Four Years Later
Page 15

My cheeks grow so hot they must be blazing pink. Kari laughs when she sees my face and shakes her head. “You won’t need any blush if you keep that up.”
I could punch her for giving me grief. Instead, I let her work her magic. Applying what feels like layer after layer of way-too-dark shadow on my eyes, then nearly poking my eyes out with the mascara wand. She won’t let me look at my reflection until she’s done and I wait in fidgety anticipation, both excited to see the result and afraid I’ll look absolutely ridiculous.
It’s a chance I don’t mind taking. I want to look beautiful for Owen. Like a sophisticated woman who knows exactly what she’s doing versus the naïve, silly girl I really am.
He already pretty much knows the real you and despite it all, he still asked you out.
I’m totally ignoring the naggy voice inside my head.
“Okay. I’m done.” Kari steps back from me, assessing her work with a shrewd eye. “Wow, you look gorgeous if I do say so myself.”
“Can I see?” She grabs my shoulders and turns me this way and that, totally checking me over. “Please?”
“Yes.” She turns me toward the mirror slowly. “See what the makeup master did.”
I stare at my reflection, shocked that I’m staring back at myself. I look so different. Not overly made up or crazy-looking but definitely … older. My skin is flawless. The eye shadow I feared was too dark actually accentuates my blue eyes, making them look brighter and giving them a smoky, sexy glow.
“Wow,” I whisper.
She nudges my shoulder with hers. “I know, right? Your eyes really pop.”
“They do.” I turn to the right, then to the left. I wonder what Owen will think. Will he like it? Some guys don’t like makeup. “Thank you, Kari. You did a great job.”
“You’re welcome. Are you going to change?”
I shake my head, embarrassment making my cheeks redden again. “He asked that I keep the sweater on.”
She laughs, sweeping all the cosmetics she used back into the drawer before she slams it shut. “Why am I not surprised? I’m sure the sweater distracted him. Well, more like your bra did.”
I roll my eyes but laugh with her. She’s right. I know the bra distracted him.
And I’m hopeful I can distract him some more.
CHAPTER 10
Chelsea
His eyes nearly bugged out of his head when he came to my apartment to pick me up. The look on Owen’s face alone was worth the drill Kari had put me through as she remade my face. Not that she’d asked too many outrageous questions or anything like that. I just … it’s hard talking about Owen and me and what we share.
First, there’s not much to tell. Second, whatever is going on between us feels so fresh and special and new, I really don’t want to talk about it.
I’m still trying to figure it all out.
We’re quiet on the ride over to the restaurant, the air within the confines of his relatively new and surprisingly clean car filled with some sort of foreign tension that I’m pretty sure is sexual. I may be a virgin and horribly inexperienced with guys, but I’m no idiot.
I’m ultra aware of him and how he looks, what he smells like, how he moves. The subtlest shift of his body as he settles in the driver’s seat, the tension in his arms, how his big hands grip the steering wheel. The thick muscles in his thighs draw my attention and I can easily imagine reaching out and resting my hand there. Slowly curling it around so that my fingers rest on the inside of his thigh …
Yeah. Being with him makes me want to be bold. Makes me want to do things I’ve never, ever considered doing before. It’s exhilarating.
It’s also really scary.
He didn’t change clothes. He’s still in the same outfit he wore to our earlier session and I’m glad. I like the way he looks in the plaid flannel, the stretch of white cotton across his broad chest. I like even more how he casts the occasional glance in my direction, smiling in that self-assured way of his. That smile says everything is going to be just fine. That I’m in more-than-capable hands.
I believe him.
“I think you’ll like the food here,” he tells me as we enter the restaurant.
“Oh, I’ve been here before,” I say, glancing around the Mongolian barbeque place. The décor is simple, the dining room big, and usually it’s packed wall to wall with people. But it’s a Monday night, so it’s not as busy as usual.
“You have?” He shakes his head. “Why am I not surprised? I can’t impress you no matter how hard I try.”
He’s trying to impress me? “I like to come here with my roommate. It’s cheap and the food is delicious.”
“Do you make your own sauce or do you follow the menu?”
Huh? Sometimes Owen asks really weird questions. “Um, I always follow the menu.”
“Of course you do.” He smiles down at me and I tilt my head back, offering him a tiny smile in return. He’s so ridiculously good-looking that I tend to get a little lost when I’m with him. So lost that we stare at each other for a while, until the guy standing behind us clears his throat to indicate we should get moving.
“Sorry,” I mumble at the middle-aged man as we step forward, my apology making Owen chuckle.
We both grab our bowls and go down the buffet line, preparing our meals until we stop in front of the sauce station, my shoulder bumping against his arm. It’s like falling into a wall of muscle, he’s so solid.
I study the menu of various sauces, my gaze snagging on the recipe I always stick with. A few scoops of soy, another couple of teriyaki … and I always bypass the spicy stuff since I’m a total wimp.
I’m also totally boring. I never venture out of the familiar. Ever. I keep to myself. I read, I study, I do my homework, I hang with Kari when I can, and I work, work, work.
“Live a little,” he says, bending down so his voice is right at my ear. A shiver moves down my spine. He’s so close I can almost imagine his lips grazing my skin. “Don’t follow the recipe. Just throw in a bunch of different ingredients and see what happens.”
I wrinkle my nose. “What if I hate it?”
“Trust me. You won’t hate it.” He reaches past me and grabs the ladle that’s in the garlic oil, scooping it up and dumping it in my bowl.
“But—that wasn’t on the menu,” I say, a little shocked that he’d take such liberties with my food.
He laughs and then dumps two scoops of the garlic oil on top of the ingredients overflowing his bowl. “I know. We’re gonna get a little crazy tonight, Chels. I gotta warn you.”
