by Eden Rayna
“I told you—the lassie comes with the house.” He shakes his head as if I’m making a huge mistake.
“Not in this case.” A strange feeling washes over me. Something like regret, despite getting what I wanted.
I change the subject to discussing the actual project, since I don’t want to spend our limited time together talking about Izzy. I’d like to shoot the shit with Pops, hopefully hear a story or two from when we were younger, and talk about Scottish Premiership soccer—or football—as he still calls it.
“Your ma would have loved a house like that. She loved shiny new surfaces and being the first one to touch everything. When we’d finished a project, she’d stand at the front door, still as a statue, and gather her first impressions. Then she’d walk slowly, peering into each room, looking at light and colour and composition.” My chest squeezes on the memory of Izzy doing exactly that. “She should have been a . . . a . . . ah, dammit! What’s the word?” He stumbles while trying to find the word that’s suddenly missing from his vocabulary. I don’t jump in too quickly and make up his mind for him because he’s prone to taking suggestions. “The people who buy the furniture to make a house look nice?”
“An interior designer?” My voice is so soft I’m amazed he hears me.
“Aye, that’s the one.” He pats my knee and accepts another small sip from the flask, humming dreamily, whether because of the Scotch or a memory of my mother. “She had such a good eye for colour. I could build the most functional house in the world, but they wouldn’t have sold without her touch.” Pops’ eyes mist over and he leans back in his recliner. Sometimes he remembers Mum isn’t around anymore, and it breaks his heart again every time.
He’s never mentioned that before. I always thought she was simply another crew member; that he’d give her a task and she would complete it, then he’d give her another one. It shouldn’t surprise me, given how I was raised and the way Pops spoke of Mum, that they were equal partners. More puzzling than all the things I’m learning about his business is how I’m drawn to someone exactly like my mother.
Maybe I knew her better than I thought. Izzy was trying to memorialise her past by transforming her grandmother’s home into a shrine, much like I’m doing with my body. I was so blinded by my need to own her home that I couldn’t draw the connections by myself. It took the ramblings of an old man in love with a ghost to show me the solution I’ve been missing all along.
I can make this right. I can show her I understand where she’s coming from.
Chapter 27
Izzy
I told Owen that I didn’t care if he surveyed the land before our official fourteen-day closing was reached. Still, I worry as I drive to his house to drop off the keys that someone will be on the property looking at it with indifferent eyes, as though it’s nothing better than a rectangle of land within a city’s limits. Or maybe Owen already has someone interested in the lot and they’ll be standing on the sidewalk. Husband, wife, two kids all holding hands, staring at their futures.
I drive slowly, hoping that by stalling, it will give these imaginary people enough time to finish and move along. Enough time for me to seal my memories away before they get bulldozed.
I pull over to the curb and put the car in park. I’m relieved that everything looks the same. The bright orange tarp is still secured to roof. The yard is still messy and overgrown. Through it all, I still see its beauty. Because beauty isn’t limited to the finishes. I see family barbeques in the backyard and lemonade stands on the sidewalk. I see sleepovers with Kelsey in Mom’s old room and late-night political talks with Gran on the couch.
The light filtering in through my window disappears and I glance up, expecting to see it clouding over with the storm that’s supposed to blow in today. Concern about snow getting into the attic takes shape. Ridiculous, I know, but I can’t stop the thoughts.
I reach for the handle and see it’s not a cloud blocking my light, unless Owen dressed in black counts. He’s standing beside my car in a strangely reminiscent fashion to a few months ago. He reaches for my door, leaning on the roof in the exact same manner he did on the day I moved Gran’s boxes out. Serious. Imposing. Oxygen-consuming.
“Princess.” He greets me.
I shake my head at him but don’t bother asking him to call me by my real name. I’m putting emotional distance between us, and I won’t let the little things he does get to me anymore. Even if his face is very close to mine. Even if I want to feel his lips and his hands on my body again.
