by Eden Rayna
“You really like what I did with your place?” he asks as though unsure of his work. As though getting me to admit that I was wrong is all he needs to consider the job done.
Owen knows his jobs are nothing less than perfection. It surprises me that someone as over-confident as him would question this outcome.
When I swivel my head in his direction to determine if he’s joking, I find him grinning, like he’s proud that I’m hurting.
“You win.” My tone is so flat, it even surprises me.
“What?” Owen reaches for my shoulder again, and I jerk away.
I can’t handle anymore. I can’t take that he doesn’t understand how devastating this is. He wants me to spell it out in plain words? Fine.
“It wasn’t enough that you got the land from me? You felt the need to build my dream home on it then rub it in my face too?” I stomp my foot with enough force to break bone, a likelihood given that disaster often strikes when I behave this way in his presence.
Despite all my efforts to avoid it, I did like Owen, and he had me convinced that he liked me. As much as I tried telling myself that the messages were all a game, I knew they weren’t. Owen would never put so much effort into something that wasn’t a guaranteed win—at least in his mind.
A beautiful structure on my lot isn’t the only thing that hurts. It’s his perfectly polished boot to my heart that makes it worse.
There’s nothing likeable here. He’s mean and vindictive, and I can’t believe I gave him the benefit of the doubt, even for a second.
I hate everything about him.
Owen is bewildered by my reaction. So astonished he can’t put words together. Then again, he’s never been good at verbal expression. The speech at the Evolve Awards ceremony was rehearsed and I’m sure his messages to me were too.
When he finally musters the courage to talk, he says, “You’ve misunderstood.”
This is my fault?
He reaches out and tries to calm me, but I flinch away.
“Don’t!” I holler, bumping into him, blinded by tears as I run away.
Chapter 37
Owen
“Wait!” I yell after her. My hairline prickles and sweat beads at the base of my skull.
After months of imagining how I’d reveal the home I built for her—for us—I fucked it up. Izzy’s halfway down the street already, each one of her sobs smacking me in the face as I chase her. I pictured this going differently. I pictured her jumping into my arms and kissing me like we’ve been building to this moment for all these months. Kissing me like she’s so proud that I finally understand what she was talking about with all that putting down roots business. Kissing me like, Damn, you built me a nice house, babe.
I didn’t get any of that. What I got was a whole lot of hostility.
“I’m done playing games with you!”
A few long strides have me on her heels. “Izzy, stop. Don’t run away on me.”
She halts on a dime and spins around. Not expecting it, I slam into her and have to act fast to keep her on her feet before the full force of my body sends her flying and I have that to apologise for too. My hands circle her upper arms and keep her from bolting again.
“You’ve misunderstood.”
“How is this on me?” Her caustic tone eats away at my chest.
I throw my head back and growl to the sky. It’s hard not to order her to stand still and be quiet, but I try because I have to show her I can.
“Can you stop being so stubborn for a second?” Clearly, I’m a work in progress. “This is new to me, okay? I obviously messed up.” My lungs deflate on a heavy sigh, unsure of what else I can do to express my exasperation. “Can I please try again?” My hands leave her body, asking her to hear me out voluntarily.
I’m a lucky bastard that she agrees with a single stiff finger pointed skyward, telling me not to fuck up again because I won’t get another chance.
“Did you listen to my messages?” I ask. She narrows her eyes on me, giving me the answer I want. “Do you remember me asking you about the windows on a project?”
“The one where you were seeking my professional opinion for free?”
Natural light is a big thing for designers. In Izzy’s design, she left her grandmother’s single bedroom window exactly how it was built in the 1950s and I knew she did that because she wasn’t changing the exterior. Since I was building from scratch, keeping it or changing it wasn’t an issue. At least from a construction standpoint. It was, however, important from a personal standpoint.
