Page 64 of Caught Up In You

But now I have another chance. My friend, my homegirl, my ride or die—I can have her back in my life.

All I have to do is go to a Griffin Stone concert.

I’m cashing out a group of construction workers when Owen shows up, dragging my mind away from the churn of memories and regrets.

I see his blue scrubs first, hanging loosely over his muscular shoulders in the most delicious way. I notice his blue eyes nextwhen they lock on mine. His brow furrows with the kind of determination that screams 4.0 GPA.

He stomps through the crowd and stops right in front of me, pressing his hands into the bar like he personally has to secure it to the floor.

Without taking his eyes off me, he barks at Jonah, “You’re covering.”

Jonah looks up with what might be alarm, but I hardly spare him a glance. I’m too busy taking Owen’s hand, letting him lead me around the bar.

CHAPTER 23

OWEN

I know I’m practically dragging Wyatt through the bar. I know people are looking.

I don’t care.

I need her.

I’m not entirely sure where I’m going, but Wyatt quickly takes charge and pulls me past the bathrooms and through a door at the end of the small hallway. Inside are shelves of cardboard boxes, stacks of napkins wrapped in plastic, extra pint glasses and dishware. There’s a wonky table in the middle with two torn chairs beside it.

“Storage closet meets break room,” Wyatt says, already breathless. She pulls the door shut and clicks the lock. “We’ve probably got about fifteen minutes before Jonah forgets how to use the register and comes knocking.”

I don’t hesitate. In two long steps I’m pressing her against the door, my mouth covering hers.

Immediately I feel the knots of tension in my neck and shoulders begin to loosen.

My day hasn’t been particularly difficult. It was good, even. Just a day of well-child visits where I got to assure a parade of nervous parents that their kids were perfect.

It’s usually my favorite kind of day. But I still couldn’t manage to stave off the tension headache that’s been plaguing me since lunch.

But with one swipe of my tongue across Wyatt’s, something releases. When I thread my fingers through the hair at the nape of her neck, my thumbs stroking her jaw as I kiss her, there’s immediate relief.

I coast along her jawline to her ear, pressing my tongue to the spot just behind it that makes her sigh, then nip at her earlobe.

“The scrubs are a good look,” she says between gasps.

“Yeah?” I keep my mouth on her neck, licking and sucking and pulling all kinds of delicious little gasps from her. I forgot I was even wearing them. I keep extras in my office for when disaster strikes. Today it was a four-year-old who threw up—I caught it with the trash can, but her mother went green at the sight, and I wasn’t quick enough to transfer the trash can to her.

Not a story I intend to tell Wyatt, especially when her palm is exploring the shape of my cock, which is growing harder by the second.

“I never thought I was into the whole ‘playing doctor’ thing, but you’re changing my mind.”

I bite down on her neck and she yelps, then laughs.

“You want an exam, Wyatt?” I growl into her ear. “I’d be happy to check you out.”

I tilt my head and catch the delicious flare in her eyes. So I coast one hand up her torso, letting my thumb linger for just a second on the hard peak of her nipple under her tank top, then travel higher. I drag my fingers along the column of her neck, resting them just below her jaw.

I press, and her pulse jumps beneath my touch. I watch the dusty old plastic clock on the wall over her shoulder, the second hand ticking.

“What are you—” she gasps, but I kiss her again.

“Hush,” I scold her. “I’m counting.”

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