“Learned it at my mamma’s knee.” Sam shook his head. “Wow. You’ve only just kissed the woman, and you’ve got that goofy-assed look on your face? Mate, what the hell?”
“It’s no big deal. I kissed her, end of story.”
“Oh, there’s story.” Sam stood and collected his coffee.
He doctored it with milk and sugar—wuss—and brought it back to the table.
“Because you haven’t been invested with a woman since Ali died.” His mate’s voice gentled as he straddled the chair and picked up the paper bag containing his pie.
Embarrassingly true. The first year after he lost Ali he’d little interest in sex and had buried himself in his work. Somehow he’d woken up two years later with only a dozen dates under his belt. All that had led nowhere. Dates women had asked him on, that came to a stilted conclusion, and resulted in only a few of those women agreeing to a second or third. Which was fine. And he didn’t blame them. He’d been pretty shit company.
“You’ve probably regrown a hymen by now,” Sam said.
“Probably.” Owen scrubbed the heel of his palm on his forehead. “I’m completely out of my league with Gracie. I have no idea what I’m doing even looking at her that way. She’s the opposite of the type I usually go for.”
Sam chuckled and bit into his pie. “You have a type?” he asked. “Oh, you mean like that blond accounts manager who’d started wedding planning by your third date? Or the travel agent who’d send you twenty texts a day and had you thinking about a restraining order? She was hot, I’ll give you that. Maybe your type is conservative-but-pōrangi.” He took another bite of pie and tilted his head. “Might be time to mix it up a little, bro. Take a chance on a girl who isn’t crazy.”
A chance on a woman who gave him heart palpitations after one kiss but would be gone without a backward glance in six weeks’ time? “I’m not looking for a woman.”
“Yet you found one anyway. One you like enough to kiss. One you like enough to tie yourself up in knots over.”
Owen opened the paper bag, but the meaty, buttery smell of one of his rarely indulged-in treats didn’t tempt him. Not like the strawberry-bubblegum scent of Gracie’s skin.
“I’m not tied up in—” He shoved the bag aside. “Yeah, okay, maybe I am. But she’s working for me, and I can’t afford to screw this up when I need her to look after the kids.”
Sam chewed thoughtfully, finishing off his pie with one last giant bite then opening Owen’s discarded bag with a shrug. He bit into the second pie and chewed some more. “That all you need her for? Or would you want her around even if the kids weren’t there?”
For a moment, a jagged dart of panic zipped through Owen at the thought of what could happen if he didn’t have three built-in chaperones. He could fall headfirst, hurtling into…what? Nope. Enough speculation about the impossible.
“If the kids weren’t there, there’d be no reason for her to be around. She needs the money to pay off a student loan before she heads to the US, and I need my nieces and nephew supervised.” He drained his coffee mug, barely tasting the specially ground beans Isaac insisted on.
“You, mate”—Sam stabbed a finger at him—“need to loosen that jockstrap strangling your ability to have fun with a woman. All work makes O a dull boy. So kiss her again. I double dare you.” His eyes glinted in challenge.
That Owen’s heart gave a little pitter-patter did nothing to improve his rapidly souring mood. “What are we, twelve?” He held up a palm. “Don’t answer that.”
“Just as well.” Sam crumpled up the paper bags left on the table and fired them one by one into the trashcan. “’Cause I’d have to point out that at twelve, I’d already kissed way more girls than you had by age eighteen.”
Owen snorted, stood, and took his mug over to the sink. “Quality not quantity.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Sam unstraddled his chair and shoved it under the table. “You on call this weekend? Or are you going to spend some quality time with the kids and the hot nanny?”
Owen had planned to volunteer even though this weekend they weren’t short-staffed. Bar a major incident, his very capable staff could cope. But vehicular accidents, strokes, and broken arms were easier to deal with than teenage dramas and demands to alleviate boredom. Plus a woman he couldn’t get out of his head, couldn’t stop wanting every time he was in the same room with her.
“I’m not on call.”
“Good for you.” Sam grinned. “Go have some fun.”