Looking out that window had meaning for Izzy. She liked to stare into the backyard like her grandmother did. She imagined herself watching her kids from that perch and, one day, her grandkids too. I needed that window to be perfect—not for me and my reputation of building great homes, but for her. I wanted it to be the best window possible.
“That wasn’t a random project I was talking about. Those windows are in this house.” I nod toward Gran’s lot. “I wanted your opinion, your footprint.”
“So someone else could enjoy that part of me too? You needed to spill a little more of my blood on the pristine wide-planked floors? Nail a few more pieces of my soul to the walls?”
I’m talking too much. I should show her, but I doubt she’ll walk across the street with me. I tug on my hair until the roots burn.
Not all the messages were about building the house. In fact, most of them weren’t. Most were telling her about my day. About things that Tommy said or how Pops was doing. Sometimes I’d call to hear her recorded voice telling me to leave a message. I always did. I’d tell her how I hoped she was having a nice day, how I missed seeing her across the fence.
“Do you know where I made every one of those calls from?” I ask. She refuses to answer. I grab her hand and lead her to stand in front of Gran’s. “Right here.” I point across the road. “In this house. Each question I asked you. Each fantasy I shared with you. Each story from my day. Like my messages, every inch of this was designed with purpose. With you as its purpose.”
Her stunned state gives me the opportunity to touch her. I hold her hands, hoping that she’ll hold me back.
“I built this house for you because it’s your dream. And, Izzy, you’re my dream.”
I give her a moment to absorb what I’ve said. The moment stretches into a minute and that minute becomes two. When I’ve had enough of waiting, I tip her chin, hovering my lips above hers. We stare at each other, neither of us moving to step it up or pull away. Her red-rimmed blue eyes flit back and forth over my steadfast gaze. She can try to read between my thoughts all night long, but she won’t find anything different from what I said. I meant every word. I don’t want to waste another day living without her. And if I don’t get to be with her for as long as I want, I’m okay with that, because however much time I get will be worth it.
“You did this for me?”
I shake my head against hers. “You did this. You showed me that there’s more than one way to hold on to memories. You made me see I want to create some of my own.”
My lips drag over hers several times, pleading with her to lean in with purpose and kiss me. Begging her to grant me entry so she can feel what I’m saying. There’s hesitation when her mouth separates and her lips finally, but barely, latch on to mine. We stand, loosely joined for a breath until the point of her tongue drags across my bottom lip. Reluctance leaves her, and her mouth parts to kiss me properly. Kiss me with all the emotion she’s been holding back so vehemently. She sighs into me and I pull her closer, settling into the taste of her lips and the sounds she makes. Settling into the idea that we are perfect together.
When we stop kissing, I don’t let her go. I cradle her cheeks and hold her head tipped towards mine so she can’t pull away from me when I tell her the things I’ve been thinking for a very long time. This woman makes me crazy. She makes me say all the things I promised myself I’d never say.
“Izzy, I’m petrified of falling in love, but I’v
e done it, anyway. You once told me I didn’t have dreams, I only had goals. You were right, but I’ve changed. I have dreams now. Lots of them. And you are at the centre of every one of them. I’ll have to deal with you taking Ubers with strangers and climbing on to roofs, but I’ll be okay with it if you let me ride and climb with you. And it will be easier to keep tabs on you if we live under the same roof.”
I love watching the different emotions skip across her face. Her eyes shine with tears and there’s a hint of a smile pulling at the corners of her lips.
“You mean you’d live here too?”
“The house and I are kind of a package deal.” I laugh cautiously.
She pretends to mull the idea over, tapping a finger against her lip for effect, although the rose rising in her cheeks is a dead giveaway that she’s already committed. When she laughs, I exhale, then I seal my fate with a kiss so deep that our children’s children will be locked into my deal with this wondrous woman.
I didn’t think I had it in me—the ability to give myself to someone else and love her for eternity, nor have the words to express what I’m feeling—but it was there all along, waiting for the right person.
