Page 23 of Knots About You
‘I can make my own decisions.’ I hated the way my voice cracked.
‘I know. But I need to know you’re coming at them with a clear mind. And that I am too.’
Owen dragged his thumb down over my throat, watching as I swallowed. The war he fought against not taking me there and then was clear as day in his face, and as much as I wanted to buck against his choice, I recognised the deliciousness in him making us wait.
It only makes me want him more.
It might well have been the first time since I entered adulthood that I’d had a man say no when offered sex up on a plate. He needed a bloody wall plaque or something.
When he removed his hold on me, I mourned the loss of his tight grip, but accepted his help to get my feet back on the ground.
‘You owe me an afternoon of painting,’ I said, because if I didn’t deploy banter, I might well melt into the floorboards.
‘Saturday,’ he said.
‘Saturday,’ I echoed.
He drove me back to my cottage with wet knickers, a bruised ego, and the intention to drive him so feral thathe’dbe begging me for a kiss.
Owen Harris had no idea the monster he’d unleashed.
ten
OWEN
The Tipsy Otterwas only half-full when Isla and I sat at the bar and got a round in. A pint for me, gin and tonic for her. We’d snuck off early to beat the rush. By five o’clock, it would be filling up with the after-work crew, then later the rowdier drinkers would tumble in for karaoke.
MacKay scowled at the darks he threw when they failed to go anywhere near the bullseye. Morag held with the gang of retirees in one corner, Alastair hidden behind his paper and ignoring the nattering.
I’d barely dented my pint when Isla pulled out her phone with a grin.
'Don’t,' I said.
'Too late.' Her eyes glittered. 'Congratulations, we’re viral.'
‘You can get a cream for that.’
She snorted and shoved the screen at me. Claire’s video looped. My hands, the stupid hair push, the kilt. The view count made my arse clench.
‘It’s a ten-second advert for my forearms,’ I said.
‘And the people are eating it up,’ Isla laughed, waving Eilidh over. ‘Ladies! Owen’s an influencer.’
‘I’m not.’ I shifted on my seat in discomfort.
Eilidh joined us, the ever-present aroma of coffee and cake enveloping us. Lola, the librarian, and our artist in residence, Emma, flanked her.
‘I've watched it nine times,’ Eilidh said, revelling in my discomfort. ‘Eight were research.’
‘And the ninth?’
‘For the forearm porn. Look at you putting Otterleigh Bay on the map. If you bring a surge of horny women to the village, I’ll need to bake more cakes.’
Lola grinned at Eilidh. ‘Whoever added the bottle shot at the end deserves a raise. Have you seen the comments, though? Absolutely feral.’
Emma leaned in. ‘Also, who choreographed that hair push?’
‘Gravity,’ I said.
