by Katie Fox
“I’m not picky.”
Grabbing a bag of freshly caught and peeled shrimp from one of the shelves, I stacked my arms full of ingredients, setting them on the center workspace before moving over to the pantry and retrieving enough pasta for the both of us.
Owen watched me as I tied an apron around my waist and pulled down a few pots and pans from where they hung overhead.
“Is there anything I can help you with?”
I looked up at him, a warm feeling flooding through my veins at his offer. “Um...yeah. If you want, you can grab me the seasonings and fill the pot with water so we can get it boiling.”
“That I can do.”
In a few minutes, it was on the stove and the mouth-watering aroma of garlic and butter wafted throughout the entire kitchen. I dropped the shrimp into the pan, watching it sauté until it turned its desired pink color. Once it was finished, I added fresh parsley, lemon zest, and the remaining ingredients before finally setting it aside as we waited for the pasta to finish.
Owen sat on a stool, his elbows resting back on the countertop, and I found it difficult not to sneak tiny glances at him here and there. He was so handsome, and any apprehension I had about bringing him had completely fallen away.
“Is it wrong that I’m currently picturing a younger version of you working this kitchen and calling the shots?”
Unable to resist, I smiled, secretly loving that his silent thoughts included me. “No. It’s not wrong. I did at one point. As soon as I was old enough to help out, I was here, waiting tables and cooking in the kitchen if needed. It was part of the reason why I was so desperate to get out of this town. I didn’t want my life revolving around this place anymore.” Moving away from the stove, I pulled out the stool beside him and plopped down on it, mimicking his position. “Don’t get me wrong, I love it here. The view that I showed you…it’s everything. My family is everything, but I could never give up New York.”
“You belong in New York.” His lips pressed together momentarily, and then twisted to the side in a smile. “You make it look good.”
I shook my head and laughed. “I like this side of you.”
He lifted a brow. “What side?”
“Your charming side.” I flashed him another smile, this one kind and warm, and I didn’t miss the way his gaze dropped to my lips. As if it rolled in on the coastal tide, a thick tension whipped up in the small space between our bodies, and the heady sensation it swept over my skin had me rising to my feet. “The food should be ready soon. I’m going to go grab some glasses from the front.”
Owen started to get up. “Do you need help?”
“No.” I shook my head quickly. I needed a moment away from him because my head was beginning to feel dizzy with lust and I needed to clear it. “No. I can do it. I’ll be right back.”
Hurrying out of the wooden swinging doors, I walked over to the bar area and grabbed two wine glasses and a bottle of Pinot Grigio. The last thing I should be doing was filling my blood with alcohol, especially in the presence of Owen, but it complemented the shrimp linguini I had made, and really, I needed something to relax my nerves. Making my way back into the kitchen and remembering the utensils at the last minute, I was greeted with that breathtaking smile of his as I pushed through the doors. He was in the process of mixing the sauce and shrimp into the pasta, and I set the glasses down on the worktable, where two dinner bowls already sat waiting.
Opening the bottle of wine and filling our glasses, I watched as Owen dished out each of us a generous portion of pasta before returning the pot to the stove and joining me on his stool.
He wasted no time taking a bite. “Wow, Elle. This is…this is really good.”
“Yeah?” My cheeks warmed. “I was afraid you might not be a seafood person.”
“Yeah, it is. And no, I love it. I can't remember the last time I actually had a homecooked meal either. Well, not that this is exactly a homecooked meal. I mean, it is a homecooked meal, we just didn't cook it in a”—he stopped, giving his head a little shake and laughing dryly at his own ramble—“ah, fuck. You know what I mean.”
Was it possible Owen Caldwell was nervous? This was new. I had never seen him be anything but self-assured and confident, except for that one time in the library, and loving that I was seeing another side to him, I smiled to myself. “I know what you mean.”
“Every Sunday, my mom used to make these huge meals. She would wake up in the morning and be in the kitchen all day long. And it was crazy, because it was only the three of us, no one else, and I never understood why she took the time to do that.”