He’s the buyer and I’m the seller. Gone are the labels of neighbours and enemies, not to be replaced by lovers or merely friends. There will be no more secrets divulged, timely rescues, or hugs offered and taken. There will definitely be no more kissing. Kissing him felt too good. Too exciting to be associated with my failure.
He presents his hand and I consciously note that him being civil is not me being a pushover. I can steer this meeting in the direction I’ve mapped out and still let him help me out of the car since I’m wearing a skirt and high heels. I grasp his fingers like a handshake so that my grip isn’t seen as anything else. His is solid and voluntary. Like he’s touching me because he wants to, rather than because it’s his manly duty.
His fingers aren’t the only things that give off a friendly vibe. Today, he’s serene. The Izzy of yesterday would have coupled the amiable expression with his typical ninja contractor get-up and thought that he was acting out my fantasies. The Izzy of today has boundaries, emotional distance, which allows me to view him as nothing more than an attractive businessman on the opposite side of the table from me.
“The key.” I reach into my purse and turn over the last key to the house.
“Come inside.” He takes the key with his empty hand and guides me along by our joined fingers until his hand slides free from mine to settle in that small spot on my back that has become a natural fit.
I’m unsure of what I’m required to do inside unless it’s to sign a document stating that I handed over all the keys. Given our tenuous relationship, it’s possible he thinks I would try something unethical at the eleventh hour. What I would use keys to an empty house for—a house that will soon be bulldozed—is beyond me I won’t pretend to understand why Owen conducts his business the way he does; his childhood and past explained or not.
I stop on the threshold while he continues inside. The house has come a long way in the last few weeks. The floors are laid and the baseboards are on. The ultra-wide, bleached wood is in stark contrast to the unit next-door whose floors are a much darker grey. I like this choice and I subconsciously pick a colour scheme to work with in my mind.
Owen pulls me out of my reverie. “Princess,” he calls when he notices that I’m not a step behind him.
My eyes snap into focus. “Can you not?” My objection is an involuntary reaction, conditioned after months of irritation. A slight slip on my part to my emotional roots, but it’s nothing I can’t recover from.
Owen backtracks to meet me in the foyer. “Can I not what?” His question isn’t as sharp as mine, not provoking like usual.
“Never mind,” I sigh. It’s not worth getting into. This is the last time I’m going to see Owen and I don’t need to pick a fight. “What do you want from me?”
“Nothing, I—”
“So, I can go?” I swear, the entire Jurassic period wouldn’t be enough years to figure this guy out.
I expect him to say yes, so I reach for the doorknob.
“Not yet.” He stops me, reaching for my fingers on the door. I flinch. He squeezes. Two opposing reactions that don’t seem to separate us. “I, um.” He drags his available hand through his beard. Takes a breath. Closes his eyes and opens them on me. “I’ll respect Iris’ land.” He stalls again, this time looking away from me, pulling his hand free and digging it into his pocket. “I’ll do my best.”
A sharp burst of air shoots through my nose, loud enough for the entire neighbourhood to hear.
“
It’s a little late for respect, don’t you think?”
He shakes his head. “It’s never too late. Princess,” he starts but leaves the thought hanging. Owen takes another step closer, as if there’s space left to do so without him getting personal. I back away and stretch my arm out in front of me to prevent him from following. I don’t mean for it to land on his chest, but it does. I also don’t mean to keep it pressed against him, but I do that too.
His heart thumps quickly under my flat palm.
Faster than it should for a guy who’s as fit as Owen.
Faster than it should for a guy who’s done a hundred house deals and doesn’t feel the rush of spending nearly a million dollars on something he’s about to demolish.
“Don’t call me that.” My voice is barely above a whisper.
Don’t stare at me that way. Don’t breathe the air I’m trying to breathe because I’m getting lightheaded.
I give his chest a soft shove, but it only serves to make me stumble rather than force him away. My back hits the door, and I have nowhere left to go.
