Lila
“We should have taken my car. It’s much more spacious,” I quipped, tilting my head back and enjoying the feel of sunlight on my face.
Without taking his focus off the road, Owen grumbled something unintelligible.
He’d picked me up at six thirty sharp, armed with lattes and gluten-free granola bars.
The three-hour drive to Portland from Lovewell was one I’d made many times, but sharing a car with Owen Hebert certainly added an element of anxiety to what otherwise would have been a routine trip.
The awkwardness had started when he jumped out of his car and hustled around the hood to open the door for me, all the while blatantly staring at me.
“You look nice,” he’d said, finally dropping his gaze to his shoes as I climbed into the car.
“Um. Thanks.” I hadn’t known whether to be thrilled by the compliment or embarrassed.
I was wearing a black skirt suit I figured would be suitable for a contract negotiation.
However, a while back, after a decade of obsessing about every little thing I ate, I’d given up my pageant diet.
So this skirt, the only one I owned, was on the tight side.
Okay, it had fully crossed over to the far boundary of tight.
My hips were being strangled. There was a chance it was giving businesswoman in a porno rather than a diligent professional woman ready for grad school, but I had no other choice.
I’d tossed a pair of jeans into my tote for after, so I just had to make it through the meeting without splitting a seam.
The rest of my outfit—black heels, blazer, and pearls—was the definition of business appropriate. I’d hoped the blazer would hide the too tight skirt, but maybe I was wrong.
Though, on closer inspection, his slack-jawed expression hadn’t been one of judgment.
Oh no. Those wide eyes and open mouth were all desire.
A small fizzle of pride had shot through me.
He was looking at me like I’d just slid down a pole wearing nothing but a diamond G-string.
The business bitch look worked for him. I’d file that tidbit away for the future.
I wonder if he likes garters.
God, we hadn’t even left Lovewell yet, and I was already speculating about his lingerie preferences. Hence the thick fog of awkwardness that had enveloped us the second both doors were closed.
I’d wanted to flirt—still did—to smile and toss my hair and get a rise out of him.
But no matter how natural it felt, I wouldn’t.
Not after he’d made his stance on what was happening between us clear.
So I’d taken a deep breath and graciously accepted the coffee.
Then I’d made sure my mental filter was firmly in place.
We chatted briefly about strategy, and I pulled out the copies I’d made of our updated spreadsheets. But mostly we sat side by side, listening to classical music while Owen drove south.
After a while, the silence was killing me. I could barely sit still, and words were clawing their way up my throat. Questions, observations, anything to break the uncomfortable silence.
Over and over, I’d found myself checking him out from the corner of my eye. He was gripping the steering wheel tight, his knuckle straining, his hands making the leather creak as he readjusted his hold. For the first time, I really studied those hands. Those very large hands.
“How tall are you?” I blurted out. Owen might have been on the small side for a Hebert, but he was still a giant compared to most.
He turned and hit me with a confused frown. “Six-two. Why, how tall are you?”
“Five-seven.”
“Okay, now that we’ve established that, my blood type is A positive. Do you want my social security number too?”
My face heated and a wave of shame washed over me. God, I had the conversational skills of a hamster.
“Sorry,” I said, lowering my head to hide the blush I was sure had overtaken my face. “I was just curious. Your whole family is so tall.”
“I’m the shortest.” He snorted, like being only six-two was some kind of shortcoming.
Cole was six-seven, and his height made it impossible to buy clothes at a regular department store. Shoes were an issue too. Hell, even some cars were too small for him to fit into without having to crane his neck or hunch down.
I kept those thoughts to myself, relatively certain that comparing the brothers wouldn’t go over well.
Owen was the perfect height. He was broad but lean. Like a swimmer.
Just my type, a weird little voice in my head said. Weird. And wrong. I didn’t have a type. I hadn’t been attracted to anyone in so long, and when that ability finally resurfaced, it had to be because of this man, a man I couldn’t have.
