by Zoe Norman
Before her interview for the apartment, she came in with gusto and started off with a compliment, which never hurts. “Aren't you a panty dropper. My goodness, you are a handsome young man. Wow! Okay, here's the scoop on me,” she said, taking a seat on my couch and making herself at home. “I'm single but I 'entertain' now and then, if you know what I mean,” she stated matter-of-factly. “I don't have kids and I'm not one of those spinsters with fourteen cats. I'm clean and always pay my rent on time. Now,” she finally breathes, “I have some questions for you. I don't see a ring on your finger and I'm not seeing any pictures of girlfriends on your mantel, which leads me to believe you're single. Why is that and what is your stance on dating older women?”
She signed a long-term lease that afternoon.
“Sure thing, handsome. I'll watch your place as long as you bring me back another box of chocolates. Ya know,” Claire continues, resting her bag of groceries on her hip, “those little local shops make the best chocolates. Don'tcha think?”
“Mmhmm,” I reply, knowing that, once you get Claire talking, it can be hard to get her to stop.
I drop my duffel bag and take Claire's groceries from her. I bring them up the last flight of stairs to her door while she rambles on about her love affair with chocolate.
“Ya know, unlike sex, you can make chocolate last as long as you want.”
I look back at Claire and roll my eyes. “Yeah, but sex gives you a high like chocolate can't,” I reply, challenging her.
“We can agree to disagree, Owen. Chocolate can get me preeeetty excited,” she sings. “Ya know, I once combined the two when—”
“All right, Claire,” I cut in quickly, terminating the direction of the conversation. “I've got to run to my mom's house before I fly out, so I'll catch you next week, all right?” I hand her the bag of groceries after she's opened the door to her apartment.
“Yep. See you next week, handsome. I'll make sure your plants don't die and you remember those chocolates.”
“Right. Chocolates. No nuts.”
The last time I gave Claire chocolates, she sorted out the ones with nuts and left them in a pile by my door, making it very clear that nuts were not her preference. Lesson learned.
“Good. You remembered.” Claire yells after me as I bound down the stairs. “Remember, with chocolate, size doesn't matter.”
I grin and shake my head before I head out of the building. As I throw my bag into the back seat of my black Range Rover HSE, I do a mental check of the things I may or may not have packed for my trip. I'm not one hundred percent sure of what I packed, to be honest. I just hope I have enough shirts and condoms to last.
I fight the ever-present city traffic as I make my way to my mom's house in Connecticut. Without fail, my mom always has a few things on her honey-do list. I would be the “honey” in this equation. My dad passed away five years ago, and although she could easily afford to hire someone to take care of the incidental stuff around her house, my dad left me strict instructions to take care of my mom. Most times, I don't mind trekking out here from the city to help my number one lady. Although, at times, like today, it can be an inconvenience.
“Mom?” I call out as I open the door to her house. “Mom, I'm here.” I toss my keys on the hallway table.
“Owen?” my mom replies from the laundry room. “Owen! What a surprise! What are you doing here? I thought you were headed out to see Travis and Marc this weekend,” she asks as she walks toward me with her arms open wide for a hug.
“I am but I wanted to make sure you were taken care of and get your lawn mowed before I left. I'll be gone for five days and I know how picky you get about your yard.” I lift my eyebrow teasingly before bending down to give her a quick kiss on the cheek and a big bear hug.
“Oh, Owen, I'm not as much picky as I am...well, particular.” She pats me on the shoulder, knowing full well that she's fussy about her yard.
She takes great pride in her perfect-hue-of-green, weed-free grass and likes the lines from the mower to be evenly spaced. My mother is the envy of the neighborhood, and while she'll vehemently deny it, she likes it that way. Hey, we all have to have our “thing,” right?