I lift my eyes, intending to stare him down, but all I end up staring at is his lips. Lips seem to zoom towards me like I’m in a funhouse. Like I’ve lost my bearings and his mouth on mine is the path home.
Home, that’s where I need to go. I need to get out of here before we do something we’ll both regret. My capacity to follow through is stalled when he opens his mouth and makes my legs wobble.
“Isabella.” He pronounces each syllable like he’s tasting them on his tongue for the first time.
“Izzy.” It’s almost a question, as if he seeks my permission to shorten my name. Maybe he’s seeking his own permission.
“Iz.” He says my nickname as a complete sentence.
My names have never sounded so good. So desirable.
“Y-yes?” I’m unsure if he was expecting an answer or if he’s mocking me.
“Hm.” The sound is more of a forceful exhale than an expression of feeling. “I like saying your name.”
I like when he says it. And that’s a problem. His fortitude is fully intact while mine pools in my panties.
I can’t be imagining all this. The proximity, the brooding, the friendliness in an I’m-going-to-devour-you sort of way.
Owen is all work, so what is this if not my imagination?
The duality of his business focus and my keen emotion keep us in balance. Without his agenda forcing us to opposite ends of the spectrum, I’m at risk of tumbling right into his arms. I need his work-related blinders on so he can’t understand how I’ve wondered what an unprofessional relationship would look like between us.
“Don’t leave.” There’s no question mark at the end, but it’s not an order, either.
I watch his throat work. Swallowing past the absurdity of his ask. I swallow too. It’s like seeing someone yawn and reflexively yawning back.
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t think you want to.” He can smell it on me. He can see my pert nipples. Hell, I’m practically panting. “And,” he swallows, glancing to my lips then into my eyes. “I don’t want you to leave.” He gives me a rare moment of raw honesty and I don’t know what to do with it. This is not the same as hugging him and telling him it will all be okay.
“What about your rule of no mixing business and pleasure?” I ask, knowing that any semblance of an answer will be good enough. I suck at emotional distance.
“Our business dealings are done.” He reminds me once more about how I sold out. I swallow again. Harder this time, both at my weakness and at his lips in my face. It’s impossible to focus on the pain when the promise of pleasure looms so close. “But it doesn’t mean the attraction is gone.” His lighthouse eyes burn mine with the truth in what he says.
I’ve been attracted to him since the moment he walked into Gran’s home. I’ve been shoving my interest aside for the sake of her memory, made easier by concentrating on his faults. Flaws that I’d have a hard time listing under the heat of his breath skimming across my lips.
“We’re still the same people despite you owning my house.” I put all my effort into concocting a reason this shouldn’t happen. One last attempt to hold on to my principles.
“We need to explore this, Izzy, otherwise we’ll both regret it. You’re too driven and I’m too stubborn to walk away.”
I hate how he reads my mind so clearly. It’s true. I would spend eternity wondering what his body looks like, how we would feel coming together. I’d hate myself for holding on to my ego when all I need to do is let it slide for a couple hours.
“Tell me Asher isn’t an issue.”
My head shakes, almost involuntarily, telling Owen what he wants to hear.
He strokes a hand over my temple and jaw. “There’s nothing in our way anymore.” Aside from my pride and his walls so thick that the largest wrecking ball couldn’t tear through them.
“I’m free to think and say all the things I’ve been dreaming about. Like what would your body feel like pressed against mine? What would my tongue feel like on your neck? Between your legs?” His voice is husky and as full of need as my desires crave it to be.
Owen moves in until we’re toe-to-toe. In my high heels, I still have to tip my chin to keep my eye on him. And I do keep my eye on him because I need to know if this is a joke or if he really wants to cross this line.
“I’ve pictured pleasure with you so many ways,” he tells me.
I thought the only thing he pictured was me homeless.
