Page 11 of Caught Up In You

“So?”

Oh, this sweet summer child. He actually looks puzzled.

“So you’re a relationship guy,” I explain. “And I’m not a relationship girl. I’m the kind of girl who likes to work out her frustrations and fulfill her needs with a willing and talented partner, but I’m not looking for dinner and dancing.”

Owen stares at me for a long beat, those dark brows furrowing. That studious gaze sends heat into my cheeks, and just like that, I’m back off my game.

Then he smirks. Hesmirks. I didn’t even know Owen McBride could do that.

“That’s a shame,” he says. “Because I’m agreatdancer.”

Fuck. This is not how I imagined this conversation going.

I try to get my feet back under me. Because even if he is turning out to be a grade A flirt, it doesn’t change the fact that I am absolute not, under any circumstances, going to hook up with Owen McBride. No matter how much my fingers itch to know what the planes of his muscular chest feel like, no matter how much I want to sink my teeth into his full lower lip and then soothe that bite with my tongue, no matter how much I want to feel those big, strong, warm hands all over my body…I am absolutely not hooking up with Owen McBride. It would belike bringing a puppy home from the pound and then taking him back the next morning.

I nod. “Oh, I believe that. I also bet you have a preferred florist for sending ostentatious bouquets to your lady love.” I dig my chipped nail into the corner of the label on the beer bottle. “Flowers make me sneeze, Owen.”

He nods like he’s filing that away. So studious, this one.

“So fuck buddy, yes, flowers, no,” he says, and there go my hormones again. Jesus Christ, Glenn needs to turn down the heat in this bar before I start sweating.

I paste on my best unimpressed grin, because the only thing I want less than a relationship guy is to lose this verbal jousting match.

“You kiss kids’ boo-boos with that mouth?”

“I have a handheld fan shaped like a butterfly,” he says with a lazy shrug. “Big hit with the toddler set.”

Why doesthatturn me on?

Within seconds, there’s a pile of beer bottle label shreds on the table. Owen’s eyes track my fingers like he knows he’s got me. That little pile is proof of the tatters of my control.

“You know, it’s possible you’re wrong about me,” he says, his voice so low that it almost disappears beneath the noise of the jukebox. Which is playing “Hurts So Good”again, like John Mellencamp himself is trying to convince me to fuck Owen McBride. And there’s no doubt it would be, as the Coug says,a little bit of fun. I let my eyes roam over his tall, muscular frame, confident and relaxed on that wooden barstool. Oh yeah, sing it again, Johnny Cougar, because lord knows therearethings we could do.

“I’m not wrong,” I say, but my voice cracks.

Owen reaches for my hand, stilling my fingers on the beer bottle.

“Iama boyfriend guy. A really fucking good one,” he says. “I listen and send flowers and apologize sincerely. Ilikespending time with a woman, learning her body like a textbook, highlighting all the best parts.”

My mouth has gone dry, and I can hear the whoosh of my blood in my eardrums.

“But I haven’t really had time for all that lately, and anyway, sometimes a little trouble is fun,” he says. And I’m pretty sure my heart skids to a halt.

Owen tips the last of his beer into his mouth, then sets the bottle on the table. He pulls out his wallet and drops a twenty next to it—of course he’s an extravagant tipper—then rises from his stool. My gaze follows him, my head tipping back. Fuck, he’s tall. And his shoulders are capped with the most delicious muscles that strain at his Henley.

“I think I’m done here,” he says, shrugging on his coat. He turns to me, those ice-blue eyes capturing mine. “I’m going to head out to my truck. I’d love it if you came with me.”

His eyes are smoldering in a way that’s usually reserved for guys who’ve broken hearts or seen the inside of a county jail. That isnotOwen McBride.

Where didthisguy come from? Am I actually wrong about him?

And then, as if he’s on a mission to scramble my brain and my lady parts in one go, he leans down, his lips just barely brushing my ear.

“Come with me, Wyatt,” he says, his voice like a shot straight to my clit. It takes everything I have not to leap off this stool, bolt out to the parking lot, strip off all my clothes, and wait for him, splayed out on the hood of his truck.

But I do havesomesemblance of self-control, and I’m not about to surrender all of it. So I reach up and grab a fistful of thatshirt, relishing the softness of it in my grip. I tug on the fabric until he bends down.

Now it’smylips againsthisear.

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