I'd do anything for my mom, but don't take that to mean that she washes and folds my skivvies or wipes my face off using spit and her thumb. Although, if she wants to bake me cookies, I'm cool with that. I'm one of the fortunate ones when it comes to my family. My younger sister, Emily, and I were lucky enough to have a “mostly” stay-at-home mom. My father was a successful attorney and eventually became a U.S. Senator. With Dad getting into politics, she quickly adapted to the senator's wife role. However, despite their respective busy social calendars and schedules, my parents always made family a priority. Whether it was my football games or Emily's music recitals, our parents were always supportive and I could count on them being in the crowd. Since my dad's passing, I've taken care of my mom and don't think twice about it. It's my honor.
I quickly make work of my mom's to-do list, knowing that time is my enemy today. I don't have time to sit and chitchat, but Mom makes good use of what little time I do have to delve into her barrage of questions.
She follows me around the house, asking: “You feeling all right?” “What's new at the firehouse?” “What calls have you been out on lately?” “You're not eating enough, are you?” and the ever-present, “Been out on any dates recently, sweetheart?” I answer her questions while I fix the leaky faucet, hang her hummingbird feeder, bring up her lawn furniture from the basement, and switch out the battery on a beeping smoke detector.
“How long had your smoke detector been going off, Mom?” I ask as I fold up and store the ladder.
“Ahh”—she waves me off—“it just started going off a couple days ago.”
Days? I shake my head slowly. “Well, pick up some more nine-volt batteries and I'll change the others when I'm out here next, okay?
“My son, always on duty.” She smiles up at me, patting my face. Her thumb glides across my cheek soothingly.
“Adjust, adapt, conquer,” I reply, casually reciting my Rescue Company's unofficial code.
“You look tired, Owen. What's wrong?” she asks.
That's the funny thing about moms—they always know when something isn't quite right with their kids. Is it something they're born with? An innate sense? Something that's developed over the lifetime of their kids? Whatever it is, it's kind of creepy.
I take her hand away from my face and kiss her knuckles. “A long night last night, Mom. That's all,” I sigh with a forced smile. It's a half-truth, but why make her upset?
She knows that things really aren't “all right,” but she accepts my answer as she smiles at me knowingly.
I look down at my watch and notice that I'm running late if I hope to catch my flight. “I'm going to take a quick shower, change my clothes, and get out of here,” I say to her as I grab my bag and head toward the bathroom.
“Go,” she says, shooing me up the stairs.
Twenty minutes later, I'm bounding down the stairs, ready to head out. I give my mom a hug and a kiss before I walk out the door.
“Tell Travis I love him and congratulations.” Mom calls out after me. “And tell Marcus that he still owes me twenty bucks from our bet.”
“Will do, Mom. Love you.” I call out, waving to her from my SUV.
“I love you more. Be safe, son.”
As I drive off to the airport, it starts to hit me how tired I am. I've gotten four hours of sleep in the last twenty-four. I'm running on fumes, and need a break from my thoughts and my chaotic life My silver lining is that I'm coming onto my string of days off, and after cashing in some I.O.U. trades with some guys at the firehouse, I have five glorious days off that just happen to be over the weekend. Add to that the fact that I'm flying to Seattle to spend time with my best buddies for a guys' weekend. This is my third friend to get engaged just this year, thank you very much. My buddies are dropping like flies. I'm crossing my fingers
that it's not contagious. I am in no rush to get into another relationship. I'm having too much fun being single again.
Travis, Marcus, and I have all been best friends since the fourth grade. I have known Travis my whole life, and Marc and his family moved to Woodbridge, just outside of New Haven, Connecticut, when he was nine years old. Trav and I bonded with Marc right away. He was mischievous and irreverent, and he gave Mrs. Leon a hard time his first day. Right then, we knew we would all be fast friends.
That summer, we formed the TOM club (Travis, Owen, Marcus). We had a secret handshake, a password to my tree house, and a strict rule that girls were enemy number one. We formed a bond and became a band of brothers. You got into it with one of us, you had all of us breathing down your neck.
Come fall, none of the kids at school messed with the TOM boys. Our reputation preceded us. It was good to be king. We were a force to be reckoned with. We still are—it's just that we live on opposite sides of the country. That's probably for the best though. I'm pretty sure I don't have enough bail money to afford their living closer.