“You know,” she says while I drop kisses along her neck. “The last time we kissed like this, we did things that aren’t suitable for the middle of the road.”
I grasp her hand and lead her across the street. “Why don’t we go inside, then?”
Chapter 38
Izzy
Owen bends and enters the code into the lockbox, freeing the key to the house. Our house. It’s weird to think about that. At the same time, it feels right because this spot has always been my home, and I said the first time I met Owen at Gran’s funeral that he was mine.
I hold my breath as he swings the door open and flips on the bare bulb dangling from the ceiling. It’s still totally raw inside. The drywall is mounted, which means the plumbing and electrical are done, but that’s about it. No floors, no cabinets, no light fixtures. It’s a giant cavern of possibility.
“How do you see it coming together?” I ask, wrapping my tremoring fingers around his bicep with the anticipation of a thrill seeker creeping into a haunted house.
“I don’t,” he tells me, causing my eyebrows to crinkle. Way to ruin the image, buddy. “I left that for you.”
This man is full of surprises tonight.
“All of it? Nothing has been designed yet? Nothing ordered?” What if I had told him I didn’t feel the same way towards him? He’d be sitting on this build for an extra six months.
He knew all along I’d say yes.
“I wouldn’t dare step on your toes and tell you what to do in your dream home.”
I ignore the sarcasm and look at him with a soft smile. “Our dream home.”
There’s little here for me to run my fingers across besides the unpainted drywall, so I go from one room to the next, picturing the finishes in my mind. Gran’s copper pots will get top billing in the kitchen, just as in my original plan. This home is so much larger than what stood here before. I’ll need a minute to plan it out.
We wander the main floor, then climb the six stairs to the bedrooms. For some reason, I expect it to be like I remembered: four doors leading to three bedrooms and a bathroom. My presumption is mistaken. To the right of the landing is a loft with a large skylight. Behind it are doors to two bedrooms. Walking through them reveals they’re connected by a Jack-and-Jill bathroom—perfect children’s rooms. After looping through those rooms and the loft once more, we come to the next bedroom, then a separate bathroom.
On the far left side of the stairs is the primary bedroom. Or, more aptly put, primary suite. The room is easily twice the size of the old bedroom. It includes a walk-in closet and five-piece ensuite with the rough-ins for both a steam shower and separate tub. There’s space for each to be large enough for two people.
As I head out into the bedroom proper, I notice the window. Now three panes long rather than one, it’s placed in the same spot that it has always been. I’m drawn to it and tilt my head so I can peer across the fence into what used to be Owen’s yard, now occupied by the outdoor furniture of the new owners.
I sense him come up behind me before he presses his hard body into mine. “I used to watch you standing in this window,” he says.
I hum, “I caught you once, remember?”
“You looked so sad. I couldn’t figure out why you insisted the house made you happy.”
“The house was important for my memories.” I wrap my arms around his, which anchor me to him. “Like your tattoos. Do they make you happy?”
He swallows hard. “Yes, and no.”
“But because they’re important, having them makes you happy even if the reason you have them doesn’t.” I leave him time to contradict that if he wants. When he doesn’t, I add, “Not all meaningful memories have to be good. Simply knowing that you have memories can be joyful. Look at us. I could probably name more aggravating moments with you than happy ones, but I still can’t wait to make new memories here with you.”
“We already have.” He says before spinning me around and dropping his lips to mine, telling me he understands what I’m getting at. The soft strokes of his tongue quickly become more fevered, melting the tension of the night away in the heat of our kiss.
Owen wraps his arms around me and tugs me into him. My hands drag through his beard, feeling the coarseness of the hair contrasting the suppleness of his lips.
He draws away to slip his hands under my jacket and shirt, circling my waist, drawing lines across my ribs, running them up and down my spine, vertebra by vertebra. He’s mapping out my body and it feels so good to be touched. I’ve gone without physical contact since he last touched me, and I’ve missed it. I’ve missed his hands on my skin and the pressure of him against me, despite knowing it only from the one time.