Swirling my fork around the linguini, I brought it to my mouth, groaning internally at its taste. It was good. As I went to take another bite, I thought about what he had said, and my next question jumped from my tongue without thinking about how it may be received. “Do you miss them?”
“Who?”
“Your parents.”
He was silent for a moment, and I didn’t miss the way the muscle on his jaw tightened as he slowly chewed his food. I didn’t think he was going to answer.
“Like you wouldn't believe.”
A thickness collected in my throat, and I quickly chased it down with a gulp of my drink. We ate mostly in silence after that, sipping on our wine in between taking mouthfuls of our food. I had downed two glasses to his one, and I could feel the effects of it as it entered my bloodstream, warming me from the inside out. Or maybe that was just Owen and the way he’d occasionally look over at me, flashing me smirks that melted me into a puddle of goo.
I felt like a young girl again, crushing on a boy for the very first time.
Once we finished eating, he helped me clean up the dishes. I grabbed another bottle of wine since we’d emptied the first, or rather, I’d emptied it—Owen had stopped after his second glass—and we talked. We talked about my parents and how long they’d been married. We talked about the restaurant and Kimmi’s wedding on Saturday, and we talked about my writing. I was convinced it was the wine that had loosened my lips by that point, because a sober Elle would never have had the confidence to speak so freely about it.
“I may be a little biased, but for what it's worth, I think it's amazing. Even if you decide to not publish it, you need to at least finish the story.”
I cracked a one-sided smile. “Hate cliff-hangers, huh?”
He chuckled. “No, I love them actually, love the anticipation and that hanging on the edge of your seat feeling, but that's not the point. The point is to finish it for you. Not for me or anybody else.” He looked right at me. “Finish it for you, Elle.”
“I will. Once the words decide to come back, I will.”
Hours that felt like minutes passed, and I didn’t care to count them. I wanted to savor the easy night we had fallen into. It was the two of us, together, and every question that still needed answers didn’t matter. We laughed, we joked, and we smiled. And I wanted more. More moments like the one we were currently living.
Glancing down at the watch strapped to his wrist, Owen smiled sadly. “It’s getting late. We should probably get going.” His eyes flicked over the empty bottles of wine and then back to me. “I’ll drive you home and then I’ll call a taxi. Something tells me Uber doesn’t exist in Rock Bay, Maine.”
“You would be correct, sir.” My words might have been slightly slurred. Sure, they sounded fine to me, but I didn’t know the difference between “before wine” fine and “after wine” fine. I settled with the idea that I was somewhere right in the middle of the two. Sitting there, I watched as Owen rose to his feet and collected the empty glasses and bottles, walking to place them in the sink and in the recycling bin. Disappointment cut through me. This was it. Our easy night was over. Tomorrow the walls we kept stacked between us would be re-erected.
Swiveling around on my stool, I attempted to stand up, and as I did, the ground spun beneath me. I grabbed ahold of the table at the same time strong fingers curled around my hips. A bubble of laughter
floated from my chest.
“Woah. Careful there. I think you’ve had a little too much to drink, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart. I liked the sound of that.
See? I wasn’t totally incoherent.
Finding my balance, I twirled around. He was right there. Right in front of me. And I dropped my head back, looking up at him with an intoxicated grin on my face. “I think you’re right, handsome.”
“Handsome, huh?”
His shoulders moved on a chuckle, and as the humor faded, something thick and heavy replaced it, filling the space with tension. Owen’s hands remained on my hips, the heat of his palms searing my skin even through the fabric of my clothes, and I almost gasped at the way my body burned for him. There was an achiness in my breasts and a deep need simmering low in my belly, begging to be satisfied.
It was then that I realized that night in the hotel room in L.A. hadn't been enough. It'd never be enough. I wanted more of Owen Caldwell. I wanted all of him.
Holding his gaze, I watched as the expression on his face changed. His lips pinched together. His brows narrowed. The greens of his irises darkened, and his expression intensified.