Working would be easier…and fun was relative. But maybe for the first time in a long time, Owen was ready to tackle a different kind of fun.
Chapter 10
Gracie’s dreams were often repetitive. This was usually a bad thing, since some mornings she woke exhausted by a night hiding in a high school toilet stall while the mean girls in front of the mirror laughed about chubby Gracie Cooper who’d ended up in the psych ward or nuthouse or something. That dream-slash-memory was always fun to relive.
This morning, however, as the first rays of sunlight slipped through the drapes and streaked across her bed, Gracie was trapped in another kind of dream. She was in a small room filled with medical supplies, and Dr. O-for-Orgasms had her smooshed up against the wall. Her fingers dug into muscled biceps, holding on while he thrust into her and whispered things in her ear that caused her skin to flash as hot as the wildfire brewing in her core…ready to blow apart in a shower of sparks. Ready to—
Three sharp knocks sounded on the glass door. Gracie jerked fully awake, her fingers white-knuckling the waistband of her boxer-shorts pajamas. Had she been about to… Gracie sat bolt upright, glancing down at her tank top, which, yep, proved her nipples were on board with Dr. O examining them—even if only in a dream.
“Gracie?”
Owen’s voice, deep and decadent, flowed over her still flushed skin.
“Crap.” She slid out of bed. “Really got to stop watching Grey’s Anatomy reruns.”
“Coming,” she said louder then winced at the irony of her word choice.
Because, damn…bad enough Dream Owen could nearly get her there; what chance did she have to resist the real deal while she was still half turned on?
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you,” came his voice from behind the closed drapes.
“I’m awake. I’m awake.”
Parts of her were very awake, so make that three-quarters turned on since a delicious shiver zipped down her spine at the thought of him outside her room. She tugged on her robe, catching a glimpse of herself in the wall mirror.
Ugh.
Resisting the real deal wouldn’t be a problem. Rephrase that—Owen resisting her wouldn’t be a problem. Not sporting frizzy hair like a before photo for a hair-straightening product, her face flushed carnation pink, and a deep pillowcase groove marking her cheek. Dead sexy. Not.
And, oh God—morning breath. Gracie lunged for her handbag and found a packet of mints. She popped one into her mouth and speed-crunched it as she tightened the robe’s belt.
Finally, she yanked the full length drapes open to a bare-footed Owen wearing ancient blue jeans—which, yum, clung to his legs—and a plaid shirt layered over a white tee shirt. His short brown hair stuck up in a dozen different directions, and two days’ worth of stubble covered his jaw. And, yeah, she’d noticed he hadn’t shaved when he’d disappeared off to work yesterday morning.
Gracie slid open the door, and a wave of salt-tinted ocean breeze swept over her. She took a moment to suck a deep lungful down and hoped the fresh air flowing into her room would cool her jets. So to speak. Because even as jaded as Owen looked—and, bless him, it proved he was actually human—she still wanted to grab him by his plaid lapels and kiss the living daylights out of him again.
She tucked her hands under her armpits, just in case, and leaned on the doorframe. “Let me guess…since I’m a former bartender, you’d like me to whip you up a hair of the dog?”
He crinkled his nose. Adorable and hot—so unfair.
“I’m not hungover,” he said.
“My bad. You’re not your usual Barbie Dreamhouse self. Rough night?”
“You could say that.” He scratched his fingernails along his jaw. “But Barbie Dreamhouse?”
“Charlie thinks you look like a Ken doll.”
“Nice. Glad to inform you that I’m not molded from plastic.” His lips curved. “You’re not looking Barbie Dreamhouse yourself this morning. Rough night?”
True, but ouch. “Now that we’ve established I look like Frankenstein’s bride—”
“Never said that. I think you look cute. All rumpled and flushed like you’ve just been”—his gaze dipped to the V-neckline of her robe then jumped up to rest on her mouth—“woken up by some jerk banging on your door.”
Like you’ve just been…banged senseless in the last few minutes. Seriously not helping her control her internal thermostat.