After parking my Range Rover in the airport lot, I check in with the airline. Shawna, the very attentive, very helpful, very cute gate agent helped me switch to a first-class aisle seat. I'm six foot four, and the extra money for a six-hour flight is well worth it. When my dad died, he left me and my sister a substantial nest egg. It'll never replace Dad not being here, but his sound investments made sure all of us were well taken care of. So every now and then, I like to splurge on cars, vacations, and the occasional first-class airline ticket. I give Shawna a wink and stuff her phone number in my pocket before walking toward my gate. I check my watch and double-check the status of my flight. I have twenty minutes before my plane boards. Just enough time for a drink, I think to myself.
CHAPTER THREE
Olivia
I walk into O'Malley's Bar, literally the epitome of the airport saloon. Inside, it is much as I expected. A lot of mahogany wood, tall bar-type tables, and some booths. There is a long bar to the side with what look to be comfortable barstools, and the bartender is dressed in what I assume is supposed to be “Irish bartender” wear. I wonder to myself if bartenders actually look like this guy in Ireland.
I pull myself onto a stool in an area where there are enough open seats that I won't be infringing on someone else's space—or more importantly, they won't be infringing on mine. I raise my hand at the barkeep.
“May I have a glass of white wine please?”
He hands me the wine list and I pick a glass of some cheap, nondescript white wine. When he places the glass in front of me, I grab for it much too quickly and take a drink. I immediately feel better. After two more long sips, the pleasant numbness starts to seep into my bloodstream and I begin to relax.
I lean into the back of my seat and turn myself to scan the patrons in the bar. I love to people-watch. I'm a psychologist after all, and for me, watching people in their natural habitat is as captivating as a zoologist going to the zoo. Yes, I tend to overanalyze people, and I have lost a relationship or two to my need to constantly overthink things people do or say, but I am alone and in my glory right now.
There is a couple leaning in to each other, smiling and joking. As per usual, the sight of a couple enjoying each other's company has me ambivalent. I'm happy for them and simultaneously hating them for having what I don't. I shake my head, reminding myself I'm supposed to be relaxing.
I scan the room further and note a lone man drinking beer and frantically typing on his phone. I wonder to myself who he's texting so furiously. A lover? A business partner? A friend? I smile to myself and take another sip of wine. I'm so nosy.
I continue my perusal of the room, when I notice the entrance to the bar. And then...wow. The guy coming in through the door is tall, probably over six feet. He has sandy-brown hair that is a little long on top but looks soft even from this far away. He is wearing a pair of well-pressed khaki pants and a white button-down shirt, the top few buttons open and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He strides purposefully toward the bar, scanning for seats. His movements aren't awkward like that of some very tall men. He is in control of himself, and confidence oozes off him. He catches me gawking at him and I quickly turn myself around to face the bar. Oh shit. Not cool, Olivia. Not cool.
I suddenly feel someone next to me and look to my left. Hot-and-handsome is sliding onto the barstool next to me. He puts his carry-on on the floor beside him and asks the bartender for a Guinness before looking over at me.
Holy crap, he has the bluest eyes I have ever seen. I suddenly feel insanely self-conscious. I'm in a fairly sensible, knee-length, skirt and blouse. Professional but comfortable enough for a cross-country flight—definitely not sexy.
“Was this seat taken?” he inquires in a very pleasing soft and seductively deep voice.
“Um…no. No it isn't.” Oh I am the poster girl of being cool...Jesus. I am soooo out of my depth, and horribly out of practice.
He looks me up and down and I self-consciously recross my legs. This draws his attention.
He looks up from my knees, and with a panty-blazing smile, he introduces himself. “Hi, I'm Owen Maxwell.”
I take his hand and offer him a nervous smile. “Hi Owen, I'm Olivia. Olivia Burke.”
He shakes my hand and squeezes it gently. I feel a zing of electricity run from my hand to my crotch. It's been a very, very long time since I've had anyone touch me at all, and clearly my body is in need. His hand slides from mine and he returns it to his glass, taking a long pull from his beer.
