—it hits me like something enormous and solid. Like running face-first into a bear hug. Like being hit over the head with all of the love you’ve ever known.

  The anonymous donation. There’d been a note along with it.

  A note that said, Use this money to make things happen.

  I stare at him. Then shift my gaze to my mother, who is shaking her head. She looks both exasperated and amused.

  “You are such a blabbermouth, Winston,” she grumbles good-naturedly. Then she smiles at me and reaches out to brush a tendril of hair off my forehead.

  “You did this,” I whisper to them, still completely in shock. “You donated the money to the program.”

  My father shrugs and shoves his hands in the pockets of his slacks.

  “I would argue that statement, darling. I think you are the one who did this.”

  “We just gave you a little help, that’s all,” Mom says, patting my arm.

  I’m completely speechless. When we’d gotten the check for ten grand, it had been a cashier’s check. No identifying names or accounts. The letter had been typed up and simple. From the moment it had arrived until now, I’d looked at it as a helping hand from a kind stranger.

  I’d been willing to take it from a stranger. I’d been willing to believe a stranger was more likely to help me than the people who raised me were.

  “Thank you.”

  I practically dive back into my father’s arms, then grab my mother’s sleeve and yank her closer to me.

  “Oh, goodness, Rainey, don’t make a fuss.”

  My mother sniffs and pulls away, smoothing a hand over her jacket, then touching her pearls with her fingertips as though to affirm they are still in place.

  “Come on,” I say, grinning at her, then grabbing her hand, despite her obvious protests. “Come with me—you deserve to see what your money bought.”

  My mother smiles then and shakes her head.

  “We don’t care what our money bought, honey. We just want to see what our daughter built.”

  My heart has never felt so entirely open and so utterly full all at once. As I lead them up the stairs and inside the lobby, I point them in the direction of the café, making an excuse about using the bathroom. It isn’t until I’m in my office that I let myself sit down and the tears begin to fall.

  “Baby?”

  I glance up, wiping my eyes, to see Owen standing in the doorway. He looks alarmed and I shake my head.

  “I’m fine—they’re happy tears, I swear.”

  Owen grins and comes closer to my desk, leaning forward over mounds of files to press his mouth to mine.

  “Come on out here with me,” he murmurs against my mouth. “I want you to enjoy every moment of this day.”

  I nod, then grab his outstretched hand. As he helps me rise to standing, I pull him closer to me.

  “I love you, you know,” I whisper to him. “More than I ever realized until this very moment.”

  “Does that mean you’re content with me being the boss after all?” he asks, brow raised.

  I laug
h lightly, then shrug. “Just for now.”

  “And how about for later?”

  I tip my head back, meeting his warm gaze, before pressing my mouth to his one more time.

  “Later, I’ll show you who’s really boss.”

  Owen grins against my lips, then kisses me in earnest.

  “Now, that’s a promotion I can really get behind.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I’m indebted to my agent, Suzie Townsend, along with Danielle Barthel, Jackie Lindert, Sara Stricker, and everyone at New Leaf Literary. They are the best people to have on your side and I owe them lots of crepes filled with Nutella. Or, you know, jars of Nutella—served with spoons and thanks.

  My editor, Jennifer Fisher, has allowed me to reach and stretch and become a better writer with every draft. I’m so glad I’ve gotten the opportunity to work with her on this book. Likewise, everyone at Berkley/Intermix has been supportive and welcoming and has succeeded in making me feel like I belong in the romance world. I’m incredibly fortunate. Oh, and my covers totally kick ass!

  To my readers, who follow the trials and tribulations of these characters with enthusiasm. Your love makes me feel all warm and fuzzy. I owe you all a big hug and I am definitely a hugger, so be ready.

  To my friends and family, for their endless quantities of support. I have friends who literally buy every single thing I write and there is honestly no greater love than that. I’m indebted to so many great writer friends, including Dahlia Adler, Sharon Morse, Tess Sharpe, and Jess Capelle, and equally as many non-writer friends, including Ali Lazorchak, Missie Kirkner, Carly Keane, and Sarah Malasky. To my cheer mom friends, my Facebook friends, my writing group friends—all of you are invaluable.

  My beautiful, frustrating, perfectly flawed, and gorgeously growing children keep my world spinning and, man, does it spin! Life would be completely lifeless without their heartbeats to guide my way. Thanks, littles.

  And, most of all, to my husband, Josh, who makes every day I live like a page in a romance novel. Case in point: today, I asked him what I should wear to work and his response was, “Does it matter? I’m just going to take it off of you later.” That, dear readers, is the kind of love you write books about.