10. Boyish Charms #2
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Owen has paused mid-unpacking, and is leaning against the counter, eyes trained on us.
“Are you free tonight?” she—God, was that a mewl? What the fuck is happening? “I thought if you were, you might want to come over and we could…yah know.”
She waggles her eyebrows while brushing a lock of hair behind my ear. It hits me a second too late what she’s doing. And while her methods resemble a terribly written porno, I don’t miss the way Owen’s nostrils slightly flare.
Okay. Time to play along.
“I like the way you think,” I manage, sliding my tongue across my lower lip.
Flirting in general makes my skin crawl like I’m covered in a million hives.
Flirting with a woman feels like wearing someone else’s clothes while also covered in a million hives.
Grace is safe, I remind myself, and this isn’t real.
I lean in a little, her eyes twinkle with mischief, and I feel Owen’s body stiffen on the other side of the room.
Interesting. Very, very interesting.
“Mhmmm…” she hums, and Owen’s eyes somehow narrow even further. “How about you come by around eight? We can have some wine, and if you’re lucky, some…fun.” She stretches the word until it loses all logical meaning.
I open my mouth to respond with something equally suggestive, but Owen’s voice cuts through the air, slicing the moment in two. “Finley.” I haven’t heard my full name on his lips in forever; the sternness makes me jump about a foot. “We are closing up early. Time to say goodbye to Grace.”
My gaze snaps to his, and it brooks no argument.
There’s an edge in his posture I’ve never seen before.
Grace’s grin, however, is smug enough to tell me she thinks her plan worked perfectly.
She pats my hand where it rests on the table and begins gathering her things quietly, shuffling toward the door.
She looks back once, lips forming an exaggerated See you later, clearly for Owen’s benefit, winks, and disappears.
“Everything okay?” I ask, turning the open sign to closed and locking the door.
He doesn’t answer. Just looks away from me, jaw tight, a crease forming between his brows.
My heart pounds. I know I crossed a line, yet I can’t for the life of me figure out why or when it was drawn.
An apology gathers at the back of my throat, but before I can release it, he turns and resumes unpacking the rest of the boxes as if I’m not even here.
“You need to act more appropriately in front of the other customers,” he finally says after far too many minutes of me standing there trying to breathe quietly enough that he forgets I exist.
“It was only Grace and me in here. We were goofing around.”
“It’s unprofessional to be arranging sex while on the clock.”
The words are frustratingly monotone. But the way he hisses sex ignites something hot and ugly inside me. Not the usual dizzy, hopeless surge of attraction I’m used to when it comes to Owen. No. This is all anger.
Because how can he not see it? How can he not know what standing three feet from him does to me? I’ve practically been setting myself on fire all week, and he hasn’t even had the decency to acknowledge the smoke.
And now he wants to police who I flirt with?
“Fuck you,” I mutter, more to myself than anyone else. Then louder, “You know what? I’m not having this conversation. If you can’t tell I’m gay”—and basically in love with you—“you’re far stupider than I ever thought.”
His head snaps toward me. For one split second, the same rage burning in my chest flashes in his eyes. Then it’s gone. Smothered.
“I’m well aware you’re gay, Finley. You’ve made it pretty damn obvious this last week.”
He’s so goddamn calm and controlled. Like the well-adjusted adult, I clearly am not. I hate it. In this moment, I hate him. I hate myself for being foolish enough to fillet my heart in front of him. I hate that there’ll be no coming back from this.
Air leaves my lungs in a hopeless sob. “What the fuck is this all about then?” It comes out wrong—whiny and pleading, instead of firm and self-assured.
“It’s about,” he says carefully, each word clipped. “If that whole performance was to get my attention, you needn’t have bothered.”
Well, there it is—the rejection I knew was coming.
But knowing it was coming doesn’t make it hurt any less.
My vision blurs before I can stop it. I blink hard, but it’s useless.
My traitorous tear ducts betray me anyway.
All I can do is stare at the floor, mortified, hoping he doesn’t notice the tears running thick, salty trails down my face.
I don’t see him move, but I feel the gravity of him when he steps closer. I feel the press of his finger as it slides under my chin and tilts my face up. I hear the way his tone shifts from its careful measure into something that sounds as broken as I feel.
“Fin.”
I can’t bring myself to look at him. I screw my eyes closed and shake my head softly. I don’t deserve his words. I’m not worthy of his pity.
“You don’t need to fight for my attention… It’s already yours.”
And then, as if to answer every single one of my hopeless prayers, he closes the narrow distance between us and covers my lips with his.