“Did you want something?” She managed to inject some measure of professionalism into her tone. “Are you on call today? I forgot to check last night before I went to bed.” Alone. With the sexiest man she’d met in a loooong time only a few, untouchable meters away.
Stop. It. Now.
Gracie tugged the neck of her robe together and kept the other hand locked under her arm.
“I’m not on call,” he said. “In fact, that’s why I’m here. I wondered…” His hazel eyes creased in the corners. “I mean, you’re probably sick of the four of us—but I wondered if you’d like to hang out today?”
“Oh.”
“I thought I’d take them to the museum. There’s a display on the Treaty of Waitangi there, and it’s important the kids learn about the impact of…” Owen’s voice trailed off, possibly noticing Gracie’s eyes had started to roll back in her head.
He cleared his throat. “And then when we got home I thought we could do a little study on Waitangi Day. I printed out some worksheets and a coloring picture for Charlie. It’ll be fun.”
Because that’s what every kid considered fun on a beautiful summer’s day in the Far North—a museum trip and more homework.
Gracie mentally shrugged off the sarcasm and concentrated instead on Owen’s earnestness. Yeah, his idea of fun sucked, but he was trying—and willing to spend time with his nieces and nephew. A step in the right direction. She wouldn’t read too much into Owen’s invitation; it was likely a backup plan to ensure he didn’t run out of things to talk about.
“I’m sorry. I already have plans,” she said. “Savannah, Lauren, and I are meeting at Natalie’s house for a dress fitting this morning. Natalie’s made mock-ups of the bridesmaids dresses I designed. I was going to take the kids with me since I wasn’t sure if you were working, but since you’re free, I’m sure they’d rather go with you.”
Lines appeared on Owen’s forehead, and his eyes had a puppy-dog quality that drew a sharp tug of response from her.
“I doubt that, but hey, you’ve already got plans…”
“Plans for this morning, not for this afternoon,” she said.
Suddenly, she badly wanted to spend the afternoon with Owen and the kids, even if it was learning about events that took place over a hundred and seventy-five years ago. Gracie stepped forward, preparing to grab his arm to prevent him leaving.
Only Owen didn’t leave—and Gracie found herself nose to neck with the man, breathing in all kinds of male pheromones that should be illegal at this time of the morning. She blamed pheromones for her toes remaining glued to the deck instead of making a hasty retreat.
“You’ll join us this afternoon?” His Adam’s apple moved up and down in little jerks.
Gracie could touch her lips to the tanned column of Owen’s throat if she swayed forward…
No swaying, she ordered herself.
She swayed anyway, and his hands gently gripped her upper arms, easing her against his chest. Gracie’s heart punched out a throbbing rhythm that traversed the length of her body. She gripped the sides of his shirt, her nose nudging his collarbone.
Pheromones and a whisper of good coffee. God, she could stand here all day, sniffing his skin.
“If I do join you this afternoon,” she said, and damn, her voice had a distinct quiver to it. “Are you planning on kissing me again?”
The rumble of his laughter vibrated through his chest into hers. Thankfully, the fluffy fabric of her robe prevented the humiliation of Owen feeling her nipples tighten into tiny, begging peaks.
“Why do you think I had a rough night?”
“You might still be deciding if I’ve passed your trial period and got the job.”
He grinned. “You’ve got the job, Gracie. And I haven’t thought of anything else but kissing you again.”
His hands loosened on her arms and skimmed up to cup her face. He angled her jaw until her eyes met his. Desire flickered in their hazel depths—desire and a flash of uncertainty. It was the uncertainty instead of his normal, under-control steadiness that sent her hands snaking up his chest to grip the short hairs at his nape.
“Me, too,” she whispered, then dragged his mouth down on hers.
While there may’ve been uncertainty in Owen’s eyes, none existed in the way he kissed her. Any leftover hesitation from their first kiss dissipated beneath the heat of their second. This time, her lips knew the soft texture of his. They responded to his gentle pressure and parted to allow his tongue to lick sensuously against hers. Long, tormenting strokes that kindled a response low in her belly.
