23. Delia
The time between the photoshoot and leaving for the charity gala was a much needed reprieve from Owen and his whole…everything.
My social battery was seriously depleted, but I couldn’t exactly beg off from attending a charity function. The last thing I felt like doing was getting all fancied up and schmoozing with rich people, but it was important to Owen, so it was important to me.
I was nervous about being near him all night, about the comments and questions people would throw our way about our relationship. But when I let him into my room when the car arrived, I couldn’t help but chuckle, some of that anxiety melting away at the way his eyes comically widened as he took me in.
“Whiskey,” he groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face, his mouth hanging open, lower lip catching on his palm.
“What?” I asked innocently.
“That fucking dress. ”
“This old thing?” I said, shimmying my hips side to side, the little gems decorating the bodice sparkling in the hotel room lamps.
“Old,” Owen choked out on a laugh. “If that dress is old, then I’m the Pope.”
I crossed my arms over my chest and narrowed my eyes at him. “What’re you saying right now, QB?”
Owen stepped closer and slid his arms around my waist, pressing a chaste kiss to my forehead before quickly backing away. It was as if he couldn’t stand not touching me, but also couldn’t handle prolonged contact.
“You are…resplendent, Whiskey.”
“Resplendent,” I repeated, preening. “Awfully big word for a jock.”
He laced his fingers through mine to tug me from the room, his tone low and promising as he said, “That’s not the only big thing I’ve got.”
Fuck me, I was in so much trouble.
Leave it to rich people to turn the fight against poverty into such a goddamn spectacle.
The event was being held at some swanky event space in Midtown. Honestly, I didn’t pay much attention to where we were. My entire world had narrowed to every point of contact between me and Owen. My hands and arms and thighs tingled every time he brushed up against me. We’d only just arrived, and I was damn near ready to combust .
For his part, Owen was cool as a cucumber, seemingly unaffected by my nearness. In fact, it would’ve given me a complex had he not gripped my hand tighter, anchoring me to his side every time I attempted to pull away.
“You stay here,” he growled. “All night.”
I only nodded, sipping my sparkling wine and fighting off a shiver at the possessiveness of his words.
God, I was in a bad way.
It got worse when we moved deeper into the party and I stood idly by while he chatted with every single person who stopped him. He always made sure to introduce me, never offering up who I was to him, instead allowing people to make their own assumptions about us. It was a nebulous explanation I appreciated, not knowing myself what we were. Business partners? Obviously. But…more too. Even if we hadn’t acted on it yet, those thoughts and feelings were there, and I knew it was only a matter of time.
The event—unsurprisingly given the ticket price—had a fancy, sit down dinner. Though the food was good, it honestly didn’t hold a candle to Ezra’s cooking.
A sharp stab of homesickness hit me square in the chest, practically knocking the wind out of me. These last few days with Owen had been a lot, and I was genuinely excited to head back to Michigan in the morning. To get myself back on solid ground and figure out where the hell we went from here.
As soon as the wait staff cleared away our dessert plates—a crème brulée that didn’t come close to my sister’s—I excused myself to use the bathroom, needing a moment to breathe, to settle myself enough to make it through the rest of the evening .
I’d never really suffered from anxiety, but I think I understood people who did in that moment. My throat was thick with emotion, my chest tight. When I pushed into the restroom, I approached the long marble counter inlaid with a trio of sinks and grabbed a handful of paper towels from the basket nearby. Dampening them with cool water, I pressed them to my neck and chest, letting the moisture soothe me, taking deep, calming breaths.
My heart rate slowed at last, and I tossed the towel, then relieved myself.
When I returned to the ballroom and found Owen in the crowd, what serenity I’d found evaporated, replaced by annoyance and a fierce wave of possessiveness. A lithe blonde woman in an ice blue evening gown hung on his arm, her head tipped back in laughter over something he’d presumably said.
Red clouded my vision.
Though I tried to school my expression into indifference as I approached them, Owen must’ve seen the tightness around my eyes and correctly interpreted the flat line of my mouth, because he politely extricated himself from the woman and moved toward me. His hands were slightly raised in a placating gesture that pissed me off even more.
“Who is this?” I asked sweetly, plastering the fakest smile I’d ever given on my mouth.
The woman’s brown eyes scanned me from head to toe, and her lip curled slightly. “Temperance Schaefer,” she said, making no move to shake my hand. “And you are?”
“Delia Delatou,” I said, slipping my hand through Owen’s arm. “Owen’s business partner. ”
I wanted to say more, to tell this woman that I was his in every sense of the word, but I’d be damned if I stooped to that level. She wouldn’t get those admissions from me before Owen himself did.
Temperance raised a brow, glancing pointedly at where we touched, then up at Owen. “Business partner?”
“Yep,” Owen said. “Delia partnered with me on the distillery. We’re even building on her family land.”