“What if I’m allergic to garlic?”
Owen turns to look at me, his green eyes open wide. “You aren’t … are you?”
Slowly I shake my head, smiling a little. “No, I’m not.”
He blows out a harsh breath. “You scared me for a second.”
I doubt anything scares him. “But now I’m going to have garlic breath.”
“No big deal. So will I.” He grabs the ladle in the soy sauce and adds it to his bowl. “When I kiss you later, it won’t really matter, right? We’ll both have garlic breath.”
My heart skips three beats, I swear. He says he’s going to kiss me so casually. Like it’s no big deal. It might not be for him, but for me …
It’s a huge deal. Like major. When I’m comparing a kiss from Owen Maguire to the measly few boys I’ve kissed in my life, I know without a doubt this is going to be different. The way I feel about Owen is different. Cody Curtis attacked me and it had been awful.
A kiss from Owen is going to be the complete opposite of awful. As long as I’m not awful either …
I start tossing a variety of ingredients into my bowl just like he does, my mind going over what he said again and again. Worry dances in my stomach. Anticipation is such a killer. “So you plan on … kissing me tonight?”
He lavishes on the homemade teriyaki sauce, scoop after scoop, until all the vegetables and meat and noodles are swimming in it. “I have lots of plans for you tonight.”
His voice is full of so much rich promise I feel slightly dizzy. I follow Owen to the giant barbeque griddle, where the cook takes each of our bowls and tosses them on the round surface, separating my ingredients from Owen’s with a large metal cooking utensil that looks like a sword.
This is usually my favorite part of the process, but I can’t focus tonight. I’m too aware of the boy standing next to me. The things he just said. It’s as if he’s purposely trying to unnerve me, keep me on edge, and I wish I knew what he was thinking. I’m a logical person. I like facts and figures. Yet what’s happening between us is completely illogical.
And I can hardly wrap my brain around it.
He turns toward me, dipping his head and lowering his voice. “Can I confess something to you?”
I brace myself. “Um, sure.”
Glancing up, he looks around, like he’s making sure no one’s listening. Considering there’s no one near us at the moment and the cook can probably only hear the sizzle of the food on the gas grill, it’s kind of funny. “I used to like coming here when I was high as hell. The food always tasted a lot better.”
Ah, a drug reference. I almost forgot the rumors I’ve heard that Owen Maguire was once a major pothead. I’m pretty positive that the one night I went to his house to help him study he was high, but I can’t be sure. As if I’d know. I have no experience with drugs whatsoever. Mom and Dad both completely sheltered me. “Do you still get high?”
“Sometimes.” He shrugs, avoiding my gaze.
Disappointment settles over me and I try my best not to judge. “Don’t they drug test you to be on the football team?”
He sends me a look. “There are ways to get around that, Chels. Trust me.”
I’m incredulous. I can’t believe he would admit such a thing. “I’m surprised you would risk it. Here you are working so hard to get your grades up to get back onto the team and then you admit you still spark up the occasional joint?”
“I never said I was perfect, you know?” He stares off into the distance, his jaw hard, his gaze dark. “I have my issues. Sometimes getting high helps me forget.”
“Temporarily,” I add. “You can’t run away from your problems, you know.” Listen to me, offering advice when I love running away from my own problems.
Well, it’s more like I avoid them. Pretend they don’t exist. Problems like my father.
He doesn’t say anything and I’m afraid I’ve made Owen mad. Whatever, since I’m not too happy with him at the moment anyway. His admission reminds me how different we really are. I’m the good girl, the straight arrow who never does anything wrong. The girl that learned it’s best to remain good after witnessing the demise of her very, very bad father.
Owen is a bad boy. I’ve turned into the total cliché. The innocent, naïve girl who’s fallen for the guy who smokes pot and plays football and can barely keep up his grades.
“Here you go.” The cook hands over our bowls and we go to the register to pay, Owen taking care of everything. I stand behind him, declining when he asks if I want a soda.
I want to run and hide. My appetite has left me, and that never, ever happens when I come here.
When we finally sit at a small table near the back of the restaurant, Owen leans toward me, his expression earnest and full of regret. “Hey, I’m sorry about what I said earlier. I just … I’m trying to be better. It’s hard, you know?”
No, not really, but I’m not going to hold it against him. “Apology accepted,” I say, grabbing my fork and stabbing it into the steaming-hot bowl of food. “I have no business judging. I’m only … watching out for you.”
“I know.” He sighs. “You sound like my sister.”
“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”
“A good thing.” His gaze meets mine, warm and green, and I forget everything else. He’s all I can focus on. “You’d like her.”
“Tell me about her.” I’d rather direct the conversation so he does all the talking and I do all the listening.
I don’t want him to ask personal questions. The last person I want to talk about is Dad. Or Mom, for that matter.
“Fable is five years older than me. She’s married and she just had a baby.”
Such an unusual name, Fable. Makes me wish I knew the story behind it. Because you know there’s a story. “Right. I saw the picture and you told me about the baby. Is it a girl or a boy?”
“A girl. Her name is Autumn.”
“Ah, that’s so sweet.”
We talk as we devour our food, my appetite back in full force once I caught a whiff of the delicious, mouth-watering scent wafting up from my bowl. Owen tells me about growing up here, that his sister means everything to him, and the influence her husband had on his early teen years.
He doesn’t mention his parents once. He doesn’t seem to even know who his dad is, but what about his mom? Where is she in this picture? Did she ditch her children? Was she always working? She’s a mystery, and I find it weird that he never talks about her.
Of course, I never talk about my father, so who am I to question him? Our first date isn’t the place for me to divulge to Owen all about the convicted felon who just so happens to be the man who raised me.
“What about you?” he asks, knocking me out of my thoughts. “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”