Total pages in book: 244
Estimated words: 236705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1184(@200wpm)___ 947(@250wpm)___ 789(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 236705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1184(@200wpm)___ 947(@250wpm)___ 789(@300wpm)
“I can see that, I suppose. But still, I hate what he did in Vegas. Even if you liked him for a while, he didn’t deserve you. At all. You deserve better,” I say.
“Thanks. I think so too.”
“Why’d you stay with him so long?” I ask, since post-breakup, I was less concerned with rehashing the relationship, more concerned with taking Owen out to as many hockey games as I could—that’s his therapy. Sporting events, as well as cake, so I did my part, and mostly I tried to distract him by talking about things besides Ezra.
Maybe it’s time, though, to talk about his ex.
And surely this is still the safe zone.
Owen shrugs. “Good question. But I think maybe because he was possessive.”
Interesting. I wouldn’t have pegged Owen as wanting that.
That makes me wonder—if he were mine, could I give him that?
Stop, stop. You’re not in the running.
I keep my eyes on the road, going for nonchalance as I toss out: “Is that important to you? That kind of alpha you’re my man and no one better look at you approach?”
He laughs. “You sound like TJ imitating one of his characters.”
“Speaking of, I listened to the audiobook of TJ’s Happy Trail. So good. The guy they got to read that book has all kinds of sexiness in his pipes.”
“Samuel Park? Yes, the ladies and the dudes love him, TJ says.”
“No surprise there. But anyway, are you into that type? The uber alpha?” I’m crossing my fingers, hoping Owen says no. I’m not that type. I’m too . . . high-energy to be a typical alpha, even if I might be bossy in bed.
Might.
Who am I kidding?
I am bossy in bed.
But I’m not growly, grumpy, or possessive.
I just know what I like. To be in charge most of the time.
Owen shakes his head, lifts a hand, adjusts his glasses. He takes them off, cleaning them on his shirt. “No. I think it just made me feel wanted.”
My heart kicks a little harder. “And that’s important to you?”
Owen turns his face to me, glasses free. His deep blue eyes look even more vulnerable than usual, and they make my chest swirl with new sensations.
“Yes, it is,” Owen says. “I just don’t want to mistake possession for love again.”
His words ignite an unexpected flare of emotion in me. A spark of feelings for the man next to me. “You should be wanted. You should be loved. You should be with someone who wants you, and gets you, and understands you,” I say emphatically.
Owen smiles softly, but doesn’t put his glasses back on.
I shake my head, trying to let loose the pinpricks of feelings racing through me.
Want, love, need.
All these things I’m seeking, too, as I look for Mister Right.
“I’d like that,” Owen says, in a quiet but certain tone.
“Is that what you’re looking for most in a relationship?” I ask, pressing on. “I mean, I don’t want to put words in your mouth.”
Oh dear. The innuendo opportunities there.
The things I could say.
The things he could say.
But I choose silence instead, waiting for him.
He nods, then looks at me again as the music shifts to The National’s cover of “Never Tear Us Apart.” Owen swallows visibly, parts his lips, and I stall for a few seconds—my gaze caught on his full lips—before I jerk my attention back to the road.
“What I want most in a relationship . . .” he starts, but doesn’t finish right away as he stares out the passenger window, then draws a breath before turning back to me. “I want to be good to someone. I want someone who wants me to be good to him. Who’d want what I have to give.”
I nearly swerve into the next lane as a rush of warmth spreads across my skin.
I grip the wheel tighter, focusing on the road.
Just the road.
Not those swoony, sweet, and powerful words.
But they play on repeat in my head, his voice echoing, and I am so screwed.
Something stronger than temptation is taking hold.
Something clutching my heart.
I don’t know what the hell to do with it.
I just nod, letting the music fill the void. “I bet you have a lot to give,” I say in the understatement of my life.
“I do,” Owen says, and his tone is different. There’s a vulnerability in it that feels almost personal. Possibly suggestive, but it’s not sexual; it’s just intimate. “River?”
My breath catches, but I swallow it quickly. “Yes?”
“You never answered my question. Did you dislike Ezra all along?”
My mind cycles back to those days when Owen dated Ezra. When they swung by The Lazy Hammock. When they went to coffee together and I sometimes, maybe, caught a few minutes with my friend. When they went to concerts at night, and all I got was a morning-after report on the band.
Did I dislike him all along?