Page 25 of One Last Try

Owen laughs. “Oh, okay, Lando’s . . . her best friend, not her boyfriend. I’m coming over now.”

Before he finishes his sentence, I see his silhouette slip out of the pub’s side entrance, and he’s jogging across the street. His shoelaces are undone. They flap around his ankles as he runs.

His eyes go wide as he spots me waiting in the porch. He slows, laughs. “Um . . .” Laughs again. “I’m sure you’re fully aware of this, but . . . um . . .” Owen indicates towards the entirety of me, and I can’t be certain under the soft glow of the street lamp and the light spilling out of the cottage, but it looks like he’s blushing.

And then I glance down and remember I forgot to pull on sweatpants before I stormed the bathroom, and I’m standing in full view of Owen Bosley in only my Glastonbury 2017 T-shirt and my underpants.

10

Thursday 3rd April 2025

Mathias

Owen’s gaze sweeps over my body and snags on my boxers before he drags it back to my face again. He’s bright red, definitely blushing now. “They’re only marginally more revealing than the shorts you were wearing the other day.”

I laugh, and a grin splits Owen’s features wide. I haven’t got anything to counter with, so I force my disobedient face into neutral by sucking my teeth.

“Right, you go sling something over your legs and I’ll look after the children,” Owen says.

I find myself stepping out of his way and following him up the stairs. He’s wearing jeans, darker than the ones he was wearing the other nightbut no less inviting, and an emerald-green knitted jersey. A white collar pokes up from the neckline. He looks . . . so fucking tactile. Soft. My fingers want to reach out and stroke the fabric. I clench them into tight fists to kill any temptation. He has a piece of lint on his right shoulder. I leave it there. We’re not in any kind of situation where I feel comfortable grooming him.

At the top of the stairs Owen turns left and disappears into the spare room, reminding me once again that until fairly recently this was his house, and no doubt Daisy’s too. No wonder she came back here with her friend. It was probably muscle memory.

I turn right into my room and tug on a pair of joggers, and if I just so happen to choose my thinnest, snuggest pair of joggers, well . . . who can blame me? Having Owen Bosley secretly eye fuck me has got to be up there on the list of things I low-key need to happen.

“I’m sorry, Dad.” Daisy is sobbing in Owen’s arms when I walk into the spare bedroom. Her back is to me, her face buried in her father’s chest, and her shoulders are shaking. The other bed is still empty. “I forgot you don’t live here any more.”

“Poppet, it’s fine. I’m not annoyed, okay? I just wish you’d’ve come to the pub instead of disturbing Mathias.” He strokes her head in long, sweeping, shushing motions, and smiles softly at me over the top of her blonde hair. “We’re gonna need to get you in my car. I’ll drive you to Mum’s and I’ll drive Lando home after that.”

“He’ll barf in your car, though,” she says, pulling away enough to look at her father’s face.

“Probably,” Owen says. He grimaces. “Won’t be the first time, and pretty sure it’s not going to be the last either.”

“It’s fine,” I say, interrupting their moment. “The kids can stay here tonight. There’s no point in moving them.” Not in the state they’re currently in. I don’t need to be scrubbing regurgitated meat feast from the shiny new carpets that no doubt cost Owen an arm and a leg.

Owen looks at me, raises a brow. “You sure?” I hear the trepidation in his voice.

“If you’re worried about leaving Daisy in a house with me, we can always swap beds? For the night, I mean. You take mine and I’ll go across the road to your flat.”

“Oh . . .” Owen scratches his neck. “No, that’s okay. I’ll crash on the sofa here if that’s good with you. It’s just that . . . I haven’t changed my sheets in a while, and I don’t wanna put you through . . .” His face flames red again, and I bat aside the notion that sleeping on Owen’s dirty sheets would be hot.

“I’ll sleep on the couch,” I argue. “You sleep in my bed. That way you can be right across the hall from Daisy and . . . Lando, is it?”

He nods. “Short for Orlando. I presume he’s coiled around the toilet like a baby koala around its mum?”

“Last time I checked.” I stifle a laugh. He’s obviously been here, done that, got the damn T-shirt. No doubt in this exact situation. “Is he okay there, or should we carry him into the bedroom?”

“Good point.” Owen thinks for a second. Actually tickles the beard on his chin andhmmswhile he does it. “In the cupboard under the stairs there’s a mop bucket. Can you bring that up? And then we’ll move him together.”

I do as Owen asks, and a few moments later I’m holding out a bucket like a child handing over contraband sweeties. Owen peels Daisy’s jacket off, and wordlessly she slides down the bed and under the covers.

“Good night, trouble,” he says, kissing her on the forehead and then hanging her jacket over the back of a chair. He motions his head to the doorway, to the bathroom beyond, and the inebriated youth beyond that.

“Lando,” Owen whispers, crouching next to the sleeping kid. “Come on, mate, let’s get you into bed.” It takes a further three “Landos!” and a couple of shakey-shakes before he rouses.

Lando groans. “Mr B?”

“Up you get, buddy. Let’s get you tucked in,” Owen coos, and his voice is so soft and gentle even I find it soothing. I’m violently reminded that he’s a father. Lando’s not his kid, but Owen has a paternal instinct honed from two decades of experience.

---