10. Boyish Charms
BOYISH CHARMS
Owen pulls out the chair across from me and sits, resting his chin on his tattooed knuckles as he levels me with a look that feels x-raying.
“You’ve been quiet the last few days,” he says, almost like it’s a diagnosis. “Did things not go well with Grace the other night? You never told me.”
The corner of my mouth quirks at the mention of my new best friend.
Dinner with Grace went fantastically. Better than fantastic.
We’ve been texting continually ever since.
For the first time in, well, ever, it feels like someone genuinely enjoys my company.
Other than Owen, of course. But he’s kind and mature and my boss.
I’m pretty sure it’s an HR violation if he doesn’t at least pretend to like me.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him exactly how wonderful my evening with Grace was when her little suggestion floats once again to the surface of my brain.
Flirt with him a little. It’s been echoing all weekend at an almost abrasive volume.
Maybe that’s what makes me swallow the dorky grin trying to take over my face and replace it with something I hope reads as coy instead of constipated.
“It was good,” I say, aiming for nonchalance. “I’m going to take her out again.”
“Oh yeah?” He sounds surprised, and maybe, just maybe, my heart does a small, traitorous hop at the idea he might be disappointed.
“Mhmm.”
I reach across the table and brush the pad of my thumb over the course hair along his cheek. He startles at my touch. Not in a bad way, more like he felt the same spark of electricity I did at the contact.
“You had some flour,” I add, because I’m a lying liar who lies.
He nods in thanks.
Truth is, I’ve never been good at flirting. There’s a disconnect between the horny Finley that runs rampant in my brain and the awkward Finley who opens his mouth and lets word vomit spill out.
I should’ve asked Grace for specifics on how to catch someone like Owen’s eye. In the movies, they make it look effortless: smooth pick-up lines, casual touches, looks that linger a bit too long.
I attempt one of those now. Judging by the way Owen’s brow creases, I land somewhere closer to manic than smoldering.
“You okay?”
Well, damnit. Abort. Abort. Compliments are always a safe bet, right?
“I like that…uh…shirt.” Smooth. “It looks good on you. Not that anything looks bad on you. Like, ever. You’ve got the kind of body that could make a potato sack look hot. Not that I’m comparing you to a sack of potatoes. Far from it.”
Shut up. Shut up. It keeps coming.
“I personally like the little cushion you have around the middle. It’s real, you know, and—” Oh mother of God, why won’t the words stop “—I just meant the color does nice things to your skin.”
Yikes. Way to round out that sounding like Hannibal Lecter.
I groan and bury my face in my palms. Compliments are apparently not a safe bet after all.
I could have stopped at shirt, or—you know—not started whatever that was at all.
Operation Seduce Owen might need to be permanently abandoned before I lose all finesse and begin humping his leg like a horny puppy.
A finger presses beneath my chin, tilting my face up.
“Thank you, Fin,” he says, so damn sincerely. “That was nice of you to say. Even if it makes me think I should get back to the gym.”
He chuckles, ruffles my hair with one broad hand, and pats the aforementioned cushion at his middle with the other.
“Sorry,” I groan.
“Don’t be. It was cute.”
Those four letters should not light me on fire the way they do.
It’s not the word. It’s the way he says it.
For a guy of my stature, I’ve heard “cute” plenty in my twenty-four years.
“Cute,” like a puppy. “Cute,” like clueless.
“Cute,” like, are you allowed to ride in a car without a booster seat? Never like this.
I can’t quite explain what’s different, except there’s no edge to it. No condescension. He doesn’t say it like I’m small. He says it like it’s…praise?
And, well. There’s that.
I decide right then and there, earning more of that praise—of that look—is my new life purpose. If that means brushing up on my flirting skills, so be it. Sacrifices must be made.
Over the next few days, I devote myself to Operation Seduce Owen and receive wildly inconclusive results.
Tuesday, I attempted Casual Physical ContactTM by sliding my hand down his arm in what was supposed to be a slow, sensual pass.
Owen jumped so violently that he nearly achieved orbit.
I had to yank my hand back so fast I almost dislocated my shoulder and made a solemn vow to never, ever sneak up on the man again.
He spent the next ten minutes avoiding eye contact and aggressively reorganizing espresso syrups.
Later that same day, I tried another lingering look after getting some much-needed pointers from a 2017 Teen Vogue I found while organizing the cafe’s bookcase.
