6. Owen
The minute Delia was gone, and hopefully out of earshot, Clarke—yes, with an e ; that really should’ve tipped me off that he was a pretentious, misogynistic asshole who only wanted to work with me because of my celebrity status—whirled on me.
“You need to get your bitch in line,” he seethed.
My response was automatic, a gut instinct, a shot from the hip that required no additional thought or consideration for the consequences. Born from years of being the oldest, the protector, the leader, they were the easiest two words I’d ever spoken.
“You’re fired.” For good measure, in case it wasn’t obvious to this prick, I tacked on, “Get the fuck out.”
Clarke sputtered, his beady little eyes widening. “Yo-you can’t fire me.”
“I can,” I assured him, “and I just did.”
Clarke’s mouth gaped for a moment until he said, “Fuck you.”
“Hugo!” I shouted, and a moment later, my head of security appeared .
“Yeah, boss?”
“Get this prick out of my face.”
“You can’t! Who do you think you are? Do you know who I am? Who I’ve worked for? I designed houses for—”
Hugo dragged Clarke downstairs, his shouted words softening in volume until eventually quieting completely, leaving me in my silent office.
Well, that certainly hadn’t gone as planned.
I should’ve known better. I only hired the idiot because he came highly recommended by my former offensive coordinator in Detroit. It would’ve been one thing had he been willing to work with us, been amenable to hearing Delia’s ideas and implementing them.
Because I realized as soon as she’d gone that she was right. The glass and chrome and smoke and mirrors and neon? They weren’t fit for northern Michigan. And, okay, I could take a lot of the blame here. When I’d hired Clarke and his firm to do the design for the distillery, I hadn’t given him a lot of direction. I told him what I was doing and asked him to bring me an idea. I could admit, had Delia not been here, I probably would’ve been all in on the design. It was exactly the kind of place I would’ve frequented in the early days of my career, when I was young and horny all the time, looking to flaunt my wealth and status for anyone within my vicinity.
But this wasn’t going to be that kind of place, and I should’ve done more research instead of being so blinded by my desperation to break ground and get this up and running as soon as humanly possible.
That was the problem with having money—the belief that, if I simply threw enough zeros at someone, they’d get shit done quicker than they would for a normal person.
And, okay, a lot of the time it worked. But this project—there was something different here. It was new and exciting, yes, and I’ll admit the addition of Delia changed the dynamic. In what way, I was still deciding. I didn’t really believe in all that woo-woo, signs from the universe shit, but I’d be damned if there wasn’t something magical sparking to life inside me as the pieces of this project slowly came together.
Maybe that was my dad’s way of telling me I was on the right track.
So now, we needed to head back to the drawing board.
But first, I had to find Delia and apologize.
Knowing she wouldn’t answer if I called her—and I certainly didn’t blame her—I did the next best thing.
“Hey, Owen,” Amara said when she picked up. “What’s up?”
“Can you tell me where Delia lives? Or where she might be right now?”
“Why? Are you planning on groveling?”
“Yes,” I said instantly. “I owe her an apology.”
“You’re damn right you do,” Amara said, and I knew right then that Delia had already filled her sister in on what happened with Clarke. “How could you let this happen?”
“Hey now, I didn’t know the guy was going to be an epic prick.”
“Maybe not, Owen, but you also didn’t defend her. You just stood there like a giant tool while that guy insulted her! I thought you were a better man than that.”
“I know, I know,” I said quietly, chastened by her tone. I was a better man than that. Throwing myself back into my desk chair, I removed my ball cap and carded my fingers through my hair. “Which is why I’m calling you. Tell me where she is. Tell me how to fix this. I don’t think I have to explain to you how I’m not used to having people challenge me. It’s not an excuse, but…”
“I get that,” she said softly. “But you’re not alone in this anymore.”
“I know,” I growled. “So tell me how to deal with her.”
Amara barked out a laugh. “You don’t ‘deal’ with Delia,” she said. “This is supposed to be a collaborative effort, right? So collaborate . You agreed to the partnership, Owen, so act like it. Listen when she speaks, offer compromises. All she wants is to have a say in things, and by letting that guy run all over her the way he did, she’s wondering why she got into business with you in the first place.”
“Fuck,” I breathed.
“Yeah,” Amara agreed. “You really got yourself in some shit. But…she’s at home. I’ll text you the address.”
“Thanks, Mar,” I said, sagging with relief. “You’re really saving my ass here.”
“Your ass isn’t saved just yet,” she assured me, then hung up.
We’d barely disconnected when the text with Delia’s address came through, and I was in my truck not a minute after, winding through the streets of Traverse City, heading north up Old Mission.
As I drove, another text from Amara came through, my truck reading it to me.
Amara: She’s probably in her office, which is above the garage. Just go in the side door off the driveway and the stairs are on the left. Good luck!
Good luck . Yeah, I had a feeling I was going to need it.