As if he sensed the combustion point approaching—the flashover point that would have one of them dragging the other into the guest room bed—Owen extricated his lips from hers with a low-pitched groan. Perhaps the sexiest sound she’d heard a man make.
“I know,” she said. “We shouldn’t be doing this. It’s wrong—”
“Stop talking.” He gripped her hips and lifted.
With a squeak of surprise, Gracie wrapped her legs around him. He moved two steps forward and pinned her to the guest room wall. With his very big, very hard body.
Gasping, she clung to his shoulders, digging in her nails a little because her robe had parted and her brain had gone haywire. The same brain she could only assume had telepathically communicated her sexual fantasies to her nearest neighbor in the early morning hours.
“I’m not done,” he added and, to make sure she got with his program, angled his hips forward until his arousal jutted into the spot that made her eyes cross and her legs squeeze his sides like a boa constrictor.
God, he felt amazing.
Owen nuzzled the base of her throat, working his way up to her mouth with damp kisses, the whole time keeping the pressure of his erection notched between her legs. Any second now, she’d lose complete control and grind against him.
He took her mouth again…took her deep and wet until she was twisted up and upside down, and cymbals crashed, and thunder roared and—
A child’s high-pitched wail pierced through the rasp of their combined heavy breathing. Owen jerked his face away, his body twisting so Gracie’s legs slithered to the ground with an ungainly thump.
“Sorry,” he said.
“Uncle Owen! Where are you?” The wail turned into a shout, followed by the rapid thud of footsteps.
They leaped apart, with Gracie frantically retying her robe, and Owen tugging his tee shirt down and buttoning up his plaid shirt.
“Outside, Charlie,” he yelled.
Seconds later, the back door burst open, and a red-faced, tearful Charlie tumbled out.
“I couldn’t find you,” she said. “I tried to climb up and get flour for the pancakes, but I dropped it.” Her lower lip trembled. “And a jar of jam broke. It’s all smashed everywhere.”
Gracie’s heart donkey-kicked her ribs, her glance immediately shooting to Charlie’s feet—which, thankfully, were encased in fluffy slippers with thick rubber soles.
He crossed to the little girl, who wrapped her arms tight around his leg, burying her face against the worn denim.
>
“I’m right here, Charlie-chimp.” He laid a hand on her head. “And it’s okay, sweetheart. I’ll clean up the jar and make pancakes for breakfast.”
Just that one little endearment, said with such tenderness, sent a shockwave through Gracie, transforming the leftover lust pumping through her system into something else entirely. She ached for Owen—not just sexually, though she certainly did—but she ached so desperately for the loneliness she’d sensed inside him on the first day they’d met. He didn’t know it, but those three kids were the perfect antidote for that gaping hole in his heart.
Just like you could be, a little voice whispered inside her ear.
Gracie shook it off with a curl of her lips and slipped back inside the guest room. The little voice was mistaken. Could she ever be the sort of woman Owen wanted for the long haul?
***
Straight after a yoga workout on Owen’s back lawn and a protein shake—no pancakes and after-snogging-awkwardness for her—Gracie showered, changed, and jumped into her car. She left Owen and the kids with a wave and a “See you later” while there’d been the chaotic distraction of breakfast cleanup.
She drove toward Natalie’s house and got halfway there before she realized she was an hour early. Crap. Enough daydreaming, Gracie—focus. She wasn’t in Bounty Bay to start something she couldn’t pursue. Regardless of her mushy little thoughts earlier when she was still reeling from Owen’s kiss—and he was a helluva kisser, she’d give him that—the opposites attract thing only worked in chick flicks. Not real life.
Gracie parked across from the beach and watched three wetsuit-clad surfers bobbing in the waves beyond the breakers.
In real life, men like Owen ended up with women who were focused enough on their own careers not to notice he was always working. In real life, women like her ended up with…her mind provided a detailed image of Owen’s face, laughing with her as William told them yet another joke from his 101 Elephant Jokes book. No, women like her didn’t end up with happy families and the same guy forever—especially not guys so focused on their jobs they forgot to have a life.
Teach Your Heart: A New Zealand Opposites Attract Romance (Far North Series Book 3) Page 12