He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel to some kind of pretty music. “You like classical music?” I asked.
He nodded. “Not always, but it relaxes me. You?”
“Yes. Ten years of piano lessons, so I’ve got a basic appreciation.”
He raised a brow and regarded me. “That’s impressive.”
“Not really. I’m not very good.” I clasped my hands in my lap and shrugged. “My mother really wanted that to be my talent. The girls who are musical get a lot of respect from the judges. But I was better at dance, so we stuck with that.”
He nodded. “Did you enjoy it? All the pageant stuff?”
I considered his question for a moment before plastering on my best smile and sitting up impeccably straight. “I’m proud to have competed in pageants. I learned valuable leadership skills, developed self-discipline, and discovered my unique abilities and talents.”
He turned his head slowly, his brows raised high. “Okay…”
I let the smile fall. It was amazing how out of practice I was. My cheeks hurt already. “The real answer is much more complicated.” With a sigh, I slumped back in my seat. Miss Barbara, my coach, would smack me in the head if she saw my shameful posture.
“We’ve got time,” he said, turning the volume down.
How could I explain it to him? For my entire life, I’d been on the outside.
My mom and I were looked down on, the image of a family no one would ever dream of having.
So she clung to the perfection of pageants.
The smiles and sequins and talk of empowerment.
As if pretty clothing and fake smiles would make us better.
Elevate us beyond the label she’d been given in this small town.
And as a dutiful daughter who adored my mother and wanted a better life for us both, I went along with it.
I was desperate to please not just my mom, but the judges, too.
I had coaches and teachers and practiced endlessly.
Smiling, walking gracefully, faking the kind of aw, shucks excitement necessary to convey enough humility to be worthy of the crown.
“I learned a lot about the world and about myself.” And that was the honest truth. “I had some valuable life experiences, but I would never, ever put my child in pageants.”
He nodded. “They seem pretty silly and exploitive to me. I mean, being Miss Queen whatever is fairly meaningless in the grand scheme.”
“Excuse me?” I feigned offense, clutching at the string of pearls at my neck. “How dare you, sir! I was Maple Sugar Princess 2008.”
He laughed, the skin at his temples crinkling. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea I was in the presence of royalty.”
The prissy scowl I gave him only lasted a second or two before I broke into a fit of giggles.
“Does Your Majesty require a coffee and bathroom break?” he asked in a truly terrible British accent.
“Indeed, I do, good sir.”
By the time we passed Augusta, the awkwardness had mostly dissipated, and I was bored enough to push through the lingering remnants. If I didn’t find a distraction ASAP, I’d stare at his long eyelashes or strong jaw, and then my thoughts would veer into dangerous territory.
So I chattered.
We were currently debating the merits of various Maine food specialties.
“Needhams are amazing. I will die on that hill,” he declared.
“It’s potato in chocolate.”
“Not much else grows up here. It’s amazing. Deal with it.”
I shook my head, even as I grinned. “Maine is so fucking weird.”
“It is. Tourists think it’s all beaches and lobster traps, but most of this state is straight-up bizarre.”
I hummed in agreement. “When I was living in Florida, people were so fascinated when they discovered I was from Maine. Meanwhile, I’m like, Stephen King makes it look like a warm and snuggly place.”
“Have you ever visited his house in Bangor?” Owen asked.
I shook my head.
“I’ll take you. It’s super creepy. I’ve probably been there a dozen times. When I was in high school, my friends and I went to Bangor every chance we could get. It was like a metropolis compared to Lovewell.”
I smiled into my Dunkin cup. The thought of taking a fun trip with Owen made me way happier than it should. “Favorite movie?” I asked, grasping for a way to get us on more neutral ground.
He pressed his lips together and surveyed the road in front of us, considering my question.
“Ooh, no. Wait. Lemme guess.” I tapped my chin. “The Godfather? That’s the ultimate dude favorite.”
He shook his head, frowning in concentration. “It’s so hard to choose.”
“Please don’t say Transformers or something horrible like that.”
