15. Delia
I woke up the morning after my party feeling surprisingly perky given all the tequila I’d consumed. After Owen showed up wearing a costume that matched mine perfectly, I lost my head a bit. TJ had dressed as a fucking puppy—a little too on the nose if you asked me—and he hadn’t held a candle to Owen in his Levi’s. The way the denim molded to his ass, the massive belt buckle drawing the gaze right to his crotch, and the well-worn cowboy hat shading his baby blues…damn, he was stunning. An echo, albeit a more rugged, grown up version, of the teenager he’d been running around his family’s ranch in Idaho twenty years ago.
And my stupid heart had practically sung at the sight of him, even if his discomfort was obvious in his hands shoved deep in his pockets, his head bent, completely hiding his face from view. The way he’d walked into my party had been a far cry from the Owen Lawless I’d come to know.
TJ certainly hadn’t helped matters, and seeing them standing side by side was a formative moment for me. TJ was a head shorter than Owen and eight years his junior. Skinny next to Owen’s bulk. Pale where Owen was tan. Fresh and smooth faced where Owen’s was rugged stubble and scars. Boyish where Owen was all man.
I couldn’t have Owen, and that was fine. But I realized in that moment that TJ also wasn’t the guy for me. When he’d brazenly asked me if I wanted to spend the night together, I’d politely but firmly sent him on his way.
We hadn’t even kissed, for crying out loud.
His…enthusiasm for dating me was palpable, and he’d been a lot more invested than I had been. Thankfully, he’d handled my rejection admirably, and I found I didn’t feel an ounce of sadness over the end of our relationship.
I stretched myself awake, taking a moment to work out the kinks and stiffness from sleep, then got up, relieved myself, and headed down to the kitchen. Outside my windows, the day was bright and clear, fall still holding us in her grip, winning this last battle before winter ultimately won the war.
As I did every morning when I entered my kitchen, I lifted the little remote off the counter and clicked on the power for the Bluetooth surround-sound system. Morgan Wallen’s gritty, beautiful voice filtered through the room. I wiggled my hips, humming the words as I prepared my cup of coffee.
While that was percolating, I moved to the fridge, taking out my pre-cut frozen fruit, almond milk, Greek yogurt, and spinach—the ingredients for my favorite pre-run smoothie.
I’d been blessed with a metabolism that kept my body fairly thin regardless of what I ate or how often I worked out. And I used to take my gym time very seriously, actively engaging in strength training as a way to stay toned and fit. But once I moved home from college, driving into the city every day for a workout wasn’t a commitment I’d been willing to make, and while I had the room, I also hadn’t wanted to designate any of my home’s square footage to gym space. So I’d taken up running, and quite frankly, it was one of the better ideas I’d ever had. Going out for a jog had become an integral part of my morning routine—when I could stomach the weather. Winters here could be brutal, and on the days when it was snowing or below freezing, I’d do yoga in my living room instead.
Ten minutes and three songs later, freshly blended smoothie raised to my lips for that first delicious sip, I spun from the counter—and let out a scream.
“Nice dance moves.”
Hand to my chest, I sucked in gulps of air, my heart racing a thousand miles a minute. “What the fuck,” I breathed.
“You forget I was here?” Owen asked.
I sure as hell had, and he knew it. I guessed I’d consumed more tequila than I thought, if I’d forgotten about offering my guest room to the hottest man I’d ever laid eyes on so he wouldn’t have to drive back into the city so late.
“I did,” I said, offering him a sheepish smile. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine,” he said with a wide grin. Then tilted his head toward the ceiling and added, “I didn’t peg you as a country girl.”
“What kind of girl did you peg me as then?” I asked, more brazen than I had any right to be considering I wasn’t wearing pants.
“EDM,” Owen said immediately. “You look like a rave girl. ”
I arched my brow. “I don’t know what a ‘rave girl’ looks like, but I feel like I should be offended.”
“No, of course not. It’s just…” Owen opened and shut his mouth a few times, panic flitting briefly across his face before he said, in a rush and voice low, “I bet you look good in fishnets and pasties.”
The comment had me choking on my smoothie, and I hurried to the sink so I could spit out the mouthful I’d inhaled before I made matters worse. When I turned back, I was so dumbstruck, all I could do was stare at him. I was surprised, both by his words and by the color blooming high on his chiseled cheekbones. If there was anything I’d learned in the short time since we’d started working together, it was that Owen Lawless had walls as tall as the Eiffel Tower. I wasn’t delusional enough to think I’d be the one to break them down. But this moment of weakness from him? This rare admission that he’d noticed me in the same way I couldn’t help but notice him? That maybe this attraction I felt for him wasn’t all in my head, nor entirely one sided?