My heart raced beneath my ribs at the way he was looking at me, and with a tremble and hesitancy in my movements, I reached up, pressing a hand against his chest, over his heart, curious if it was beating as fast as mine.
It was.
Oh God. It was. Was it beating for me? Was it beating because of me?
Using Owen’s body for support, I pushed up on my tiptoes, and as I brought my lips closer to his, the grip he had on me tightened.
His heart began to thud. Loudly.
Unless it was mine. I honestly didn't know. It all happened so fast. One minute we were standing there, and the next, he was lifting me onto the table and stepping between my legs.
Breathless, I gazed into his eyes, my cheeks flushed and my breathing unsteady. His fingers dug into the flesh of my hips while mine clenched fistfuls of his shirt. He dropped his forehead to mine and shook his head slowly, his breath hot on my lips.
“Elle...”
Heat from the way he said my name dove right down to my core, and my foggy brain was still trying to process the emotion behind his tone as the sound of distant voices in the main dining room grew closer.
Before either of us could say another word, I shoved him away from me, my eyes widening in panic.
Shit.
I had never sobered up so fast in my life. I looked around, frantically searching for an escape or a place to at least hide Owen.
It was too late.
There was no hiding him. Not anymore.
Kimmi burst through the kitchen doors, her fiancé, Chris, in tow. “Elle are you here?”
My cheeks flamed red, and I slowly spun on my heels. “Kimmi, what are you doing here?”
“Mom and Dad were worried about…” Her voice died as her gaze landed on Owen, a thousand questions flickering behind her baby blues. Her blonde brows climbed her forehead as she returned her attention to me. “And who might this be?”
Confident Owen was back, taking control of the moment as he stepped forward and offered my sister his hand. “Owen Caldwell. It's nice to meet you, Kimmi. Elle has told me a lot about you.”
Her mouth hung open, and her brows blended in with her hairline. They sure had, because when she turned to face me, they were gone. Speechless and still obviously confused, she gave me that “Holy shit, he's hot” look and shook his hand.
I sighed at the awkwardness of the entire situation. “Owen is my boss. He flew into town with me because we have an important project we are in the middle of working on and he needed to be able to meet with me this week. It was either that or I miss your wedding, and that wasn't happening, so I had no choice but to bring him. We had a conference call tonight which ran late, and since everything was closed, we decided to come here for dinner.”
“Oh,” she said, as if she finally understood. “Well, why didn’t you tell us? You know Mom and Dad wouldn’t have minded if you’d brought him over for dinner. They would have been thrilled to meet him.”
Ugh. No. Nobody was supposed to meet him.
She looked at Owen. “It’s nice to meet you. Elle doesn’t really talk a lot about her work or her life in New York.” There was a sadness in her tone that I didn’t miss. “How long are you in town?”
“Sunday. I fly back with Elle on Sunday.”
“So you’ll be in town Saturday for the wedding then?”
Owen and I both spoke at the same time.
“Yes.”
“No.”
He frowned at my “no” response. He would be in town, of course, he would, but this…all of this…was heading in a direction I wanted to steer clear and far away from. He wasn't here to meet my family. He was here because he needed to be here.
“Well if you’re not busy, please feel free to come as Elle’s guest. Her invitation included a plus one, and last time I checked, that spot was still open.”
I glared daggers at her, my eyes wide.
What the hell was she doing!
Owen spoke. “Thank you. If it's all right with Elle, I think I'll take you up—”
“No.” I shook my head, adamant in my response. “He’s here for work. That’s it. Not to accompany me to your wedding.” As soon as I said the words, I regretted them. I didn’t need to look at Owen to know he was staring at me with disappointment in his eyes. He wanted to accompany me. That’s what he had been about to say before I cut him off.
“Yeah. You know, she’s right. I appreciate the offer, but I think I’m going to have to pass. I have a lot of work to do anyway.”