“Win over your crush with just one look.” The instructions were fairly easy, and sang the praises of what has apparently been coined “The Triangle Method.”
Simply move your gaze from one eye to the other before dropping to their lips. And by Jove, you’ve got it!
I don’t know who the fuck bi-Jove is, but I did not, in fact, have it.
Instead of letting the tension simmer and build, I stared at him across the counter for so long that he asked if there was something in his teeth.
To which I panicked, and half-yelled at him, “Yes!” He excused himself upstairs to brush his already perfect, shiny, food-free smile.
On Wednesday, I pivoted strategies. Subtle obviously wasn’t working, so maybe bratty charm would. When he assigned me dish duty—my personal hell—I pouted, batted my lashes, and whined, “But I don’t wanna, daddy,” in the most shameless voice I could muster.
Owen swallowed. Hard. His gaze dropped briefly to my mouth before snapping back up to the ceiling.
“Dishes, Finley,” he said evenly after a couple of steadying breaths. Then he turned and disappeared, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like, “For the love of God” under his breath.
Thursday, we experimented with donuts, which meant I got to spend an entire afternoon talking about hole size and cream filling.
I fully committed, turning ninety percent of my sentences into innuendo.
Owen blushed all the way to the tips of his ears several times and even dropped his piping bag once.
And yet he didn’t flirt back, even though I was doing some of my very best work.
By Friday, frustration had set in, and I decided it was time to bring out the big guns. Not that anyone would describe my guns as big. I wandered out of the bathroom in nothing but a towel, hair damp and artfully mussed across my forehead.
I took my time crossing the apartment, making sure there was just enough hip sway to draw attention without looking intentional—I may have practiced in the mirror a few times first. I stopped directly in front of him on my way to the kitchen, stretched slightly, and continued on to pour myself a glass of water.
I drank it slowly, letting out a satisfied sigh when I was done.
Owen didn’t look up. Not even once. His eyes remained fixed on the newspaper in his hands like he was preparing for a test on current events.
I lingered a second longer, just in case, but he continued to turn the pages with extreme focus, hand trembling—although that could have been a trick of the light.
“I don’t know what I’m doing wrong,” I groan to Grace, pouring her a cup of coffee and leaning my hip against the table she’s claimed with her laptop.
Saturdays are much slower than weekdays. Owen’s in the back, and Annabelle has a playdate with a friend, leaving the cafe blissfully empty except for Grace and me.
“And you tried the towel thing I suggested?” she checks.
I nod and give her the full rundown of how spectacularly uninterested Owen seemed in my near nudity. Grace taps a finger against her chin, humming like she’s solving a particularly tricky math problem.
“We need to come at this from another angle.”
I let out a slow, defeated sigh. “We need to abandon this ridiculous notion altogether. The man is straight and uninterested in my boyish charms. At this point, I’m one failed attempt away from making him deeply uncomfortable, and then I’ll have to fake my own death and move towns.”
“You ain't fakin’ your own death. He’d be broken-hearted, and the whole town would have to deal with his angsty pinin’ over what could’ve been if he’d pulled his head outa his ass and realized what was in front of him.”
“You don’t know that.”
She studies me for a second longer than usual, some of the teasing draining from her expression. “You really think he’s not interested?”
I shrug, trying and failing not to leave every inch of my desperate heart exposed.
Before she can persuade me differently, the kitchen door swings open and Owen steps out, arms full of takeout boxes and drink carriers.
I don’t even know why Grace is so invested in this anymore.
It started as a fun little challenge. A harmless experiment.
But every day that passes without Owen reacting in any meaningful way chips at my already fragile self-confidence.
It’s time to let this go. Put the childish fantasy to bed and accept that the friendship we have will have to be enough.
“Follow my lead,” Grace murmurs, a wicked grin taking over her face.
I narrow my eyes. “Has that sentence ever ended well for anyone?”
My protest comes too late. She laughs, obnoxiously loud, and leans into my space, her hand sliding up my arm in a move way more graceful than the one I’d attempted on Owen a few days earlier.
“God, you are handsome, Finley,” she…purrs? “I could eat you up.”
Well. I have no answer to that. I’m not sure what lead I’m supposed to be following here, so I settle for running my fingers through my hair and giving her what I hope looks like an easy smile. She laughs again and pinches my actual cheek. Ow!