It knocked the fucking wind out of me.
When I awoke this morning, I hadn’t wanted to examine last night too closely, which was partly the reason I’d forgotten I’d invited him to stay. I hadn’t wanted to admit that I liked people asking me if he was my boyfriend thanks to the unintentionally coordinating costumes, and how much I hated the lead weight sinking in my chest when I had to choke out that he was “only my business partner.” I couldn’t allow myself to bask in the glow of his obvious jealousy that I’d invited a date.
But now…was everything changing?
Owen cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck and shifting awkwardly on his feet. I still hadn’t said anything, but I needed to. I needed to save him—to save us , to salvage this thing before the moment expanded and morphed into something we couldn’t get past.
So I did the first thing that came to mind.
“Would you want to come to this family thing with me today?” I blurted.
Owen’s nervous fidgeting stilled, his gaze slowly raising to meet mine. God, I could drown in those eyes, the exact color of the turquoise waters off the shores of Macedonia where my dad’s ancestors hailed from. It would be as easy to drown in their depths as it would the ocean.
“Family thing?” he asked, and I didn’t blame him for his skepticism.
“It’s an old Delatou tradition,” I said quickly. “On the first of November every year, we crush grapes the old-fashioned way.”
His eyes widened. “Old fashioned as in…”
“Yep,” I said, grinning. “With our feet.”
My skin from the soles of my feet to my ankles would be stained purplish-red for weeks after, but it had always been one of my favorite days of the year. These days, we had machines to do the heavy lifting, but I loved that we still kept the old-school grape crushing tradition alive. The liquid yielded from our efforts would end up dumped behind the barn, but it was a fun throwback to the days when wine had been made that way. Plus, it served as a reminder of the difficult work the Delatou men and women before us put into making the winery and our entire business enterprise a lasting success.
As little girls, my sisters and I had treated it as a national holiday. We’d wake before the sun, begging Mom and Dad to take us to the barn to get started. Vividly, I remembered the first time I’d sunk into a bucket of red grapes, could easily recall the soft give of them underfoot as I worked my toes into them. The sliminess as the skins split open, the stems poking the delicate skin of my arches. How my thighs and calves would burn after hours of standing and stomping and squishing.
As we got older, the occasion had grown into a day-long celebration. We’d crack open the first case of ice wine from the season before, grill on the ancient charcoal fire pit Dad built outside the barn when he was a teen, and celebrate with one of Brie’s latest confections from Granny Smith’s recipe book.
Owen opened his mouth, and by the way the skin between his brows puckered, I thought for sure he’d reject me.
But the man continued to surprise me.
“I’d love to,” he said softly.
I couldn’t hold back the wide grin that unfurled on my face.
“Great!” I said, unable to curb my enthusiasm. “Do you want—”
“I need to go home,” he said quickly. “You know, to shower and change. Can I meet you there? Just tell me where to go.”
I explained how to get to the barn, though given that we’d only closed down the corn maze for the season the day before, there were still signs out on the dirt two-track indicating the way. Owen nodded, agreeing to be there by noon, then took off without another word.
Maybe things weren’t changing between us after all.
Now, more than ever, I needed my run, needed to let the steady cadence of my footfalls on asphalt drown out my roaring thoughts.
So I laced up my Hokas and set off.
The run proved to be completely useless, and I’d managed to work myself into quite the state by the time I arrived at the barn later. When I pulled into the little gravel lot off to the side, I counted cars, realizing I was the last to arrive.
Even Owen had beat me.
At least the man was punctual, though it did nothing for the nerves writhing in my gut.
With a heavy sigh, I pushed out of my Jeep, dragging my feet the whole way to the barn. Facing the firing squad wasn’t high on my list of priorities today—or ever. Still, I squared my shoulders the moment before I rounded the corner to the giant opening created by the doors swung wide, my chin lifted high as I stepped onto the concrete floor.
My dad spotted me first, brow furrowing at my silent entrance. Normally, I’d make a scene, make everyone aware that I had arrived. Today, I wanted to be as small as possible, and he quickly recognized something was off with me.
When he approached, he folded me in a tight hug, and I allowed his Old Spice scent and fatherly warmth to wash over and soothe me.
“You okay, kiddo?” he asked softly against my hair.
“I don’t know,” I answered honestly.