“That’s…cute,” Temperance said, and I wanted to rip her hair out.
I grew up with four sisters. I wasn’t a stranger to jealousy, especially not since my sisters and I were so close in age and best friends on top of being family. But growing up around that many women, after a while, had anesthetized me to the effects of that particular emotion. We’d fought over boys and clothes and literally everything else so often in our teen years that few things phased me these days. I genuinely believed there was room at the table for everyone in whatever industry you happened to be in. Men were already making it their personal mission to pigeonhole us into being homemakers and solely responsible for child rearing, so we shouldn’t be treating other women the same.
But this woman? And women like her? They were responsible for sending feminism back to the suffragette movement.
“We’re not even open yet and already have over fifty thousand combined Instagram and TikTok followers,” Owen said proudly, covering my hand comfortingly with his. “And it’s all thanks to Delia. Did you know she has her own wildly successful social platforms?”
“Oh really?” Temperance purred. “I’m not sure I’ve heard of you.”
I shrugged. “You can find me at DeliaDIY if you ever want to see what I do.”
I bit back a grin of satisfaction when her eyes widened.
She’d clearly heard of me, had probably scrolled my TikTok for costume and party favor ideas. Though, I doubted she got her hands dirty with any real DIY. To me, she seemed the type to pay someone to do that for her. But I could guess fashion and lifestyle were a different story. I’d made a killing from brand deals by doing try-on hauls, get-ready-with-me videos, and decor reveals. I’d bet good money she religiously watched my videos.
“I’ll have to check it out,” she said noncommittally, waving a hand dismissively.
“I think you could really benefit.”
I gaped up at Owen. Those exact words had been floating in my own mind, but I’d had zero intention of ever speaking them. For him to come to my defense like that in such a small way? We’d come so far from the early days of our partnership.
I wanted to hug him then, to wrap my limbs around his body like a monkey in a tree. To press my lips to his and imbue the kiss with every swirling emotion inside me.
I was absolutely crazy for this man, and it was time I started acting like it.
Thanks to the seemingly endless glasses of bubbly after dinner, I was a little unsteady on my feet by the time we dipped out of the gala and returned to our hotel. I couldn’t help the slight sway of my body with the elevator as we rode up to our floor. When we stepped out, I made my way down the hall, knowing Owen would follow, and grateful a moment later that he had. As we neared the door to his room, the spike of my heel caught on the carpet and I stumbled, throwing my hands out to hopefully break my fall before my face did.
Only, the impact never came. Instead, strong arms wrapped around my waist and hauled me back into a warm, solid wall.
“Be careful, Whiskey,” Owen breathed against my ear. “Can’t have you breaking that pretty face of yours.”
I spun in his arms, heart rate kicking up at our proximity, though I was emboldened by the alcohol coursing through my veins. “You think I’m pretty?”
Owen chuckled, a disbelieving sound, but he sobered his expression quickly. “You’re the most stunning woman I’ve ever laid eyes on, Delia. Inside and out.”
“Prettier than Temperance?” I practically spat her name.
“Ahh,” Owen said knowingly. “So that’s what this is about.”
“Is not,” I protested weakly, dropping my gaze to the space—or lack thereof—between us.
A finger tucked under my chin, slight pressure tipping my head back until I met Owen’s eyes.
“It’s okay if you’re jealous, you know,” he said softly. “Means you care. Means you want me. But I also need you to know there’s nothing to be jealous of.”
“You sure?” I asked petulantly, breaking our stare to fix on a random point over his shoulder. “She sure looked cozy and perfect hanging off your arm when I came back from the bathroom.”
“Look at me.” The demand in his tone brooked no room for argument, and my eyes snapped back to his in an instant. “When you’re in the room, no one else exists. And when you’re not around, I’m wishing you were.” He leaned his forehead against mine. “God, Whiskey. When are you going to put us out of our misery?”
I swallowed hard, pulse thrumming rapidly, heat sparking in my veins. That’s what Owen was: an inferno, scorching everything in his path. Sucking all the oxygen from my lungs and burning my resolve to the ground. Any protestations I may have had went up in smoke in an instant.
He wanted me. He’d said as much more than once, and continued to show me he wasn’t going anywhere. That he was willing to wait for me to figure my shit out. And somehow, I knew, even without him saying, that if the thing I wanted turned out not to be him, our working relationship would be okay. Would it be painful to move on from this attraction without ever giving in? Of course. But we’d be alright, because Owen wouldn’t accept anything else.
If that’s what it came down to, he’d faced enough hard truths in his life to take my rejection in stride.
Lucky for him—for both of us, really—I did want him. More than just physically, though that pull was stronger than any I’d ever felt before. I wanted him more than I’d ever wanted anything or anyone in my life.
And god, I was sick to death of this holding pattern I’d put us in.
Decision made, in answer to Owen’s question, I simply shifted impossibly closer and pressed my mouth to his.