Total pages in book: 14
Estimated words: 12270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 61(@200wpm)___ 49(@250wpm)___ 41(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 12270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 61(@200wpm)___ 49(@250wpm)___ 41(@300wpm)
"I'm not trying to brush you off, Lena. I just ... I don't know what to say. It was a mistake. We both got caught up in the moment, which shouldn't have happened. I'm sorry if I led you on or gave you the wrong impression, but I can't give you what you want. It would be wrong."
Lena shakes her head, clearly frustrated with my answer. "Owen, you can't just pretend this didn't happen. It did. And it was good. We were good together. Why can't we just see where this goes? I know you felt something too, or you wouldn't have—"
I cut her off, holding up a hand to stop her. "Just because we had sex doesn't mean I have feelings for you. I'm sorry if I led you on, but that's all it was. A physical attraction. That's all."
I hate lying to her, but it's better this way. It'll hurt less in the long run for both of us.
"I should go," I say, turning away from her. "I'll call you later about the next step in the renovation."
"Fine." She folds her arms across her chest, glaring at me. "You can leave."
I pick up my toolbox and start toward the door, trying to ignore the tension between us. This is how it has to be. It's for the best.
As I reach the door, Lena calls my name, and I pause, glancing back at her. Her expression is softer now, and she looks almost sad.
"Yeah?"
"I know you think you're doing the right thing, Owen, but you're wrong."
Her words sting, but I try to brush them off. "It's for the best, Lena. We both know that."
I wish I could believe my own words.
3
LENA
Well, I got what I wanted, and it all blew up in my face.
Hooking up with Owen was mind-bogglingly good, and even if he hadn't meant something to me already, I'd still probably be obsessed. But caring about Owen and now knowing how good of a lay he is has ruined me, and he's all I can think about.
Except for the ugly fact that he basically rejected me as soon as we both came. I should've known better. He said as much earlier that the flirting had been harmless, but I thought it was obvious there was something between us.
I've tried to convince myself over the last week that Owen's rejection doesn't hurt, and that I don't regret my impulsive behavior in the attic. That I don't think about him every minute of the day, wondering what would have happened if I hadn't said anything and let the moment pass.
But I do.
It's hard to stay focused on getting the studio ready, though at least it's a distraction from the gaping hole in my heart. It doesn't help that Owen shows up to work, but he barely speaks to me, treating me more like a client than an old friend. He definitely doesn't speak to me like someone who fucked me right there on the attic floor just last week.
It takes a few days, but eventually, I'm done wallowing in my self-despair, and I jump right back into getting under Owen's skin. He doesn't want me? Fine. But I'm going to make it hell on earth to resist me.
I wear shorter shorts, tighter tops, and lower-cut bras that peek through my shirts. I bend over as often as possible, showing off my ass and legs. I touch him whenever I can, brushing my fingers along his arm or hand when we're talking, even when it's not necessary. I know I'm driving him crazy, and I get a twisted sort of satisfaction out of it.
"What's your problem?" he asks one day, snapping at me after I've dropped my third power drill of the day. "You've never been this clumsy before."
I shrug. "Maybe I'm just distracted by how good you look with all your manly tools."
He huffs his eyes but doesn't take the bait. "Just be more careful, okay? I don't have time to waste fixing your mistakes."
His words are harsh, but he has a point. We're behind on the project because of my silly crush, and I need to get over it. "Fine. Sorry. I'll try to focus."
He grunts in response and gets back to work.
The rest of the afternoon is spent in relative silence, except for the occasional request for a tool or piece of equipment. Owen is focused on his work, and I do my best to keep my thoughts—and hands—to myself. But as the sun starts to set and we get ready to call it a day, something shifts between us. The tension from before is still there, but it feels different now, charged with something else. I might be mistaken, but I think he's getting to the end of his rope. The thought makes me grin.
As we pack up our tools, he catches my eye. "What?"