My sisters and I didn’t typically keep secrets from our parents. Sure, when something happened, we always told each other before we told them, but our parents were normally apprised of whatever the situation not long after. In fact, in recent memory, the only time I could think of where we did withhold information was when Amara and Calvin started their… mutually beneficial situation. And, of course, they were unaware of my college…escapades. Mostly because I was terrified Daddy would go scorched earth if he found out. So in that moment, I gave him the truthful response. I didn’t know if I was okay. My emotions were a swirling, confusing maelstrom. I couldn’t make sense of anything—and Owen wasn’t helping matters.
As though my thoughts had conjured him, when my father released me, holding me at arm’s length to study my face, my gaze collided with Owen’s over his shoulder.
At least he looked as nervous as I felt, with his hands stuffed deep into his pockets as he awkwardly lingered in the doorway.
In reality, I shouldn’t be nervous at all. This was my family. My event. My home turf. He should be the one feeling like they’re walking into the lion’s den.
He must have been hiding out until I arrived, because at his appearance, an uproar from my family ensued. After my sisters passed me around for hugs and kisses on cheeks, Owen shuffled to my side.
“Hey, Whiskey,” he said softly.
“Hi,” I said, not bothering to hide the edge to my tone.
Before either of us could speak further, an arm looped through mine, and the blend of my mother’s signature perfume enveloped me.
“I wasn’t aware you were bringing a date, Delia,” she said as she leaned in to press a kiss to my cheek. “It’s good to see you, Owen.”
“You as well, Mrs. Delatou,” the man responded.
My mother giggled. Yes, actually giggled like a goddamn school girl. It seemed even happily married, middle-aged women weren’t immune to the Owen Lawless charm.
“Please,” she said. “Call me Lena.”
Several beats too late, I grumbled, “He’s not my date.”
“Then why did you invite him?” my mom asked, a twinkle in her eye as she winked before striding away.
Because I desperately want it to be , I thought in the direction of her retreating form. Even knowing it was the worst idea for a multitude of reasons, I wanted Owen in bone-deep ways.
I just wasn’t sure I was allowed to have him.
On the far side of the barn, the rest of our group had gathered around an array of wooden buckets, the kind made to look like the bottom half of a wine or whiskey barrel. I knew without looking that each was layered with about a foot of red and white grapes. Soon, the barn would be filled with squeals and laughter as we sank our feet into them.
Before I could take a step to join them, Owen’s hand wrapped around my upper arm, holding me back.
I turned to face him. “What?”
Owen frowned. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “For this morning. I made things weird with my fishnets comment and running away after. I just…I don’t know what I’m doing here.”
“With what exactly?” I asked, though I could already guess the answer.
“You.”
“Join the club. ”
“This wasn’t supposed to happen.”
“Technically,” I corrected, “nothing has happened.” I didn’t tack on yet , but I wanted to. The word hung in the air between us anyway.
Owen gave me a pleading look. “You know what I mean.”
“We can ignore it if that’s what you want,” I said, though the words were barbed wire scraping my throat as they left my mouth.
“And what do you want?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. God, I was getting sick of those three words. When would I ever figure my shit out? I was twenty-seven, for fuck’s sake. Shouldn’t I have moved past the indecisiveness of youth and inexperience?
“Well, you let me know when you figure it out.”
And with that, he was gone, gobbling up the distance between us and my family like he couldn’t get away from me fast enough.
When did things between us get so complicated? It was supposed to be a business partnership and nothing more. So why was I having all kinds of thoughts of a future—a family—that involved him?
Somehow, despite the obvious tension between me and Owen, he fit himself into my family dynamic with ease. Maybe it was the former athlete mentality still running through his veins, or the fact that he came from a large family as well. Whatever it was, everyone obviously loved him. The easy way in which he spoke with my sisters and parents. How quickly he got used to Logan’s particular brand of Golden Retriever energy. How he’d managed to even charm my dad who, as a rule, hated any guy we brought home. It wasn’t difficult to imagine him there all the time. To picture him coming to family events and attending holidays at my side. He slotted in perfectly, just another one of the guys, another significant other for my sisters to rib endlessly like they did Calvin and Logan and for my mother to fawn over.
He quickly became one of us, and I realized that was what I had been searching for with TJ—with all of the guys I’d dated in my lifetime. Having someone at my side, and on my side, was a high unlike any other. That hole in my heart rapidly filled with his easy smiles and carefree laughter. I wanted to keep him here forever, but I wasn’t sure that was a dream I should be chasing. While a friendship had easily bloomed between us in all the time we’d spent together the past few months, I wasn’t sure it should go beyond that.
For both our sakes, it was probably best if I got my wild, rampant dreams and desires under control before I fucked everything up.