Page 82 of Pour Decisions
The time between thephotoshoot and leaving for the charity gala was a much needed reprieve from Owen and his whole…everything.
My social battery was seriously depleted, but I couldn’t exactly beg off from attending a charity function. The last thing I felt like doing was getting all fancied up and schmoozing with rich people, but it was important to Owen, so it was important to me.
I was nervous about being near him all night, about the comments and questions people would throw our way about our relationship. But when I let him into my room when the car arrived, I couldn’t help but chuckle, some of that anxiety melting away at the way his eyes comically widened as he took me in.
“Whiskey,” he groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face, his mouth hanging open, lower lip catching on his palm.
“What?” I asked innocently.
“That fucking dress.”
“This old thing?” I said, shimmying my hips side to side, the little gems decorating the bodice sparkling in the hotel room lamps.
“Old,” Owen choked out on a laugh. “If that dress is old, then I’m the Pope.”
I crossed my arms over my chest and narrowed my eyes at him. “What’re you saying right now, QB?”
Owen stepped closer and slid his arms around my waist, pressing a chaste kiss to my forehead before quickly backing away. It was as if he couldn’t stand not touching me, but also couldn’t handle prolonged contact.
“You are…resplendent, Whiskey.”
“Resplendent,” I repeated, preening. “Awfully big word for a jock.”
He laced his fingers through mine to tug me from the room, his tone low and promising as he said, “That’s not the only big thing I’ve got.”
Fuck me, I was in so much trouble.
Leave it to rich people to turn the fight against poverty into such a goddamn spectacle.
The event was being held at some swanky event space in Midtown. Honestly, I didn’t pay much attention to where we were. My entire world had narrowed to every point of contact between me and Owen. My hands and arms and thighs tingled every time he brushed up against me. We’d only just arrived, and I was damn near ready to combust.
For his part, Owen was cool as a cucumber, seemingly unaffected by my nearness. In fact, it would’ve given me a complex had he not gripped my hand tighter, anchoring me to his side every time I attempted to pull away.
“You stay here,” he growled. “All night.”
I only nodded, sipping my sparkling wine and fighting off a shiver at the possessiveness of his words.
God, I was in a bad way.
It got worse when we moved deeper into the party and I stood idly by while he chatted with every single person who stopped him. He always made sure to introduce me, never offering up who I was to him, instead allowing people to make their own assumptions about us. It was a nebulous explanation I appreciated, not knowing myself what we were. Business partners? Obviously. But…more too. Even if we hadn’t acted on it yet, those thoughts and feelings were there, and I knew it was only a matter of time.
The event—unsurprisingly given the ticket price—had a fancy, sit down dinner. Though the food was good, it honestly didn’t hold a candle to Ezra’s cooking.
A sharp stab of homesickness hit me square in the chest, practically knocking the wind out of me. These last few days with Owen had been a lot, and I was genuinely excited to head back to Michigan in the morning. To get myself back on solid ground and figure out where the hell we went from here.
As soon as the wait staff cleared away our dessert plates—a crème brulée that didn’t come close to my sister’s—I excused myself to use the bathroom, needing a moment to breathe, to settle myself enough to make it through the rest of the evening.
I’d never really suffered from anxiety, but I think I understood people who did in that moment. My throat was thick with emotion, my chest tight. When I pushed into the restroom, I approached the long marble counter inlaid with a trio of sinks and grabbed a handful of paper towels from the basket nearby. Dampening them with cool water, I pressed them to my neck and chest, letting the moisture soothe me, taking deep, calming breaths.
My heart rate slowed at last, and I tossed the towel, then relieved myself.
When I returned to the ballroom and found Owen in the crowd, what serenity I’d found evaporated, replaced by annoyance and a fierce wave of possessiveness. A lithe blonde woman in an ice blue evening gown hung on his arm, her head tipped back in laughter over something he’d presumably said.
Red clouded my vision.
Though I tried to school my expression into indifference as I approached them, Owen must’ve seen the tightness around my eyes and correctly interpreted the flat line of my mouth, because he politely extricated himself from the woman and moved toward me. His hands were slightly raised in a placating gesture that pissed me off even more.
“Who is this?” I asked sweetly, plastering the fakest smile I’d ever given on my mouth.