Twenty minutes later, I pulled up to Delia’s house. Though I’d seen numerous photos of it on her socials—I’d been particularly intrigued by the comparison of when it was constructed to now—it was a whole other thing to be standing in front of the physical manifestation of all of her hard work. I had to admit, I was impressed. Though if there was anything I’d learned about her in the last week, it was that she was tenacious and had a head full of great ideas. Moving forward with the original architect and building plan without consulting her first was a mistake I wouldn’t make again. Especially not with the reminder that she was responsible for this masterpiece, a house that belonged on the cover of a magazine but also felt lived in, like a real home.
I pushed out of the truck and inhaled deeply, my shoulders relaxing at the fresh, crisp scent of the nearby lake that wafted through the air. Then I steeled my spine and headed inside.
The stairs to the loft were right where Amara said they’d be. When I reached the little white door atop them, I knocked lightly. From beyond, footsteps padded nearer, the floor creaking softly under their weight.
When Delia swung the door open, her face fell from excitement to wariness in a heartbeat.
“What are you doing here?”
I winced, supposing I deserved her sharp, cold tone. “I came to apologize,” I said, offering a sheepish grin. “Can I come in? ”
I studied her face closely, watching as apprehension flitted across her features before she jerked her head in an approximation of a nod and stepped back to admit me.
I was surprised by how clean, bright, and open her office space felt, so at odds with the darker, grey garage downstairs. It was all creamy whites and earth tones with a few pops of soft pink in her desk chair, keyboard, and throw pillows on the sofa. I shoved my hands deep into my pockets as I stood in the center of the room and spun in a slow circle, taking in everything from her impressive desk setup to the wall of bookshelves stuffed full of paperbacks and hardcovers.
“What do you want, Owen?”
I met her gaze at last. “I told you: I’m here to apologize.”
She pursed her lips, not saying anything as she waited for me to continue.
“Look…not having your back in that meeting, and letting Clarke talk to you like that? I fucked up.”
Delia’s forehead creased. “Clarke?”
“The architect?”
“Oh,” she said, huffing out a little laugh. “I’ve been calling him ‘the weasel’ in my head.”
I chuckled with her, my shoulders relaxing. If she was laughing, I was halfway to forgiveness.
“Well, he is a weasel, so that makes sense. And I fired him.”
She gasped. “You did what?”
“I. Fired. Him,” I said, enunciating every word.
“Why?”
“The way he spoke to you, for starters,” I said, my jaw clenching, remembering the way I’d allowed him to do so. God, if I was her, I’d punch me in the face. Hell, if a man had spoken to my mother or sister like that in my presence, I wouldn’t have hesitated to do so.
I really was an asshole.
“And because his vision wasn’t working. He only wanted to work with Owen Lawless , the star quarterback. Not Owen Lawless, the businessman.”
Delia’s head dipped toward the ground as she said, “His vision sucked ass.”
Unable to stand seeing her fold in on herself like that, I stepped closer, tucking my finger under her chin and lifting her face up. Touching her was dangerous, surely a gateway drug to deeper sensations, to lingering and intimacy, but I couldn’t stop myself.
“It did,” I agreed, staring straight into her eyes. “Your ideas are honestly incredible, Delia. I’m sorry for how he acted, and for not putting a stop to the whole thing before we got that far. This is your baby as much as it is mine, and it wasn’t fair for me to make that decision without you.”
Delia blinked slowly, her breath that smelled of cinnamon and sugar filling the air between us. Her tongue peeked out, the tip brushing along her lower lip. Everything in me tightened. My chest, my skin—my cock. I sucked in a breath and held it, not moving, waiting to see what she’d do next. And willing my cock to stand down.
After another beat wherein she moved almost imperceptibly closer, she heaved a lungful of air…and took a step back.
“Thank you,” she said quietly, tucking her hair behind her ears, her eyes darting everywhere but in my direction. I didn’t miss the way her hands shook, and I relaxed into the knowledge that our moment affected her exactly as it had me.
“How did you find me?”
“I called Amara,” I said.
She groaned. “She needs to mind her own business.”
“She cares about you,” I said with a shrug. “And if it makes you feel better, she handed me my ass.”
“Good,” Delia said, but the word sounded anything but.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
Her eyes flicked to mine then. “I can’t do this with you every time we need to make big decisions,” she said in a rush. “All that shit Amara went through with Cal not believing in her and doing his level best to get her removed from her own company? Please, just…don’t do that to me.”
She seemed to choke down the rest of what she wanted to say, and I was desperate to hear it. This conversation was important for reasons I probably hadn’t even realized yet.
“I won’t,” I promised.