“So, Olivia, where are you off to tonight?”
“I'm going to Seattle. You?”
His face lights up. “Would you believe me if I said I'm heading to Seattle too?”
Uh, actually no, I think to myself. “Hmmm...Seems rather interesting that you're headed to the same destination.” I raise an eyebrow in disbelief.
He puts his hands up as if to show defeat or innocence. “Swear to God. We're going to the same place.” He lifts an eyebrow at me. “Are you traveling for business? Or pleasure?”
A smile creeps up on the corner of his mouth as he says the word “pleasure.” Oh God...Pleasure. I shake my head to rid it of naughty thoughts.
“I'm traveling on business. A conference. You?”
He takes another drink and leans toward me as if to tell me a secret. “All pleasure. Debauchery, even. A guys' weekend slash pre-bachelor party.” His insanely blue eyes lock with mine.
“Well that sounds like fun,” I reply. “That certainly will be more entertaining than sitting around with a bunch of intellects fighting to see who has the bigger brain.”
He laughs. “That actually sounds fairly entertaining. Do they ever get into fisticuffs?”
Fisticuffs? I start to laugh loudly. “Wait. Have I traveled back in time here? Fisticuffs?”
He chuckles. “I spend a lot of time around old Irish guys. They talk like that. It must be rubbing off on me.” He smiles warmly at me, taking another swig of his Guinness. “So, Olivia, do you call New York home or are you from somewhere else?”
“I'm from New York. I live and work in Manhattan. You?”
He raises his eyebrow in interest. “I'm from Brooklyn actually. Originally from Connecticut though.”
“Oh, I love Connecticut.” I smile fondly. “We used to stop in Mystic on our way to Rhode Island when we were kids. Used to go the aquarium and then Mystic Pizza.” I pause, thinking of the memory. “It's a beautiful state. But gosh, I haven't been back in probably fifteen years.”
“Well, my mother still lives there. I visit her quite a bit. You know, helping out around the house and stuff. If you'd ever like to visit…” he says with a sly grin.
God, that grin alone makes the prospect of that very enticing. “I might take you up on that offer. I mean, visiting an old new place is never more exciting than when you do it with someone who knows the terrain.” I wink at him and he smiles back.
The bartender comes over and asks if we'd like another round.
“What time is your flight?” Owen asks.
“I have a little more time. I could have another with you if you'd like?” I grin at him and recross my legs, again drawing his attention.
His eyes not leaving my legs, he waves a hand to the bartender. “Another round...on me,” he insists. His eyes slowly roam back up my body and when they hit my face again, he murmurs, “You're quite beautiful, Olivia. But I'm sure you hear that all the time.”
I blush, but I'm really flattered. “That's nice of you to say, Owen. Thank you. You're not so bad yourself.”
He smiles. “What are two gorgeous people doing alone in a bar at the airport when there are so many other places we could be having all types of naughty fun?”
I put a hand to my mouth, shocked, and start to laugh. “Why, Owen, what a perfectly inappropriate thing to say.” As he laughs, I continue. “Please...don't stop.”
He starts to really crack up, throwing his head back, before pointing at me. “Olivia, I like you. I like you a lot. You're a cool chick.” He scratches his chin as if deep in thought and then raises his finger, indicating that some kind of epiphany has come to him. “We need to get together in Seattle.”
My eyes open, big as saucers. “You want to get together with me in Seattle?” While trying to be cool, I really am surprised that he's asking me this.
“Well, yeah. Why not? I mean, we're both going to be in the same place at the same time. Where are you staying?”
I pause for a second. This guy is great, but I don't know him from Adam. Should I tell him where I'm staying? Ah screw it. It's not like I'm giving him my social security number. “I'm staying at The Fairmont Olympic. Where are you staying?”
He starts to laugh a slow, sexy, 'I so have you' laugh. “I'm staying at the W. It's literally across the street from The Fairmont. This feels like fate.” He grins. “So now you have no excuse not to meet me while we're there.”