“Fuck no.” He huffed a laugh. “Don’t get me wrong; I do enjoy a good Fast and Furious movie from time to time.”
“Me too,” I conceded, clasping my hands in my lap.
“I just love so many.”
“Come on. You have to have a favorite.”
“I do? Then what’s yours?” He turned and raised an eyebrow at me, one of his sexy quirks I was starting to enjoy.
“Easy,” I said. “Say Anything.”
“Haven’t seen it.”
I let out an audible gasp and twisted in my seat. “You’ve got to be shitting me. John Cusack? The boom box? She gives him a pen?”
He shook his head and shifted in his seat like he was searching for a more comfortable position.
“What the hell? Turn around. We’ve got to fix this right now. It’s the most romantic movie of all time.”
“Guess I’ll have to watch it sometime then. See if I agree.”
“You’ll watch it today. I decree it,” I said in my queen voice. “It subverts the usual hero-heroine dynamic. I could write a paper on the brilliance of the iconic ’80s teen rom-com.”
“Were you even alive in the ’80s?”
“Nope.” I tilted my chin up and grinned. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate vintage films.”
He coughed out a surprised laugh. “Please don’t call anything created in the ’80s vintage. I may vomit.”
I patted his bicep. His strong, hard bicep. “Don’t be ashamed. You, Owen Hebert, are one fine vintage piece.”
The words were out before I registered the implication, and my tone had been entirely too flirtatious.
I froze for a heartbeat, my breath catching, then slapped my hand over my mouth.
Goddamn Owen and his ability to make my filter fail.
Any sane person would be embarrassed, but if anything, I was emboldened by my inner flirt.
After the moment we shared a couple of nights ago, where he’d come within centimeters of kissing me after declaring that I was beautiful and brilliant, why couldn’t I make my attraction known?
Objectively, he was handsome. Especially driving this sexy car through the twisty mountain roads dressed in a crisp button-down and tailored slacks. The grays peppering his temples only made him look more distinguished.
In juxtaposition to all of those details, he still hadn’t shaved. The scruff added a hint of ruggedness to his appearance, and I was digging it.
Who could blame me for craving a little flirtation? Lovewell was a small town, and yes, we had our fair share of handsome lumberjacks, but all the respectable ones were taken.
Owen was a breath of fresh, broody air. Being in his presence had woken my lady parts from what had felt like an eternal slumber.
I’d spent years with Cole, but we’d hardly been hot and heavy, even in the beginning.
And the final years had been downright frosty.
During that time, Cole’s chances with the NHL were slipping further from him, and he was spiraling.
While he was concerned with his career and falling into self-destructing habits, I was going through the painful process of realizing that I’d been chasing the wrong dreams for way too long.
And the couple of hookups I’d had after Cole and I broke up barely counted. I had been grasping and flailing. The need had been more about my pride and less about pure desire.
But now, I was feeling desire. A lot of desire. My body was coming alive after being in stasis for way too long.
But still, this situation was beyond complicated, and there was a good chance pushing for what I’d been fantasizing about would make things worse.
So I had two choices. I could sit in awkward silence and pretend I’d never said anything, which was our pattern, or I could keep talking.
I chose option B.
“Your stubble is working its way into beard territory,” I observed, not shying away from giving him my full attention for once today.
“Yeah.” He lifted a hand from the steering wheel and scratched at his jaw. “At first, I let it go out of laziness. But I was chopping wood with Finn and the Gagnons the other night, and they were teasing me, saying Tucker could grow a better beard than me.”
I laughed, my heart feeling lighter than it had all day. “If any thirteen-year-old could figure out how to grow a beard, it would be Tucker. He’s really smart.”
“I noticed. And so I figured,” he shrugged, “when in Lovewell…”
“Go full lumberjack?” I finished.
“Something like that.”
“I like it,” I said softly.
Rather than acknowledge my comment, he looked ahead, keeping his eyes on the road. But there was no hiding the smile slowly spreading across his face.