“I know you weren’t exactly…excited about working with me, but I promise I’m taking this seriously. Probably the most serious I’ve ever taken anything. This distillery and our partnership is something I am one hundred percent invested in, and I need you to believe that too. I’d never do anything to fuck it up.” She paused for a moment, fists clenching and releasing, as though weighing what to say next. When she spoke, her words were softened. Quieter. More vulnerable. “You have your other businesses to fall back on, but for me…”
She trailed off, but I wasn’t letting her off the hook that easily.
“For you, what?” I pressed.
“This kind of feels like my one shot to prove I can do more than just take pretty pictures and make fun videos. That I can be a businesswoman like Mar and Brie, or creative like Ella and Chloe. If this fails…”
My heart softened, knowing that feeling of inadequacy all too well. On paper, I was wildly successful. But stacked up against my brothers? It was no contest. I’d only ever been good at throwing a football and getting smoked by guys twice my size. That was nothing compared to the actual heroics those guys performed.
One day—maybe—I’d share all of that with Delia. But this wasn’t about me. This was about assuring her I trusted her, I believed in her, and we were going to make this work.
“This is an equal partnership,” I said softly. “We make decisions together or not at all. Deal?”
Delia nodded, her lips curving upward slightly. “Deal.”
“Now I know you haven’t been sitting here stewing in your rage all day,” I said, stalking across the room like I lived there and dropping down onto her small but surprisingly comfortable sofa. “So tell me what you’ve been planning.”
Delia crossed to her desk and sat on the chair, crossing her legs under her and spinning to face me. “How do you know I’ve been planning?”
“Please,” I said, pursing my lips at her. “I hardly know you, but I know you’re always prepared for anything. You may have been too proud to approach me first after that disastrous meeting, which is fine because I really did owe you this apology. But I don’t believe for a second you haven’t spent some time coming up with a better idea.”
As hard as I tried, knowing looking at her was a lesson in denying temptation I could only maintain for so long, I raised my gaze to hers. A pink flush decorated her cheeks, and I fought back a smile. Making her blush shouldn’t satisfy me so much, but I secretly loved this softer, more vulnerable side.
Mentally, I shook my head. I couldn’t get caught up in thoughts like that. Appreciating vulnerability in someone was a slippery slope. Friendship, we could do. Anything past that would be crossing a line I wasn’t interested in. Well, my brain wasn’t. My body would happily sink into hers at the first opportunity, but I was a thirty-seven-year-old man. I could keep those urges at bay and keep this partnership above board—and above the belt.
“Well, since you asked…” Delia said, turning her back on me in favor of clicking around on her computer. A moment later, a rudimentary rendering of a building appeared, and I audibly gasped like a damn school girl.
“You did this?” I said, rising to my feet to move behind her.
Delia shrugged a shoulder. “I’d already been working on it, which you would’ve known had you bothered to ask my opinion on anything.”
I winced, knowing I deserved that shot.
“I’m sorry,” I said again, but she merely waved me off.
“It’s fine.” Somehow, I believed her. “So here’s what I’m thinking…”
I pulled a chair up beside her, ignoring how the few inches of air separating our bodies charged as I sat. God, what the fuck was wrong with me? It wasn’t like I’d never been in the professional company of a beautiful woman before. I should’ve been able to control myself better.
But I’d be damned if there wasn’t something about Delia that just…did it for me. It was a crying damn shame it was one of those look-but-don’t-touch situations.
My eyes widened the more she spoke, my jaw unhinging further with each new facet of the design she revealed. It was perfect, all the little details carefully curated to create a unique but warm and inviting environment for our guests. She kept the building shape the same as what Clarke had proposed, but completely updated the facade and interior.
The longer I studied the exterior rendering, the more a sense of deja vu settled over me, like I’d seen it before.
And then I realized I had .
Somehow, Delia had designed a building that looked exactly like the home I’d grown up in.
My eyes flicked to the ceiling, to the sky beyond, offering a small smile and thank you to my dad…wherever he was.
As she threw things at me, I asked questions or offered suggestions on ways to improve. For the first time since we’d started this whole thing, it felt like a truly collaborative effort. Once we’d reviewed everything and crafted a plan to proceed, I rose from my chair, desperate for a breath of air not laced with the scent of her perfume.
As soon as I was on my feet, I withdrew my phone from my pocket, clicking through my contacts and tapping on my contractor’s name.
“I’ll get my contractor on this ASAP,” I said. “I don’t know why I didn’t just use him in the first place.”
“This is a big undertaking,” Delia said. “Opening a new business.”
“I’ve already opened three new businesses,” I reminded her .
“Not from the ground up. There’s a lot more riding on this than with the bar, club, or restaurant.”
My shoulders tensed with the reminder. I did have a lot riding on this. My reputation as a business owner. My burgeoning empire and growing legacy.
Making my father proud.
But it wasn’t only me I had to consider here.
Delia had just spilled to me her insecurity about what happened if this project went under, and if for no reason but that, I’d kill myself trying to make this a success.
For her sake, I’d accept nothing less.