Chapter 21

chapter

twenty-one

ADDIE

Getting practically kicked out of my own house couldn't have come at a better time.

Fixing my lawn mower and dryer can wait another week. Besides, it's October, and the growth of grass has slowed. I don't need to mow every week like I did over the summer.

My dryer will have to wait a few more days. With Austin's absence from the auto shop, Judd's been slammed and hasn't been able to get away. No matter—the clothesline has been working just fine.

I needed distance from town, and Savannah is so close. Yet it's far and big enough to feel like a whole new world. The truth is, I would've driven all the way to Atlanta had I known my mother and her wandering crew would've crashed my productive weekend.

I'm positive those "friends" are just random people she likely met yesterday too, if history tells me anything, and they're definitely going to leave me a gift other than the lingering notes of sage—a mess. They're going to leave a giant, irritating mess for me to clean up, but that's a problem for future me.

Right now, I have a problem with my traitorous hormones, which are the biggest reasons I needed to hightail it out of Dodge.

The gym is the second largest space in the school, but it's still not big enough. Not when it comes to Owen Conrad and his stupidly sexy smirk. A whole ocean couldn't contain him or the feelings he makes me feel.

I drown in them.

Who even am I? I never daydream like I have the last two days, and it's all because of Owen.

In my defense, the guy's ass is round and strong. His sweatpants stretch over it each time he moves, and honestly, it should be illegal. It should be against policy to wear anything but business attire to school, even if he is the PE teacher.

No one should get special treatment because of their subject, or perfect ass.

Thirty-five miles away from Sapphire Creek, I drive into Savannah's city limits. I've been here a few times and know my way toward downtown, but I have no solid destination.

I need a hotel room, but a walk along the river sounds heavenly.

A drink at one of the many rooftop bars sounds even better.

But I don't do any of that. Instead, a bright sign with cursive writing catches my eye—a hair salon.

The ends of my strands tickle my cheeks as if to whisper encouragements for me to go in, and I turn into the parking lot.

Time to be spontaneous.

"Table for one, please." I nod toward the hostess and flash her an easy, bright smile. My fresh new look gives me all kinds of boss babe energy.

My new hair is light and airy, and it makes the rest of me feel the same, which I desperately needed after the last week. It's the little things, after all.

"Right this way." The hostess spreads her arm for me to follow her as we meander past a bar on one side and a few tables of two on the other. People are perched on teal stools at the bar, where they sip on fun cocktails in Mason jars.

She comes to a stop at a small table in the corner, and she sets a menu in front of the far chair, then lights the wick of the Mason jar candle in the center. "Your server will be right with you."

"Thank you." I toss my bag into the empty seat across from me, behind which the restaurant is spread, giving me a panoramic view of the rest of the crowd. There's a commotion from behind me, and I nearly fall from my chair trying to get a good look.

In the hall, a few girls wait for the bathroom, giggling with flushed cheeks.

Different smells of unique combinations of foods mix in the air around me, and my stomach rages with hunger.

As I peruse the menu, the letters jumble, and my mind drifts to Owen once again. It's like I'm staring at a word search puzzle, but instead of stringing along the letters to innocent words, the two jumping out at me are OWEN CONRAD.

Owen, whom I hated, but I let him do unspeakable things to me—and I freaking loved it.

Owen, who likes me a great deal.

Owen, who is my co-worker.

More than that, we share a classroom, and I was so distracted the last two days that I couldn't properly do my job. It's another reason I didn't want to get involved.

I definitely shouldn't have let things go as far as to ride his face like I was on a mechanical bull. Hell, I gyrated my hips into his face like a porn star. Who was I?

Up until Wednesday night, I didn't think I had anything in common with a porn star, and it was a simpler time.

The music overhead switches to a faster country song, and bopping my head along, I run my hand through my hair, long past the ends, which hover a couple inches above my shoulders. My fingers haven't grown accustomed to the new length just yet.

I haven't gotten used to the color yet, either, as I used the bathroom earlier and actually did a double take when I caught myself in the mirror.

I'm surprised I went through with my itch to be spontaneous. I didn't even call Caroline or Maren for their consultation. When the hairdresser confirmed they accept walk-ins, she asked me what I wanted done, and the request tumbled from my mouth so simply.

I continue skimming the menu, coming across outlandish combinations like PB&J chicken wings and a grilled apple pie and chicken sandwich. The drink menu with signature cocktails is just as delightfully unique, and I decide an apple cider mojito is just what I need.

After the server saunters away, my order scrolled across her notepad, I glance up and freeze.

Of all the cities, restaurants, and people, the guy in this establishment staring back at me is none other than the object of my thoughts and fantasies.

Am I seeing things? Have I lost my mind? I chopped my hair off and dyed it dark, and I'm dining at a restaurant whose menu makes no sense. This is it, isn't it? I've officially gone insane.

