The Relationship Clause

Chapter 25

I needto learn to be a little more selfish.

Maybe if I’d been more selfish, I would have been able to ask Owen to forget about Craig and come kiss me some more in our suite, but no. That’s not what I did. Stupid Craig. Stupid mole.

I get back to our suite all aloney on my owney and change out of my dress and into some comfy pajamas. I have every intention of staying up until Owen gets back, but after about thirty minutes of scrolling on my phone, I start getting sleepy. A day of pampering followed by an awkward dinner and some intense, emotional heart-spilling, then freezing and making out can take it out of a person.

I halfway consider trying to fall asleep on the couch so I’ll wake up when Owen comes back, but in the end, I decide to go to my bed. I leave the door open though, hoping I’ll still hear Owen when he returns.

Despite my exhaustion, I don’t fall asleep right away. Instead, my thoughts turn to our conversation from earlier.

I did it. I told Owen about my past and my fears, and he didn’t immediately drop me like I’d feared he might. He stayed. He stayed and we talked and the whole thing filled me with hope. We both have things we’re afraid of, and we’re both okay with that.

More than that, he said he wants to give me something to stick around for and that I can count on him. I don’t know if I one hundred percent believe that yet, but I want to. And for me, that’s some big progress.

Eventually, I do fall asleep, but it feels like my eyes are only closed for a few seconds when I wake up again much later. I’m not even sure what woke me up until I hear the muffled footsteps coming down my hallway. There’s a bang followed by a muffled groan.

“Owen?” I sit up, groggy and confused. Where am I? What’s going on? There’s another bang followed by another groan, and it lights a fire under my sleepy brain. I jump out of bed and flip on the light in the hallway. It takes my eyes a few seconds to adjust, but when they do, I have to wonder if maybe I’m still dreaming.

If it is a dream, it’s an odd one.

Owen is in the hallway, splayed out on the floor, his white button-up shirt halfway over his head. One foot is bare and the other one has only a sock. I blush when I realize his belt is missing and his jeans are unbuttoned as well as unzipped, revealing a tiny peek of bright-blue underwear.

“Um, Owen?”

The man on the floor jumps as if he’d fallen asleep like that and my words woke him.

“Huh? Junie? S’that you?”

Oooh dear. Oh deary, dear, dear.

Owen sits up, still struggling with his shirt. At first, I think he’s trying to figure out how to pull it on the rest of the way, but then the whole thing comes off and he sighs in relief.

“Uh, Owen, what are you doing?”

“Taking my shirt off, duh. It’s hot here. Are you hot?” He’s getting up, and he’s very stumbly. Like almost falling over again. I reach out to steady him, and he leans heavily on me, his big, muscled arms all over me.

“Are you drunk? I thought you said you weren’t going to drink.”

“I didn’t. Only had ginger ale.”

I lean closer to sniff his breath, and he’s right. He doesn’t smell boozy at all. But he had to have done something to get like this.

He starts lumbering forward, not toward the living room and his nice cozy bed, a.k.a. the couch, but toward my room.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Going to bed. I’m tired. My head hurts.”

“Okay, but—but, Owen, did you talk to Craig?”

“Who?”

“Craig. Remember? Your dad’s friend? The guy whose stepdaughter may or may not be our mole?”

He squints, then stumbles again, this time, thankfully, landing right on my king-sized bed. Or maybe, unthankfully. Because now he’s in my bed. Wait, no. Thankfully?

“Oh, yeah, Craig!” Owen starts fumbling with his other shoe, but he’s not getting anywhere with it so I bend over and help him take it off. “Yeah, I talked to Craig. Nice guy. Super nice. We talked all night, actually.”

“You did? While you were drunk?”

“I’m not drunk,” he insists as he falls off the bed again, trying to take off his socks.

“Sure you’re not. Um, Owen, what exactly did you and Craig talk about?”

“This and that. Not much. My company.”

“Your company?”

“Yeah, he was suuuper interested in Em3rge.”

Red flag. So many red flags. ALL the red flags.

“Okay, um, what exactly did he want to—Oh my gosh, what are you doing?” I forget all about what I’m asking him because Owen starts taking off his pants.

He looks up at me like I’m crazy. “Getting ready for bed. Psh. Silly.” And then the pants are off.

I repeat, people: the pants. Are. Off.

Off and in a puddle on the floor. And now he’s in his bright-blue boxer briefs. Well, those plus one sock which he somehow forgot to take off. I shouldn’t look. I mean, I REALLY shouldn’t look. How would I feel if these weird tables were turned and I was the one drunk and undressing in front of him? I would definitely expect him to not be looking and keep his distance way the heck away from me.

I stare at the ceiling, starting to back out of the room. “Okay, well, I’m going to let you sleep this off and—OH MY GOSH! KEEP YOUR UNDERWEAR ON!”

I dart forward, catching his hands before they slip any further down his thighs, and I pull his boxer briefs back up with a snap. At least the bedroom light is off; that’s all I can be grateful for.

“Pants!” I yell. “Pants. You need pants. Do you want me to get you some—”

He turns around and flops onto my bed…and almost immediately starts snoring.

“Guess not.”

I certainly didn’t see this coming.

Worry twists in my gut. Something about this whole situation doesn’t feel right. I mean BESIDES the fact that I’ve got an almost-naked Owen lying in my bed right now. How did he get like this when he was only drinking ginger ale?

“I suppose this means I’ll be sleeping on the couch tonight,” I murmur.

I grab the bedspread and pull it over Owen. Partly because I don’t want him to be cold, but also partly because the man needs to be covered up or I may stand here all night admiring his body.

As I slide the comforter up to his shoulders, my hand grazes his arm. He stirs.

“Junie? Is that you?”

“Yes, Owen, it’s me.” I go to pull away, but he reaches out and catches my hand in his.

His bloodshot eyes peek up at me. “Sleep with me,” he whispers.

My eyes go wide. A thousand butterflies squirm in my belly and my cheeks burn. “Um, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“No, not like that.” He squeezes his eyes shut again and shakes his head. His voice is colored with pain. “I mean just sleep with me. I won’ touch you. Drinking makes the nightmares come back. I don’t want the nightmares, Junie. Please stay.”

Nightmares?

An overwhelming surge of compassion pours through me, but I can’t make myself do it. It feels like stepping over a big, fat line I won’t be able to cross back over. Would Owen want this if he were sober enough to think straight right now?

Then again, if he were sober, he probably wouldn’t be worried about nightmares.

I bite my lip. Maybe he’ll fall back asleep and I can sneak away. But then Owen pulls me onto the bed with him, and I let him. He makes room for me, coaxing me onto the mattress, pulling my back against his chest and wrapping his arms around me. His warmth is like sitting by a fire in a cabin on a cold, snowy evening, and I can’t help snuggling closer to him. If I stay still, I can feel his heartbeat through my thin pajama shirt.

“Is this okay?” he murmurs into my ear. “Do you want me to let go? I can give you more space if you want.”

“No.” Even to my own ears, my voice is breathy. “Don’t let go. It’s more than okay.”

We’re quiet for a long moment, and I think he’s fallen asleep until he speaks again.

“Junie?”

“Hm?”

“I think…I think I was drugged.”

Yeah, I kind of think so too.