ONE
Meadow
Without laying eyes on him, I know that he’s here. That’s how it always feels when Owen is in the same room as me.
He’s like gravity but stronger. Impossible to fight.
The bar smells of polished wood, smoky liquor, and now that he’s walked in,bad decisions.
Not that I’m making any… yet.
The jukebox playsThe Piña Colada Songby Rupert Holmes.Cliche bar song.
And to answer Rupert’s question: Yes, I very much like piña coladas. Especially with my ass parked in the sand while lounging at the beach.
Owen slides onto the barstool next to mine like he owns the place, and if we’re being honest, he probably does. Not literally, but in that effortlessly charismatic, former college football star kind of way. The bartender’s already pouring his drink before he even opens his mouth.
Anyone who says that pretty privilege is not a real thing clearly hasn't laid eyes on Owen Brooks. The man is sickeningly gorgeous.
His honey-brown hair is somewhere between sun-kissed and whiskey-dark, like it can’t decide if it wants to be brunette or blonde. A few strands fall onto his forehead, softening the sharp angles of his jaw, currently framed by the perfect amount of scruff.
Even sitting down, his long legs and lean torso make me feel so small compared to him. His white button-down shirt is undone at the top, exposing just enough of his tan skin to make my thighs clench. To make matters worse, the sleeves are rolled up, showcasing his muscular forearms. His green eyes are piercing and bright, catching the industrial lights like rare emeralds.
God, I’m so pathetic,especially when Owen would never think of me in a romantic way.
“Rough day?” he asks, flashing me that devastating grin.Thegrin. The one that makes women stop in their tracks like they’ve seen Chris Hemsworth in the flesh. The smile I’ve spent years trying to pretend doesn’t make my knees feel like Jell-O.
“Define ‘rough’,” I reply, swirling the ice in my glass.
“You’re glaring at your margarita like it’s been poisoned instead of drinking it.”
“Maybe it has been,” I shoot back. “Maybe I like to make eye contact with my enemies before drinking them down.”
He lets out a low laugh, rich and raspy.
We’ve been coworkers since the summer after we graduated from college. Even though we didn’t go to the same university, it felt like I had known Owen for years once we started working together.
We just clicked. Our friendship came on fast and easy, but it never went past that because guys like Owen don’t look at girls like me that way.
He’s the golden boy everyone wants, and I’m the girl who would never even make the roster.
For example, he just broke up with his model girlfriend of two years because she wanted to get married, and he wasn’t ready. A woman who literally gets paid to be hot for a living can’t even hold him down. So why the hell would he ever go for me?
Owen went to a big football college where he was treated like a king for simply scoring a touchdown, and I went somewhere you actually had to study to pass. We met at new hire orientation on our first day at Cutting Edge Sports Marketing, both fresh out of college and eager to start our careers.
He ended up in sales due to his good looks and effortless communication skills. Meanwhile, I landed in the writing department, working behind the scenes on crafting campaigns and press releases, where no one cares if I ever show my face.
We’re polar opposites, working side by side for four years. And along the way, we’ve becomeus. Whatever that is.
Now, here we are. Sitting next to each other at a bar on a random Tuesday night, a block away from the office. Me, hopelessly staring at my drink like it might offer some answers, and Owen, utterly unaware that he’s the question.
Owen rests an elbow on the bar, his eyes flicking back and forth across my face as if he’s studying me. His signature scent overwhelms me in the best possible way, smelling of cinnamon and leather.
“No, but seriously,” he pushes, “what’s up with you tonight? You look like a kid who just found out that Santa isn't real.”
I huff out a quiet laugh and roll my eyes. “You’re such an ass,” I quip, fidgeting with my straw. “It’s nothing. Just a long day.”
He arches a skeptical brow, telling me he knows that I’m not being honest. He sees right through me, and we both know it.
