Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 61037 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61037 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
“Thanks, though I have to admit I’m a little shocked you didn’t tell me to Google Would You Rather dirty questions,” I say playfully.
Owen’s lips curve into a grin. “I didn’t say not to Google Would You Rather dirty questions either.”
Oh, well this is getting good then. This is feeling like foreplay. Come to think of it, this whole day feels like foreplay.
Bring it on.
I click on the search bar in Owen’s phone browser when a light blue icon flashes on the home screen for a dating app, along with a notification from the app: Don’t forget to finish your profile soon, Guy With Glasses.
My muscles tighten. I clench my teeth. He’s using the app for finding long-term relationships? A flare of red-hot envy bursts in my chest.
“When did you get on Boyfriend Material?” I ask, and holy shit. Did that come out dripping with jealousy?
Owen scratches his chin. “About thirty minutes ago.”
What the hell?
I point to the floor, like I need to clarify exactly what he means. “While you were here? In the cabin?” My voice shoots up.
He laughs lightly. “Yeah, since that’s where I was thirty minutes ago, River.”
My jaw ticks, and I’ve got to rein in the thrashing dragon in my chest. It’s knocking all my good-guy circuits loose. I’m feeling all sorts of you’re mine alpha-y, and that is not my jam. But right now, it is my jam. “And why did you decide to get on Boyfriend Material then?”
Owen’s brow knits, but he keeps smiling. “It was on my mind. You asked me what I want in one. You asked about Ezra. We were literally discussing relationships. So I was thinking about next steps.” He’s so easygoing, like this is no big deal.
It’s a huge deal.
Owen looking for a boyfriend is a horrifying deal, and I want to rewind time so he can get off that app immediately.
“Yes, and you said, I want to be good to someone. Someone who wants me to be good to him,” I say, repeating the words I memorized. Words that lit up my mind, that squeezed my heart. “I just didn’t realize you were going to do it so soon.”
He shrugs casually. “The timing felt right. Why do you look like you just saw a cat opening a door with his paws?”
I flap my hands around, hunting for an acceptable answer. “I just didn’t think you’d do it now,” I say, but my reply doesn’t make sense.
It makes less than sense.
Owen tilts his head, regarding me like I’m an oddity. “No time like the present. Besides, you were telling Declan and Grant the other night you wanted Cupid to shoot an arrow at you, and you didn’t sound like you meant in two years’ time. You said would it kill either the Greek heartthrob or the smug little Valentine’s baby to throw some arrows my way? I guess it’s just in the air. All this relationship talk.”
“You remember what I said at the bar?”
“It was kind of memorable,” Owen says with an easy shrug.
And so is this moment.
Right here.
In front of the fireplace.
In a cabin, where we’re snowed in.
The prospect of Owen on this app is making my head spin with terrifying possibilities. He could have a boyfriend soon. Like, in a few days. He’s such a catch. He’ll be reeling in men like that. He’ll be having lunches and coffees and dinners lined up the second he returns to the city.
I should tell him I can’t wait to hear about his dates. But I’d rather drink battery acid.
Yup. That’s my answer to the would you rather running through my head right now.
Which brings me to another question—would I rather head to the guest room, shut the door, and lock myself in for the night where our friendship is safe and sound? Or would I rather take a chance?
My gaze locks on Owen’s. His blue eyes spark with challenge. Heat too.
Will we play a game of filthy innuendo alone in a cabin in the woods after dark?
Maybe it’s the snow. Maybe it’s the champagne. Maybe it’s the powder keg of lust.
Or perhaps it’s that Owen Hayes is unequivocally boyfriend material, and all these feelings for him want to come out.
I lift the phone, my eyes never leaving his face as I speak into the search bar: “Would You Rather dirty questions.”
Owen tries to fight off a grin.
I tear my gaze from his, look at the results, click on a page, and begin.
“Here goes.” I sit up straighter. “Would you rather have everyone you know be able to read your thoughts,” I say, and he winces, making his feeling clear on option one, “or for everyone to have access to your Internet history?”
Owen breathes a sigh of relief. “Easy. Internet history.”
“Ah, so you have all sorts of secret, dirty thoughts you don’t want anyone to access,” I say. Tell me your secret dirty thoughts. Are they the same as mine?