"What are you doing here?" I ask at the same time that Owen rests a large hand on the back of the empty chair across from me and says, "Lockhart, your hair…"

This is real—he's here. Owen is here in a long-sleeve thermal with the top button popped open, revealing a peek of his chest. But instead of wishing he'd undo the other two buttons to show off more taut skin, I'd rather slip my hand inside and explore his muscles for myself.

The front of his shirt is tucked into the waistband of his faded jeans, a hole ripped in the knee. His hat is firmly in place over his head, the bill of it casting a shadow over one half of his face under the glow of the lights overhead.

Instinctively, I touch my fingers to the short dark-brown strands, which the hairdresser called "chic and flirty as hell." She loved this look, as do I, and although I didn't do this for anyone other than myself, I suddenly find myself caring if Owen likes it too.

"I had dinner." He blinks and leans a second hand on the chair as if he needs to steady himself. "Your hair looks…"

"Majestic?" I finish for him with a smile.

His lips curl into a grin of his own as he continues staring at me. I can't look away, either. "It suits you," he says, and my heart flip-flops.

I tear myself away from his gaze, and around the sudden lump in my throat, I blurt, "I agree. It suits me rather well to look different than my mother."

He cocks a brow.

"She and I are total opposites, as you might've noticed. She's fun, and I'm boring. I normally pride myself on that, but today, I figured why not be neither? I opted to just be different."

His hum confuses me. It's a light, raspy sound with zero indication as to his intention.

Which makes me ramble further. The tips of my ears burn with each word tripping on my tongue. "I'm sure you of all people would love it if I were more like my mother, though," I say, and my mouth twists into a cringe.

My stomach churns with instant regret. Why did I open my big, stupid mouth? This is supposed to be my peaceful alone time, but two minutes with Owen Conrad, and I'm nosediving into an awkward pit of discomfort.

"Why would I want you to be anyone but you?" He angles his head to the side, the shadow over his face shifting and revealing more of his eyes. The emerald abyss stretches far and wide in his blazing eyes, and my pulse spikes.

"The other night in the custodial closet, you called me boring," I whisper, my gaze stuck on his again.

Understanding drains the color from his face. "What I said doesn't make it true. It just makes me an asshole, and I'm sorry."

With great—or terrible—timing, the server sets my drink down and asks Owen, "Will you be joining her?"

I wait expectantly for his answer, hoping he accepts the invitation I should've offered myself, but I was too flustered for manners.

"I'd love to." Owen scoots the chair out, and I reach for my bag to set it on the floor. "I'll drink what she's drinking, please." He points to my short glass, inside which, mint leaves float around the light orange drink among the ice cubes.

"Good choice," I tell him as the server scurries away.

"You haven't even tried it yet. Or have you had it before?"

"No, but it looks good. Has to taste good."

"Can't argue with that logic." He gives my face a once-over, and his eyes darken, as if he's referring to something else entirely.

I clear my throat and shift in my seat. "I actually haven't been here before. I just remember Gemma talking about it, so I thought I'd try it."

"Same." He chuckles.

"The food is definitely different."

"Trying new and different things is fun." Again, it seems he's speaking in code. That maybe I should try new things—like him.

He would be new and different for me, for sure, and I can't confidently say I'd hate it. The small taste I've gotten of Owen screams that I'd love it.

"You are here alone, right?" He leans back, the gleam in his eye dulling.

"I am. What about you?" I glance behind him as if a third someone will pop out to join us.

"I just finished having dinner with my sister and her baby boy."

"You're an uncle?"

"The best around."

"If he's still a baby, he has several years before he admits to that," I tease and sip from my drink. The mix of sweet and minty works well together, and it complements my mood just fine too.

"He will, though. I'm going to teach him everything he needs to know."

"Bless his heart." I lick my lips, happily lapping up the excess drops of my drink when something very important occurs to me. "Wait. Do you come here to Savannah a lot to see them?"

He nods. "I help Whitney with babysitting and lending a hand around her duplex if her dishwasher's leaking or if the beam in her closet falls. My family's rallied around her to do everything possible so she's able to finish college."

The server arrives with Owen's drink, and he clinks it to mine.

I follow his bobbing Adam's apple with unnecessary interest, and my cheeks flame as my thoughts wander into fantasy land. I clear my throat again. "What about her baby's father? How does he fit in?"

"I'd like to think he'd be there every step of the way if Whitney had gotten his phone number or learned his real name. But instead, she came home from that summer vacation with far more than a tan and a hangover."

"Is that what's kept you so busy lately? Why you've missed things around school?"

He gives me a tight-lipped smile.

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"You never asked."

My mouth dries. "Well, then, that makes us both assholes."

"Two assholes sitting in a tree," he sings. "You know what comes next, Lockhart. And you know exactly how to get it. Just say the magic words," he goads, and the cloud of lust in his eyes thickens.

A blush burns through my cheeks.

It would be so easy to give in—and it would feel oh-so good to be bad.