“I’ve pictured you right here with your back pressed against this door exactly how you are right now, wearing your high heels that give you the power you crave and the ass I love. I’ve pictured you on my couch wearing one of my black t-shirts, showing off your creamy legs. I’ve pictured you in your steel-toed boots and your ribbed tank top, sweaty after a day’s work. I’ve even pictured you in my bed, wearing nothing at all.” He says that last one as though he’s never had a woman in his bed before and I should be honoured.
Regardless of where we are, that’s a lot of picturing. I had no idea.
“How have you envisioned me?” How does he know? He shakes his head at my silence. “Come now, Princess. You’ve thought about it. Possibly as much as I have.” He uses my moniker because he knows it will get me heated enough to participate in the conversation and indulge him with my whimsies. Too bad my mouth is so dry it’s hard to confirm or deny what he says with words. He bends his face until his lips brush against the shell of my ear and whispers, “Tell me,” sending a signal between my legs showing off how he can say whatever he wants and I’ll still take part in this escapade.
Fuck emotional distance. We’ll do this once. Like everyone’s been saying since the beginning, fuck each other out of our systems. I’m still never going to see him again after today.
On my next inhale, I lean in and rub my cheek against his beard.
“I’ve stripped you out of your clothes to see how much of your body is untouched by ink.” I don’t want to look at someone else’s life marked on him; I want to look at him.
My hands reach for the hem of his shirt, pulling it barely enough to slide my fingers over his bare abs, chest and back without seeing what I’m so curious about. He hisses and contracts his abs, surprised by my boldness to touch him.
“I’ve imagined you in the backyard, taking me in a pile of leaves.” The sound of crunching leaves would muffle the noises we’d make, keeping us secluded from our neighbours.
I keep to myself that I’ve been with him in every room of my house, both pre- and post-renovation.
“Which one of our visions should we play out?” he asks.
I remain silent again. Still wrapping my head around the idea of us going from enemies to lovers in the distance of the front lawn to his door.
Owen drops his hands behind my head and presses a knee between my legs, lifting my skirt in the process. “Since you’re already here . . .” His words trail off as he applies pressur
e with his thigh. A beginning of a drawn out, “oh,” falls from my parted lips before his come down and swallow the rest of the sound.
Like I remember, his lips are soft and commanding. They caress mine, and his tongue teases me in time with his grinding leg. I place both my hands on the sides of his face, dragging my nails through the rough hair, pulling him in deeper. Owen’s hands move, too, from the door to my ass. He lifts me, and I wrap my legs around him, locking my ankles behind his back. He spins me a quarter turn to press me against the wall, pinning me with the weight of himself and the force of his kiss.
We’re in it now. No more excuses like I tried to come up with after our last kiss. No more pretending we don’t want this. Our kiss grows more frenzied with each swipe of our tongues. My hands move through his hair and he squeezes my ass. I don’t have a chance to think about how crazy this is. How we’re sealing the deal on my house with a fuck. How quickly I failed at keeping emotions out of this. I don’t have time for any of that because he moves us towards the stairs.
Owen climbs the first few with his eyes closed, our lips still locked. I pull away, feeling the rawness his beard left on my face, the heat in my lips.
“Don’t drop me,” I warn as he continues to climb.
“Never,” he promises, then silences me with another kiss.
In his bedroom, he sets me on the floor, separating our bodies but allowing no time to cool off.
“Sit,” he orders.
I drop myself on the side of his bed and remember the feel of his mattress from the night I spent here. How big and cold it was for more reasons than being in here alone. How there was nothing in this room that could make me feel anything other than emptiness.
Being in here today contrasts the feeling from that night. His presence gives it a different aura. A life. Potential.
My feet touch the floor in his low-profile bed frame, and he motions for me to slide back with a nudge of his chin. Owen kneels at the bedside and lifts one foot, gliding a hand up my tights-clad calf. Goosebumps erupt all over my skin as he slides the shoe off my foot, placing it gently behind him, next to the wall. He repeats the motion with the other shoe, then gets a sly smile on his face.