I unzip Owen’s jacket and drop it to the floor, then untuck his shirt from his waistband and pull it over his head. My lips go to his chest, feeling his warmth and his strength through kisses and licks and nips. My fingers explore next, enjoying the ripple of his muscles as he flexes under my light touch and the smoothness of his decorated skin. I’m curious if there are new tattoos, but I’m more curious to remember what the rest of him feels like. I don’t stop to match his current ink with what I remember. Instead, my hands do the recalling and gleaning. His ticklish spot. A small scar above his ribs.
He’s curious too. He plucks at my top and lifts it over my head, dropping kisses to my neck and shoulder. He’s gentle when he first takes my breast in his hand, but I don’t want that tonight. I don’t want him to hide that he uses his hands for work. I don’t want him to think that I need things slow. My hand covers his and I press him on to me, reminding him I’m not breakable. That I shouldn’t be stored behind glass.
Owen lowers his lips to my breast and pulls my nipple into his mouth, rolling it between his teeth with a slight bite. I hiss and he clamps down harder, simultaneously pinching my other nipple with his rough fingers.
“God, I missed you, Izzy. Don’t ever leave me.” He pulls my face between his hands and looks so deep into my eyes I swear he’s searching for my soul. He’s pleading for a lifetime of love and happiness together.
“Not if I can help it.”
He kisses me again, pressing me against the bare wall, grinding his stiff cock into my stomach.
“I need to have you, Iz. I need to feel you.”
I reach out and cup him, stroking him through his jeans. “Then have me.”
He growls, sucking my bottom lip ferociously into his mouth, then releasing it with a pop to drop to his knees. Owen lowers my jeans and panties at once and has his face buried between my legs before they’re spread. He licks through my seam, eliciting my first tremors of the night. Without warning, he lifts my leg over his shoulder and seals his mouth over my apex. I moan, encouraging his tongue to dive deeper inside me. He delves in and out, lapping up my nectar, making me wetter wit
h each flick across my clit.
As close as he is, my body begs for him to get closer. I demand more. I crave all these missed months’ worth of Owen’s tongue and fingers and cock, like he described to me on the phone. Having him between my legs is like eating after a year of fasting, where over-indulging is inevitable.
My hips buck off the wall when he pulls my clit between his lips and my knees sag. His hand comes up fast and presses me back, both holding me upright and holding me still. My eyes flutter closed while my mouth falls open, making way for the soulful moan that’s rising from the depths of my throat. The sound builds with the rising crest of my orgasm, bouncing off the empty walls, echoing back at the same cadence as the spasms of my core.
Owen nestles his head against my abdomen while I run my fingers through his hair, working off the fragments of energy pulsing through my being. I look down at him, still perched on his knees between my legs.
“Come here,” I say, urging him to stand, to give me his mouth along with the rest of his body.
He rises, licking a sensuous trail from my hipbone to the tip of my chin. I see the lust and want in his eyes when they level with mine. My eyes reflect the same thing.
This is happening. For real this time. There are no imaginary boundaries to cross, no rules to break. Owen and I are no longer sworn enemies, goal-deniers, or dream-crushers.
He came to the conclusion long before I did. Then again, it’s hard to see clearly when emotions cloud judgement. I was too stubborn to believe what he said in those messages to me was the real Owen speaking his heart.
“I like how your voice sounds ricocheting off the walls,” he growls. I smile into his soft, wet lips that he presses to mine.
“I’d like to know how yours sounds.”
I reach between us and cup him with one hand while working the button with the other. It’s difficult to lower his jeans when he won’t let my lips go, so I dip behind his waistband and pull his thick rod out. We’re like horny teenagers trying to get off in the garden shed before getting caught. My clothing is scattered on the floor and his hard length protrudes from the top of his jeans.
