5. River

5

RIVER

I am the worst.

I tell myself I won’t flirt, but what do I do?

The opposite.

And all this banter and sweet talk isn’t curbing my craving for Owen. It’s fanning the fire. Hell, the flames are climbing sky-high. Talking to him is easier than mixing drinks, than deciding to go on a hike, than goofing off with Delilah.

Hell, I made the guy happy by finding a perfect podcast for him—by knowing his tastes. And that feels so good.

Too good.

The last hour with Owen has my brain spinning forward, picturing future days. I need to pop this tingly, shivery bubble of my own making.

Stat.

When the first tune to fill the car is an Arctic Monkeys cover of a poppy love song, I seize my opportunity. “Wasn’t this Ezra’s favorite band?”

Owen scrunches his brow. “No. I’m the one who likes them. Not him.”

Oops. My bad. Sometimes the memory chip goes faulty. “But he liked them too,” I add, since the topic of exes is definitely non-flirting territory and I need to walk all over it. It’s perfect for a reset to FriendshipLandia.

“Because I did. Why are you asking whether he liked them?”

“Just thinking about Ezra,” I say, and mayday, fucking mayday. What is wrong with my brain?

Owen laughs like I’ve gone mad. “And why are you thinking about my ex?”

“I didn’t like him. He wasn’t any... fun,” I say, since that’s true, and a safe enough topic.

“Ezra wasn’t fun enough? That was your issue with him?” Owen sounds incredulous.

“He never liked to hang out with the whole group. He wanted you all to himself,” I say, and once those words fall from my lips, they don’t sound much better than he wasn’t any fun.

“Let me get this straight. You didn’t care for him because he wanted to spend time with me alone, not because he was a possessive jackass who dumped me publicly in Las Vegas at a poker game?”

And I’m a dick. Quickly, I try to recover. “That’s what I meant. Shit. Sorry, Owen. He was a jackass. I hate him for how he treated you at the end.”

“I didn’t like how he treated me either,” he says, slumping back in his seat.

That’s interesting. Owen didn’t say at the end . “Do you mean how he broke it off, or just in general?”

Owen scrubs a hand across his jaw, staring off into the distance, maybe lost in thought. “Both?”

“Are you asking me or telling me?” I ask gently.

“Well, you said you didn’t like him. Did you dislike him all along?” he asks in a tone stripped free of the usual sarcasm that drips between us. “Because I sure thought I liked him, but maybe I liked the intensity of him.”

“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?

Maybe I did.

From day one.

Since he took Owen from me.

“Yes,” I say, but I don’t elaborate. Don’t want to say why, especially since I’m just now starting to put two and two together. I cast about for a new topic, one that doesn’t tug on my heart unexpectedly.

Owen lifts his right hand, rubs his temple.

“Are you getting a headache?” I ask, since he gets tension headaches now and then. Usually when he’s been staring at a screen too long, or when driving, something he rarely does.

“A little, but I’ll be fine. I have ibuprofen.”

“Let’s get you something to swallow it down with,” I say, with too much cheer. Like a beverage is a cause for celebration.

Perhaps it is if it distracts me.

I glance down at the dashboard. The tank is half full. “Besides, I forgot to fill up. Let’s find a gas station. We can even grab some snacks, and that drink for you.”

“All I want right now is a can of LaCroix,” Owen quips, returning to his flirty, fun voice.

Where I should be too.