Guilt stabbed through my chest, and I glanced at Owen, wanting to take it all back. “Owen.”
His eyes met mine, but he didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. Everything was written so clearly across his face. We stared at each other as if everyone else in the room had disappeared, and my heart ached, unbearably so.
Turning back to Kimmi, he said, “She’s had a bit to drink. I was going to take her home, but seeing as you’re here, I think it might be best if she gets a ride with you, if that’s okay.”
My stomach sank.
Kimmi nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, of course. Do you need a ride?”
He shook his head. “Thanks, but I’ll manage.”
“Owen.” I spoke louder this time, trying to get his attention.
“It’s all right, Elle. I get it.” He smiled sadly, reaching out and brushing his thumb over my cheek. “I’ll call a cab.”
And then he walked away.
He walked away from me, and I wanted to call him back, but something told me I needed to let him go. No matter how much it hurt, I needed to let him leave.
SOMETHING UNPLEASANT SAT heavily in my stomach as I stood in front of hotel room seventeen, my fingers clenched tightly around the handle of the bag dangling from my hands. Five minutes. Five minutes I had been standing there trying to work up enough courage to knock on his door, but the thought of him standing before me, and what might or might not tumble out of my mouth, made it impossible to move. Tuesday evening, and more specifically, the look on Owen’s face right before he had walked away from me, had kept me from being able to focus over the last thirty-odd hours, and I was desperate to make things right between us once again.
Swallowing the swishing and swirling of my nerves, I tapped my knuckles against the wood and waited. I waited for what felt like an eternity before it slowly creaked open, a fully dressed Owen standing in the small space between the door and its frame.
Relief mingled with fear as we both stood there, silent, every part of our bodies visibly tense and rigid. My fingers curled tighter around the handle of the bag, my courage waning as he stared at me with those impenetrably dark green eyes. Neither of us spoke—not right away—and that only added to the awkwardness thickening the already thick air.
I hated it.
I hated that the easiness of being aro
und him was gone, like a treasured memory faded far too fast.
Knowing someone needed to speak first and that it wasn't going to be him, I glanced around, as if to delay the conversation for a tiny bit longer.
Just talk to him, Elle. That's why you're here. You owe him an explanation or, at the very least, an apology.
Sucking in a deep breath, I hooked my thumbs through the belt loops on my jeans, and as the air floated out of my chest in one heavy exhale, I rolled onto the sides of my flats. “Hey.”
Owen pressed his forearm to the doorframe, his fingers making slow sweeps over the creases on his forehead. “Hey.”
My shoulders slumped at his greeting. I hoped he would have given me more than that. I guess I didn't really deserve anything more, though, did I?
“Can we...” I stuttered in his presence, like I knew I would. “Can we talk?”
His brows furrowed as he contemplated my request, and pinching his lips together, he slowly pushed the door the rest of the way open, allowing me to enter.
I smiled tightly as I squeezed past him, and when I stepped into the center of the small room—noticing his suitcase packed and waiting by the door—his next words caused my heart to plummet to my stomach.
“We’ll have to keep it short, my flight leaves in a little less than two hours.”
Two hours? Why two hours?
It was only Thursday evening. We weren't due to fly out until Sunday night.
Whipping around to face him, I stared at him in confusion all the while fighting a frown. “You're leaving?”
Owen nodded, the ball in his throat moving on what looked like a nervous swallow. “Yeah. I, um…” He hesitated, reaching up to scratch the back of his head before gripping the nape of his neck. “I've talked to Liam. It took a hell of a lot of convincing, but he's agreed to postpone our conference calls until you return next week, which means I'm no longer needed here. I'm going back to New York.”
For being the middle of July, the room felt entirely too cold. The hairs on my arms rose and goose bumps formed on my skin from the icy shiver that raced down my spine. “This is because of the other night at the restaurant, isn't it? You're leaving because of me.” The last part wasn't a question. It was a statement. A fact. I had done this. Realization punched right through my chest, stealing my breath.